Ryan's Great Adventures

Volume 93: Saturday October 24, 2009

Our hero travels across international boundaries to test his limits in the quaint countryside of Vancouver Island. First Victoria, then the West Coast Trail!

September 19

The Empress Hotel, one of the more famous landmarks in Victoria.

The day was dark and overcast. Rain had already blotted the area, but it had let up by the time I was ready. I left the apartment wearing two backpacks and a trekking pole. The pack on my back was a colorful thing, made up of six different colors from four different types of fabric. I know this because I made it myself from fabric pulled out of the remnants pile. It was a large pack—the largest I ever had, in fact, with a full 30% more volume inside than the previous packs I used for my thru-hikes. Despite the added volume, the pack itself was simple, cutting out much of the padding built into my previous packs and half a dozen clips, slidders, and other plastic gizmos that you'd find on a store-bought pack, so it actually weighed less.

The smaller day pack I wore on my chest was also sewed myself, but being smaller, I only needed two colors from the remnants pile. I also followed an actual pattern and you'd be hard-pressed to tell it was a homemade job. The large pack on my back—it looked like the homemade pack that it was.

The large pack contained everything I would need to survive an 80-mile, 10-day trek through the woods. The smaller day pack contained a few snacks, water, and miscellaneous items to carry me to and from the trailheads. It also contained a duffel bag that I could fit my large pack into when I needed to check it for traveling.

It wasn't particularly comfortable walking around with two packs, and I probably looked a little stupid doing so, but I didn't care. I walked out to the bus stop, dashing across the street in a most stylish and outlandish manner, to catch the bus that just pulled up. It's not that I was running particularly late—I didn't even check the bus schedule before I left the house—I just knew buses came by regularly and I figured I'd wait for whatever came next. But when I saw the bus for downtown Seattle pull up, I figured I may as well be on it rather than wait for the next one to show up.

So I caught the bus downtown, then walked several blocks to the dock for the Victoria Clipper—a passenger-only boat that would whisk me away to Victoria, the capital of British Columbia. I checked in, shoving my large pack into the duffel bag for checking. Only bags 20 pounds or less were allowed as carry-on, and there was no way my bag would ever pass for anything that light. But they didn't charge extra for a checked bag, so it didn't much matter to me.

We disembark in the Inner Harbour of Victoria, Canada, from the Clipper IV.

I got in line, eventually boarded the boat, and was on my way.

Most of the trip was largely anti-climatic. In theory, there should be wonderful views all over the place. Views of the Olympic Mountains, views of Mount Rainier, views of the San Juan Islands. But given the dreary weather, mostly all I saw was fog. As we entered the Straits of Juan de Fuca, which separates the United States from Canada, the weather started to clear and the views improved dramatically. So did the swells now that we were exposed to the open ocean, and I chose to lay down on the seat and nap rather than sit up and possibly throw up from sea sickness. =)

We finally arrived in Victoria, about 2 1/2 hours after leaving Seattle. The view from the boat alone was amazing. Incredible buildings graced the harbour (I'm spelling it like they do locally), that I would later learn included the parliament building and the famed Empress hotel. Since I had crossed an international boundary somewhere along the way, was forced to go through customs and immigration. They asked the usual questions about what I was doing there, how long I'd be there, yadda, yadda, yadda. When I told them I planned to hike the West Coast Trail, the guy asked if I was carrying any bear mace. This concerned me somewhat. "Uh, no," I replied. "Do I need some? Are bears a problem out here?"

Crossing into a foreign country meant I had to pass through customs and immigration with official looking men dressed in funny looking costumes.

The guy seemed to find this amusing, then pestered me about what sort of food I was carrying. Typically, when I cross international boundaries, I prefer not to have anything edible at all on me if for no other reason than they don't have to question me about food. Unfortunately, I wanted stuff like dehydrated ground beef, fruit leather, and so forth for my hike. It was easier to supply my specialized food supplies in Seattle than in a strange city in a country that I wasn't actually very familiar with. So I told him about the food I carried, mostly in general terms. I emphasized words like dehydrated junk and powdered milk, and he finally waved me off.

The parliament building is where government of British Colubmia does its business. Free, self-guided tours are available, but darn it, I was here on a weekend when it was closed.

