Racing the Tide
On the West Coast Trail You Have to Beat the Sea...
August 29, 2005

Rounding the Point... Photo courtesy of Angela Reid

Day 4: Carmanah Creek to Tsuquadra Point. (KM 45 to KM 28.)

8 AM. It's raining. I wake to a bell ringing from the restaurant and I go to get my wings; I am hoping that bell indicates that the coffee is ready.

10 AM. It's still raining. Carolyn joins us for coffee, as do all the hikers within a four-kilometer radius.

After much procrastination, we finally leave Chez Monique. We hike the forest route with the Californians for the rest of the day, initially by accident, and then with a desperate attachment borne of shared misery and shared purpose: we are all racing toward the ferry over the Nitinat Narrows, which stops running at 5 PM.

We have a long way to go. The "trail" is now an endless series of bogs of ankle-deep mud and water. We spend several hours picking our way slowly around the mud pits, even though we know we're not supposed to, because it widens the trail.

Then I feel it: water penetrating gaiters and Gore-Tex, squishing now between my toes. I groan and curse and cry. But at least now I am free to walk right through the mud. It is a relief to move a little faster and to not depend on the unstable footing of narrow, wet roots. My boots make wet, farting sounds, as with each step they are sealed in mud then sucked out again: shhh-wuck.

4:48 PM. KM 32. Nitinat Narrows. We have arrived just in time for the last crossing, but when we discover the wood-burning stove that warms the covered, floating dock, we are in no hurry to go anywhere. I wring out my hair for the fourth or fifth time that day. Piles of boots, socks, jackets and shirts are discarded in an effort to get warm and dry. I pour an inch of standing water from my boots.

We ask the ferry operators if we can camp on the dock next to the fire, and the friendly native guy in the vest says sure. We are jubilant. We're staying here! Right next to this warm fire. All night long.

But then he says something else: there's no more firewood and when this fire dies, it's done for the night. The thought of a long night on a drafty dock sends through our group a collective shiver.

Another hiker turns his hands over the stove, warming the palms, then the backs, and casually says, "You know, there's a cave about four clicks up." We exchange glances, but the ferry is gone. Deek pleads with the ferry operators to make one more run. We quickly dress and take the boat across.

KM 28. After hiking faster than I've ever hiked before. We round a corner and there it is. The mouth of the cave opens up right onto the trail. It is maybe ten feet high, thirty feet wide and twenty feet deep. The overhang drips in some places, pours mini-waterfalls in others. Inside, a bonfire glows bright and hot, and in its light, smiling faces beam from makeshift driftwood benches. Two long pieces of wood are stood on their ends, supporting a rope and drying clothes. There are three tents already set up in the dark corners of the cave.

"Come on in," the faces beckon, "There's room in here and there's another cave around the corner for the overflow."

Day 5: Tsuquadra Point to Michigan Creek. (KM 28 to KM 12.)

7:30 AM. We wake up in the caves at Tsuquadra Point and I dress my feet while the Advice Brothers live up to their nicknames. As I finish cutting moleskin, putting on two pairs of socks, and lacing up my boots, one tells me I should've used duct tape, but of course, I don't have duct tape and he's not offering any. "You are always full of helpful hints," I tell him, "but never help." I am not in the mood to be nice today. My socks are still wet from yesterday.

8 AM. Carolyn and I head out, knowing we have just three hours to hike eight kilometers to Trestle Creek before the tides will make the beach impassible. The beach route is firm sand for about two minutes, and then it turns to loose pebbles, knee-high boulders and slick shelf.

KM 25. We pass Tsusiat Falls, a wide tumble of brown storm water feeding a movie-quality lagoon—on a sunnier day, we'd stop and swim and linger with the others.

We are almost to Trestle Creek, where a beach access will take us back to the forest trail, but at least metaphorically "out of the woods." I am picking my way across the boulders with Zen-like certainty and talking to Carolyn, then suddenly I am lying on my side, wedged between boulders, my heavy pack anchoring me there, hobbled and flailing, like an overturned beetle.

Carolyn looks at me with such sympathy, I wonder if I am bleeding out my ears.

Before we leave Trestle Creek, Liz and Kim, from Calgary, and their friend Lyn, from Vancouver, approach from around the bluff then scatter at the creek mouth, each picking their own way across, expressionless and silent, the mark of friends who've spent just a little too much time together.

Once across, Lyn sits on the log next to us and sighs. Liz sits abruptly on the other side of us. Kim, who doesn't sit, announces in a pinched voice: If I had to write a book about this hike right now, no one would ever do it.

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