There were a couple of hotels practically across the street from where the boat docked, so I walked in to ask about prices. I doubted I would stay at them—Internet searches before I arrived seemed to suggest that lodging in downtown Victoria did not come cheap—but it didn't hurt to ask either. The first one said the cheapest room available was $150/night. The second one said they had something available for $100/night. I passed on both.

I pulled out the map I printed of the area along with directions to a few hostels in town, then proceeded to waddle down the street with my two packs to the nearest one—the HI Victoria—where I booked myself a bed for two nights for about $25/night. (Keep in mind, these are Canadian dollars I'm talking about, but the exchange rate at the time was about US $1 = CAN $1.05, so the two were nearly interchangeable and the exchange rate considerably worse than I would have preferred.)

I returned to the parliament building later that evening to get photos of it lit up at night. Pretty fancy!

My bed was on the third floor, in a room shared by about 50 other people. I left my large pack there then went out to wander around Victoria and see some sights and get my bearings. It was getting dark by this time, so I did some window shopping, bought some postcards, and generally killed time until I was tired enough to go to sleep.

September 20

Miniature World had the most amazingly detailed scenes from places around the world. This scene was of Europe during WWII.

I woke up bright and early, with the intention of exploring Victoria in more depth. Stuff was open, the sun was out, and there were places to visit. I didn't originally plan to spend a full day in Victoria before my hike, but I book my 'non-refundable, non-changable' tickets on the Victoria Clipper before I found out that the shuttle bus running to the trailheads only ran every other day during the off-season. Lazy S.O.B.s.

I started with Miniature World, located in the Empress Hotel. It looked interesting and was near enough to visit. Very cool stuff, but I'll let the photos speak for themselves. The one thing that I found particularly interesting was how much was dedicated to events such as America's history such as the Civil War. Being in Canada, I would have expected historical Canadian locations and events—which there were—but a surprising amount of space was dedicated to American history. I wanted to take a bunch of pictures that looked, at a glance, like they were real photos, so I bent down to be at the eye level of the miniature figurines for many of the photos, careful to cut out anything in the background such as people (real ones, tourists such as myself) or other scenes that would have shown the real size of the scenes. Everyone else just stood around taking picture at their eye level—boring!—and watched me like I was crazy, but I just know my pictures turned out far cooler than theirs did. *nodding*

I changed these photos into black and white to make the WWII scenes look more like real pictures from the 1940s. What do you think?

These images represent scenes from battles in the United States including the Revolutionary War and Civil War respectively. Can you guess which battles? (Really, I forgot—I didn't take good notes.)

This scene from Canada's first transcontinental railroad cycles through day and night if you wait around long enough. The streak of light in the night photo is the light on the front of the train moving through.

Various other scenes from around the world including Buckingham Palace, castles in Germany (they took several real castles and combined them into a fake scene), and a street scene in a country I forgot to write down in my notes.

At least one person building these scenes has a sense of humor. The window washers are washing the glass that keeps us tourists from touching the displays! Another area had scenes from fictional books—in this case, ripped from Gulliver's Travels. The boy was practically life size—ironic considering he's a feature in a scene of miniatures. I'm not even sure the smaller figures around the boy can be called miniatures—they are already small in the book. Hmm.... Deep....

One thing I didn't get any good pictures of was the world's smallest working sawmill. It wasn't running when I was there—a sign by the display said they weren't allowed to run it due to fire department regulations or something to that affect. Instead, they showed a video of the sawmill in action. It was a fascinating piece of engineering, but the lights were terrible and I just couldn't get any good photos of it. If you do want to see the world's smallest sawmill and a video of it in action, you won't be disappointed taking this tour!

Then I wandered out to Mountain Equipment Co-op, or MEC. It's the big outdoor store there, much like REI, and I figured I'd wander around a bit and see if there were any last minute things I might need. Like, for instance, a map of the the trail I would be hiking. =) Ultimately, I settled on a small bottle of sunscreen and a small padlock to lock my stuff up that I left behind in the hostel. I didn't care for the maps.

When I went up to pay, they asked if I were a member, and I told them no, and they told me I had to be a member to buy anything. What?! "It's a co-op" he explained. Yeah, I knew that, but so was REI. You don't have to be a member to buy anything there, though. Becoming a member cost $5, and while I did not expect to visit Canada often or make use of their store, I decided to pony up. It's a lifetime membership, and surely I'll end up in them at some point in the future. They also ship internationally and if exchange rates are particularly favorable, perhaps I'd save money buying through them rather than domestically? And it was only $5. After that, I started telling people that I accidentally became a part-owner of a reputable Canadian company completely by accident. Whoops! =)

I didn't think the area seemed particularly dangerous, but when I found this box, I started wondering if I had wandered into the bad part of town....

I wandered the streets. I wandered through Chinatown, where a street fair of some sort was going on. I found a little yellow box designated as a place to dispose of dirty needles. I took pictures of it—I'd never heard of such a thing before—then wondered if I had wandered into the bad part of town. After all, would the good part of town need a place to dispose of dirty needles?

I found this sign while walking to Ross Bay Cemetery.

I continued to wander. I wandered to the Ross Bay Cemetery, where I found a letterbox. I wandered into bookstores. I wandered into supermarkets. I wandered to the bus stop to make sure I could find my bus the next morning, and know exactly how far away it was. I wandered into a tobacco shop selling Cuban cigars. Cubans! I don't smoke—I don't even like the smell of it—but I found myself drawn to the Cuban cigars. They were illegal! At least where I came from.... Good thing Amanda kept me on a short leash in Amsterdam. ;o)

The shoreline views on my way to Ross Bay Cemetery were pretty nice too.

That afternoon, when I pulled my pack out from the locker, I heard my pack rip. Needless to say, this worried me. When I sewed the backpack, I had made a small mistake where the straps attached to the bottom of the pack, and I tried to cover up the mistake with an extra row of stitches, but the rip I heard just pulled out that extra row of stitches. Technically, the pack was still fully intact, but I worried if the pack would last the entire hike. The pack was not field tested, I hadn't even gotten on the trail yet, and it was already falling apart. Not a good sign. Hopefully it would last, I thought. After all, it was only a 'backup' stitch that ripped out. The main stitching was still in place.

Eventually I wandered back to the hostel for the night.

September 21

The ranger station at Pachena Bay where I'd get my orientation session.

D-Day. Today, I would start my hike of the West Coast Trail. I woke up early. The bus was scheduled to pick up hikers at 6:30 that morning, but I had no alarm clock and given the fact I was sharing sleeping quarters with dozens of other people, they probably wouldn't have appreciated my using one even if I did. So I didn't sleep terribly well, checking the time every time I woke up in the night, finally getting up at 5:00 that morning. It was well before I needed to, but better to be early than late. If I were late, I'd have to wait another two days for the next bus!

I spend the next hour getting all my gear ready, getting one last hit on the Internet, and finally walked out to the bus stop swaddled in my two packs. The website said that the shuttle bus drivers could hold bags if we pre-booked a return trip, and I had pre-booked a return trip already and figured I'd leave my day pack with them along with a clean change of clothes for after I finished the trail, the duffel bag, a couple of days of extra food, and other miscellaneous items I wouldn't need on the trail.

The bus arrived at the allotted time, and I met some of the other hikers who'd be hiking the trail with me. The first person I noticed was a woman wearing an enormous pack, sitting by herself. I was rather surprised at this—it didn't seem like most people hiked this trail alone, and a woman no less. Good for her! I thought her pack looked awfully heavy, though. I shouldn't throw stones, though. My pack was plainly on the heavy side itself, but then I was carrying food for two trails. These people would only be carrying it for one trail.

Two other hikers were dropped off in a taxi, a young couple. The girl was quite something to look at, but I found myself drawn to staring at her pack. It seemed extraordinarily small and light. Even by thru-hiker standards, I couldn't figure out how she got her pack to be so darned small. It probably helped that since she had a hiking partner, she could split some gear with him, but I was envious of her pack. It looked like a day pack.

I looked like an idiot carrying two packs. The daypack on my chest contained a lot of useless stuff I wouldn't need on the trail.

In all, there were about half a dozen of us waiting to be whisked off to the trailheads. When I inquired about storing my extra backpack, I was told it would cost $15. Fifteen bucks?! I told him I'd think about it, and I did. Maybe I should take the extra pack and duffel bag with me. What if my main backpack failed? I'd be pretty well screwed. At least if I had a small day pack and duffel bag, I'd have a backup system for carrying my gear. It wouldn't be ideal—clearly—but it's better than nothing at all. Maybe it's a sign. It meant carrying more weight, though. I was racked with indecision, but finally decided to keep the pack. For the first time, I'd be backpacking with two packs—one on my back, and one my chest. I'd look like the biggest idiot ever to hike the trail.

The bus ride could be divided into two distinct segments. The first ran from Victoria to Port Renfrew, a ride of about two hours. Port Renfrew is the southern terminus of the West Coast Trail, and also the northern terminus of the Juan de Fuca Trail. I grabbed the front-row seat in the bus to watch outside. The bus would be driving past China Beach, the southern terminus of the Juan de Fuca Trail and where I planned to finish at, and I wanted a good look at the area to see where the bus would pick me up on the return. I wanted a good look at Port Renfrew since I'd be hiking through from the end of the West Coast Trail to the start of the Juan de Fuca Trail, and where the ranger station was located.

At Port Renfew, the bus picked up more passengers. Some just finishing their hike. Some who drove to Port Renfrew and parked, but then needed a ride to the other end of the trail from which they'd hike back to their car. And most of the people who drove up with me from Victoria got off to start their hikes.

Not I, however. No, I stayed on the bus, heading to Bamfield. The second segment of the bus ride was following logging roads from Port Renfrew to Bamfield, by all accounts a terrifying, bone-breaking ride that would take at least three hours. No paved roads lead to Bamfield. None. This is wild country. So I had read.

So I was pleasantly surprised when the logging road turned out to be paved. The first hour seemed to speed along, and I laughed at the horror stories I had read about the trip. Then the paved road ran out and the horror stories came true. It was agony. Teeth rattled, and I think one person lost a tooth from the ride. The dirt road cut through sharp turns on the edge of cliffs with no guard rails, and I realized: This felt like a ride in the chicken buses of Central America. It had everything. The old, dilapidated school bus that looked like parts might fall off at any moment, on roads that no bus should ever ride on, with absolutely no safety structures designed into the road. And, I started feeling distinctly car sick. I laid down in my seat.

The bus continued on for a couple of more hours. It stopped once more to pick up additional hikers on the side of the road, and I wondered what the heck they were doing out here in the middle of nowhere. Smokers got off for a smoke break, and I tried to put my fillings back into place.

I didn't actually go all the way to Bamfield. I got off a few miles short of the town, at the trailhead for the West Coast Trail, bouncing off the bus like it was about to explode. I couldn't get away fast enough. It was hell. If I could survive that, I could survive anything the trail had to throw at me.

I walked into the ranger station to get my permit. The permit cost something like $160—a staggering sum for a week-long backpacking trip and allegedly the most expensive trail to hike in all of Canada. So I paid my fees, then waited about a half hour for the orientation session to be begin. Before the park service would actually issue a permit, you were required to attend a 60-90 minute orientation session about the trail.

They explained the history of the trail, which first started as a telegraph line. It was expanded into a full-fledged trail in 1907 as a life-saving trail for shipwrecked survivors. The area was called the "Graveyard of the Pacific," and countless ships of all sizes wrecked on the shores I'd be hiking. One book lists 484 separate wrecks along the shores of Vancouver Island. After the Valencia wrecked along the coast killing 126 on board in January of 1906, a new lighthouse was built and the telegraph line expanded into an effective life-saving trail.

With improved navigation devices and shipwrecks declining substantially, the trail was abandoned by the federal government in 1954. Interest in preserving the area grew after that, for both recreational and historical reasons, and park protection for the area was secured in 1970. The trail was rebuilt and reopened in 1980, this time for backpackers everywhere.

I had my permit, it was time to hike. I took a peak at the ocean, but due to the high tide, had to go around the long way using the ladders. The trail follows along the tops of the mountains in the background.

The orientation session also discussed hazards of the trail including, but not limited to: cougars, bears, tsunamis, cliffs, tides, rogue waves, sprained ankles, slippery logs, and so forth. The woman giving the presentation also told us of a land-based group of rescuers who were always out on the trail to help those in need, and a boat-based group that patrols the beaches for those that need rescuing. The trail averages about one rescue every other day when it's open. Given the fact that only a maximum of 52 permits are handed out each day, that would mean approximately 1 out of every 104 people who get on the trail end up needing rescue off of it. That's a staggering injury rate for a hike. They warned us not to call 911—even if that works, it'll only connect to American emergency services who won't be able to help. (Remember, the trail is only about a dozen or two miles from the United States, only separated by the Strait of Juan de Fuca. I'd be able to see the Olympic Mountains in Washington almost every day of my hike!) We were warned that if we felt an earthquake or saw the water along the shore draw out, get to high ground immediately in case of tsunami. Which is great if I'm hiking during the day, but I might not notice a drawback of the water if I'm camped on the beach sleeping. And, according to the lady explaining all of this to us, two of the campsites are on the beach directly against a cliff and if a tsunami did come in, the best we can hope for is to climb up trees as best we can. Oh, and don't set up camp directly under the cliffs because rocks fall from it during the night.

Listening to the dangers, it sounded like it would be a miracle if anyone made it to the other end alive.

I raised my hand, with a question. "When was the last time a tsunami hit the area?" I asked.

She didn't seem to like this question, as if I were discounting the possibility that a tsunami would strike, but told me the last one was in 1933 but that it's only a matter of when a tsunami will strike again, not if. "Oh, yes, I realize that," I said, hoping to calm her doubts about me, "I just wanted to make sure I got all my facts right for my loyal readers. Assuming I don't get washed away in a tsunami before I can report them."

She looked at me suspiciously, and after that I kept all my questions to myself. I had a feeling if I asked any more, she might decide not to give me a permit.

After about an hour of this, she dismissed the class and gave us our permits along with a map of the trail with the tide tables for the next 10 days taped to it. (The map cost extra. You'd figure with as much as the permit cost, they could have thrown in the map for free. *sigh*)

I noticed a scale in the corner of the room and decided to find out how heavy my packs were. I figured with the enormous amount of food I was carrying—about 10 days worth—my regular backpack weighed in probably close to 40 pounds, and it did. Definitely on the heavy side of things, but that didn't even include the daypack and duffel bag which added another 10 pounds to the weight I'd be carrying. Ugh! Fifty pounds! I'd never carried so much weight on a hike before! That was about double what I normally carried!

With that thought, I headed out to hit the trail. Almost immediately, I was presented with a choice between a beach walk and the inland trail. Actually, the choice was made for me by the tides. It was 2:15 in the afternoon at this point and the beach walk could not be completed in tides higher than 8 feet, and according to our little tide charts, we were within an hour of a high tide hitting 12.1 feet. The inland trail it was! I stopped at the beach long enough to admire the view, then started my hike on the inland trail.

The first of many, many ladders to come....

The second set of ladders brought me back down, completing the section that the high tide forced me to take.

The trail was muddy, annoyingly so, but allegedly this was the 'dry' and 'easy' part of the hike. The other end of the West Coast Trail is considered the hard section. The mud wasn't any trouble getting through, however, just annoying. Almost immediately, I hit the first of two ladder structures, the first of many if accounts were to be believed. Climbing up the ladder with a pack on my chest proved to be somewhat challenging, so for the second ladder I took it off, put my arms through the straps, then flung it over my head landing on top of my main pack. This felt decidedly uncomfortable, but it made climbing up and down the ladders considerably easier. Once I finished with the ladder, I took off the daypack and replaced it on my chest where it was more comfortable for walking. Already, I was beginning to regret my decision to carry two packs.

I passed a couple of hikers coming off the trail, and joked asking, "Am I almost there yet? How close is the end?"

One older woman in the group clearly thought I was one of those folks who would need rescuing, pointing at my shoes and asking, "You're wearing those?" I looked at her shoes, heavy boots that looked like each shoe weighed three times more than mine did with ankle support, gators, and painfully heavy. By comparison, I wore plain, white shoes I bought for $20 at Payless Shoes. No gators to keep dirt out of the shoes. No 'ankle support' (which I never found particularly useful even when I did wear shoes that supposedly had them).

And this is the 'dry' part of the trail!

"Oh, I'll get through fine with these," I told her, "it's only mud."

The woman shook her had, incredulous, and replied, "You won't be saying that at the end of the trail."

I didn't feel like arguing with the woman or explaining my rather extensive backpacking experience. And I'm not sure she would have believed me anyhow given the fact that I was currently carrying two backpacks, one on my back and one on my chest. I had to admit, I looked exactly like one of those newbie hikers you see starting off on the Appalachian Trail. But I found her upturned nose urksome and wanted to slap the lady, and continued on my hike thinking, "Well at least I had the good sense not to tie heavy weights to my feet. At least I know I look ridiculous. That woman doesn't even realize how ridiculous she looks."

I passed several more people along the way, and invariably they'd always comment on my shoes. I found this rather amusing—I thought the pack on my chest was the most ridiculous part of my attire, but it was always the shoes that drew comments. None of the others who commented on it seemed to do so in such a snooty manner as that first lady, though, and I didn't feel anywhere near as annoyed about it. The others just seemed genuinely curious, and I'd tell them that I used shoes just like those through swamps in Florida, through soul-sucking (and sole-sucking!) mud. Over slippery rocks, up and down mountains, and so forth. "But isn't it hard to walk through the mud?"

"Yes, it is, but wearing a heavy boot doesn't make it any easier," I'd point out. "Let me ask you—did you find hiking through mud easy or fun?"

And they'd confess, no, it wasn't easy, and it wasn't fun. "It's a miserable thing, no matter what kind of shoes you're wearing."

Ah, the first official viewpoint of the West Coast Trail. Nice, isn't it?

Being in Canada, the trail was marked in kilometers, and I found this arrangement rather pleasing. Kilometer markers were put up to mark your progress on the trail, and they came much more often than mile markers would. Near kilometer #9, I took a side path to a view of Sea Lion Cove. I don't know if it has an official name, but that's what I called it. Walking along the trail, I heard what I thought sounded like a distant motor boat, and when a wind gust blew through, a terrible stench. I wasn't sure what was going on until I followed the side path out to an overlook near the shore where I saw a colony of of sea lions lounging about. They smelled like they were rotting carcasses, but they were quite alive, poking at each other, and swimming around in the ocean. It was a beautiful place to watch, if you could stand the stench. They were also responsible for the strange noises I heard that I thought sounded like a distant motor boat, although at the overlook it sounded more like a symphony of garbage cans being clashed together.

I called this Sea Lion Rock because of all the sea lions basking in the sun, and they were on a rock. Another large group of sea lions were on another rock out of the photo to the right—this photo doesn't even show half of them!

I watched for a bit, fascinated, and taking lots of pictures. Several minutes later, a helicopter flew nearly overhead, southward, with a large cargo of something hanging from a cable on it. I figured it must be going to the lighthouse—there was a lighthouse located less than a kilometer away south on the trail, so I left the sea lions in search of the helicopter and what it was doing out here. Was it a rescue attempt?! Was there a hiker nearby, injured or dying? I didn't know, but I wanted to find out....

The Pachena Lighthouse is the only wooden lighthouse on the west coast of Canada, built in response to the Valencia disaster.

So off I trotted to Pachena Lighthouse, the only wooden lighthouse on the west coast of Canada. I've seen a lot of lighthouses along the coasts of California, Oregon, and Washington, and none of the ones I've seen I remember being made of wood, so as far as I know, this might be the only wooden lighthouse on the entire west coast of the North American continent. But the Canadians seemed proud to brag that it was the only wooden lighthouse on the Canadian west coast which makes me think there's probably at least one on the Canadian east coast.

The chopper had left by the time I arrived, but several workers were running around doing chores of some sort. I walked up to the lighthouse, and one of the workers warned me that a helicopter was coming to drop off some supplies and that I should stay by the lighthouse and out of the way. Also, it causes strong wind currents so I better hold onto my hat.

Kind of cool watching the helicopter hover just over the lighthouse.

A helicopter flies by, dropping off stuff for the lighthouse and hauling away trash.

The most expensive garbage truck you'll ever see.

Minutes later, the helicopter arrived, hovering over a grassy field in front of the lighthouse. It wasn't planning to land—a large pallet of something—I wasn't sure what it was, dangling from the helicopter from a cable was lowered to the ground where ground workers freed it. The chopper then swung over towards a squat building where the cable was reattached to bins of trash. I heard one of the ground workers communicating with the others that the helicopter was running low on fuel and would leave to drop off the trash and refuel. It would return in another half hour or so. The chopper pealed off, and I noticed a small plastic bag escape from the trash bin, floating through the air a hundred feet above us. I watched the bag for several minutes, floating through the air, carried by the currents. Nothing anyone could really do about it, but it bothered me that it had escaped the trash bin to litter the beaches later. The ground crews couldn't reach it assuming they even wanted to, and the folks in the helicopter couldn't retrieve it. Even if they tried to fly up close to it, the air from the rotor blades would push it away again. So I watched that plastic bag floating around with the air currents.

The lighthouse included a sign with directions to various points. Most of them (okay, all of them) weren't in walking distance, however. (I did mention I was on an island, right?)

I found the whole process fascinating. There are no roads to this lighthouse. To supply the lighthouse or dispose of trash, there were only two options really available: By air or by water. Land was not an option. Given the tall cliffs along the seashore, I guess they decided that air supply drops were the best option.

Buoys often marked campsites and beach access points from the inland trail.

The first official campsite on the trail was another couple of kilometers down the trail where I found three friendly Albertians camped. (I'm not sure that 'Albertians' is the proper term for someone from Alberta, but it sounded good to me.) I stopped to rest and chat with them for a few minutes, but I wanted to push on to another campsite another two kilometers along the trail. There were several beaches ahead that required a low tide to pass, and I wanted to get as close to them as possible since low tide came early the next morning.

From kilometer 12 to 14, the trail followed along the shoreline. Part of it was a beach, which is hard to walk on in its own way. Along these areas, I would walk as close to the water as possible since wet sand tended to be easier to walk on than dry sand. But the occasional wave would come up and get my feet and legs wet, which I didn't mind too much since it help washed away the mud from the inland trail.

This is all that's left of the Michigan, a ship that wrecked on this shore in 1893.

Most of this section wasn't a beach walk, however. It was a shelf walk, along hard and sometimes slippery rocks through tide pools. Although I had to be careful about the slippery surface, this was hands down my favorite area to walk. The walking was fast and easy. The shallow pools of water—rarely more than an inch or two deep—felt wonderful on my feet. And I got to check out debris from a shipwreck, the Michigan, a wooden steamship that ran aground in January of 1893 with no loss of life. A large boiler or something from the shipwreck was still there on shore.

Tell me this just isn't an awesome place to set up camp!

I finally stopped to camp at kilometer 14, alongside the Darling River and the site where the Russian freighter, Uzbekistan, wrecked in April 1943 while carrying lend-lease cargo for the war. No lives were lost in this wreck either, but there were no obvious pieces from the shipwreck at this location. I saw occasional pieces of metal debris among the tide pools, and presumably some of it may have come from the shipwreck, but none of it was large enough to be identifiable to my untrained eyes.

Three other people camped at this site, three people I first met on the bus to the trailhead. The bus picked these folks up from Port Renfrew and they already had their orientation session at that ranger station so blitzed out earlier than the rest of us who had to have the session at the Pachena Bay ranger station. I set up camp right on the beach, protecting myself from slight winds by driftwood. The view was nothing short of amazing as I ate dinner while watching the sun set.

A fine sunset in the making.

My three companions were just plain weird. We all ate together around a campfire they had built, but it was like I didn't exist to them. They chatted with each other, telling jokes, but acted like I wasn't even there. Not even so much as a "Hi," or "What's up?" It was a most particular feeling. They didn't seem bothered by my presence—it was more like they didn't even realize I was there in the first place.

So after I finished eating dinner and cleaning up, I headed back to my tarp for the night and started reading a book, Betrayal, by John Lescroart that I picked up at the HI Hostel. I was laying down, backside up, propped up on my elbows reading. Just as it was starting to get dark enough for a headlamp, I felt a twinge of something on my back. I didn't think anything of it at first—it could have been a gust of wind for all I knew—but then I felt it again and it just didn't seem like a gust of wind. So I started to roll over to see what it was—probably just some gear poking at me—when a mouse fell off into the sand, on its back. A mouse! It squeaked, righted itself, and scampered off.

The nerve of that mouse! Even in all the shelters I stayed in, I had seen many a mouse along the way, but never, never had one had the audacity to climb up on me! (At least not while I was conscious and could feel it.) The mice on this beach, I realized, were fearless. It might be a long night. At least I knew they couldn't get into my food. Bear boxes were set up at camp and I put all of my food into them. I didn't expect bears to be a problem, but they were also solid enough to keep out mice. Still, I'd rather not have mice crawling over me during the night, but I didn't see that I had many options to prevent it either.

September 22

Sunrise! What a wonderful start to the day!

The day started beautiful. The birds were singing, the mice stayed away, and I woke up to ocean waves crashing against the beach. Fortunately, no tsunamis carried me away during the night. What more could I ask for?

I made a point of getting up at sunrise, not loitering like I often do in the morning since low tide hit at 9:22 AM and I wanted to get as much beach walking in before the tide pushed me off onto the inland trail. A section immediately past Darling Creek required tides below 9 feet, and a section just beyond it with no inland trail as an alternative option also required tides below 9 feet. I wanted to make sure to get past that point before tides came up that high, so I needed an early start.

Walking through the tide pools—so much to see!

I walked along the shoreline, enjoying the views, not really paying attention to the tides because it wasn't even 9:00 yet. Why should I? I didn't need to start worrying about tides until well into the afternoon.

Which is why I ran into an impassible headland. I forgot about those. I knew they were on the trail, and I assumed when the beach walk could not be continued, there would be a trail into the woods that would take me to the inland trail. This assumption, alas, turned out to be wrong. I reached a point where steep cliffs plunged down directly into the churning waters. Shipwreck victims have died in places such as this, trapped in the water, unable to climb out along the steep cliffs. In fact, these were the infamous Valencia Bluffs, named after the 1600 ton, 253 foot iron steamer that wrecked here in January of 1906 killing 133 of the 160 passengers on board and spurred the development of the trail. Yes, definitely what I would call an impassible headland.

Footprints in the sand.... I preferred walking on the rocky tidal shelf since sand such as this was exhausting to walk through.

I pulled out my map, annoyed to learn that the last access point to the inland trail was a full kilometer back. Crud. It was an annoyance, and I worried the delay might cause trouble later in the day when I needed to pass by another beach at low tide, but at this point, it couldn't be helped. I'd cross that bridge if I came to it later.

I started retracing my steps when I noticed it. A thick rope, dangling over a narrow gap in the cliffs. Sweet! Obviously, I wasn't the first person to make this mistake, and someone was kind enough to install this rope to scramble up the cliff to the inland trail! I wouldn't have to backtrack after all!

You can see the inland trail crossing over the waterfall while I was hiking on the shoreline. Oh, how I wish I took that inland trail....

Water poured out from the narrow gap in the cliff making a small waterfall next to the rope. I'm not sure these falls had a name, but the creek that fed it was called Billy Goat Creek. To scramble up the rope, I threw my daypack over my head wearing it on top of my main pack as if I were climbing a ladder, collapsed my trekking poll and put in my pack to free my hands, and pulled myself up the cliff without any trouble.

A small pool of water lay ahead, perhaps eight feet long, surrounded by steep, rocky cliffs on both sides. The end of the rope was tied to a tree at the far end of the pool, and I assumed the inland trail must be over there although I couldn't see it from my current position. The pool looked like it was a couple of feet deep—deep enough where I didn't really want to walk through it, but not so deep that it would stop me from wading in. Fortunately, a small, rocky area poked out from the side of the pool about halfway across it, and it looked like I could jump to it then to the other side of the pool without too much trouble. The rope would be largely useless—putting any weight on it would just swing me down into the water. Considering I had 50 pounds on my back and given the distance to the ledge, I wasn't entirely sure I could make the jump, but it was worth a shot. The worst that would happen is that I missed and landed in a couple of feet of water.

I leaped. I missed. And had the air sucked right out of me when I plunged neck deep into the cold water. I don't know how deep that pool was—my feet didn't even hit bottom. As I plunged, I grabbed for the rocky ledge which arrested my plunge. I tried to grab something to pull myself up, but the rock was flat and smooth as a table. Only the friction of my hands and arms against the rock—thank goodness the rock wasn't covered with slippery moss—kept my head above water.

This rope dangled from the cliff, enticing me to climb it. Note the waterfall coming out on the left. This would be my last photo of the trip.

I kicked, trying to use my legs to pull me up, but the rock I held onto was only a foot or two thick. It really was like a table with no substance below the visible surface, and my feet only kicked through the water connecting with nothing. I kicked the water as hard as I could, but couldn't pull myself up onto the rock with my packs weighing me down.

Which is when the first hint of panic started to hit me. I couldn't get out. I was trapped in a pool of cold water wearing two backpacks with a combined weight of 50 pounds, and a very real possibility of drowning or hypothermia. They say one's life flashes before one's eyes at times like this, but that didn't happen to me. I distinctly remember thinking to myself, "Don't panic. This is a very bad time to panic. If you make a wrong decision right now, it could kill you, but panicing will not help you. Do not panic."

Does our hero survive, or does he perish? Does he extract himself but have to quit the trail because all his gear is ruined? Tune in, same bat channel, same bat time, for the conclusion to this harrowing predicament....