Ryan's a Total Goober

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Ryan's Great Adventures

Volume 94: Tuesday November 3, 2009

Our hero finds himself neck deep in water, with 50-pounds of pack weight pulling him down. Will he escape? Is this the end of the hike? Read on....

Editor's Note: Due to camera difficulties, there are no photographs in this adventure. Instead, our hero has drawn life-like sketches of the adventures, completely accurate but not always to scale. We apologize for his drawing ability.

September 22

I was in trouble. Big trouble. I found myself up to my neck in water, my packs trying to drown me, and unable to climb out on the ledge I grasp for dear life. I continued kicking and trying to pull myself out, but I started thinking. I started thinking about the contents of my pack. Even if I got out of the pool alive, I still needed food, shelter, and warmth. I mentally checked off the state the most critical items in my pack. The food bag—I had two, and both were designed to be waterproof, although one had several holes from where critters ate through on previous trips. It wasn't waterproof, but the food inside was all in ZipLocks. It should stay dry. My shelter, a tarp, was certainly getting drenched, but that didn't matter. Tarps were meant to get wet. My sleeping bag was in a waterproof bag, which was then stuffed into a second waterproof bag. There's no way that would get wet. My camp clothes, the ones that should always stay dry, was mostly waterproof, but it only cinched closed at the top and water could get in through the small hole there. I doubted more than the top layer or two of clothes would get wet, however. The rest should stay dry, and even those that got wet could dry quickly since none of it was made from cotton.

My camera! Ugh! My camera was in the pocket of my pants, completely unprotected from the water. I had a ZipLock bag in the same pocket I used in case rain threatened, but it was a beautiful, clear day and I didn't put the camera in the ZipLock. I considered taking it out and setting it on the rock, but I needed both arms to keep the packs from pulling me down off the rock and fully into the water. My camera was toast. I knew it right then, and it pained me to think of it. At least it wasn't something I needed to survive, however. Surviving was more important than getting pictures, but I was saddened about the loss.

I continued to struggle, trying to pull myself out, while all these thoughts raced through my head. After deciding that the critical stuff in my pack would survive the plunge, I refocused my thoughts on getting out of the pool. I needed to get out of the pool first and foremost. If I couldn't do that, nothing else would matter.

I stopped my struggle to pull myself out. It wasn't working, and I was just tiring myself out. That voice came back in my head. "Don't panic. Think. Think! Look around you. There has to be another way out.

The two sides of the canyon were vertical rock. No chance of pulling myself out in those direction. Up stream, at the far end of the pool was a small waterfall, perhaps 4 feet tall, which the rope went over, but climbing out in that direction seemed dicey. I'd have to climb up using the rope through a small waterfall, the rock underneath green from moss which I knew would be slippery. It would be like trying to hang onto the rope while waterskiing—after you fell and got dragged through the water face first. No, that escape route didn't look promising. The rope didn't look helpful at all—it was anchored too far upstream. Putting my weight on it would only pull me into the small waterfall at the entrance of the pool.

The outlet where the pool emptied did look promising, however. It seemed to slope a bit, enough to give my feet some traction. "But be careful," that voice warned me, "don't be too enthusiastic pulling yourself up over that ledge. It's a good 30 foot cliff on the other side. You need to get on the ledge—not over it.

I have to get over there, though. The ledge wasn't more than a few feet away. I didn't know how deep the pool was, however, and my packs were trying to drown me. I decided to try lunging for the ledge, pushing myself toward the ledge by pushing off the rock with my arms, and fully prepared to go completely under the water and push off the bottom with my feet if I had to.

I pushed myself off the ledge toward the waterfall outflow, feeling solid rock under my feet before my head went under. I knew I was finally safe. I crawled out onto the small ledge, a small piece of dry land immediately to the left of where the water exited the pool into the waterfall. I crawled up the ledge as far as I could, then collapsed. The bottom of my legs still dangled in the water—the dry area wasn't large enough for me to pull my whole body out, but I was finally out of the pool. I'm not sure how long I was in the pool for, and I'm not sure how long I laid there on the ledge, but now that the immediate danger had passed, I felt like every part of my body weighed about five tons. So I laid there, listening to the water dripping off my clothes. I could feel the camera poking against my leg in my pocket, but I didn't have the heart to take it out and look at it closer. I worried about how much of the gear in my packs were water damaged, and I was scared to look. I'd have to eventually, but instead I just hugged the ground for awhile.

At least a few minutes passed in that state as I contemplated the meaning of life. During that whole ordeal, it occurred to me, I didn't think of Amanda or anyone in my family. Aren't you supposed to think of your loved ones if you're about to die? A lot of thoughts passed through my head, many of which I remembered so clearly, but not one, single second had I thought of any loved ones. It seemed wrong in a way, but thinking now, it seemed like I didn't have time to think about them. I needed to think about survival, not loved ones. Come to think of it, they would probably have preferred my thinking about survival first and foremost. So I started thinking morbidly about all those movies, and how corny it was that in the climatic battles when the hero thinks he may not live but tells someone, "Tell so-and-so I love them." How utterly fake. Based on my personal experiences, when faced with imminent death, I'm not thinking about my loved ones. I'm selfish—I was thinking about myself!

While contemplating fake Hollywood endings, the thought flit through my head that that must be a good sign. My senses are coming back to me. And then I started getting angry. What goddamn idiot put that rope where they did? I was not the least bit tempted to go this route until I saw that rope dangling off the cliff. That rope damn near got me killed! I pulled my feet out of the water and sat up, not yet ready to stand up in fear of losing my balance and falling over the cliff.

I pulled the camera out of my pocket, and popped out the memory card in it. Hopefully, I thought, the photos I already took can still be saved, even if I cannot take anymore photos for the duration of the hike. The front lens was fogged up, which was the only visible problem I could see. Then I tried turning on the camera, but it did nothing. Dead as a doornail. No surprise there. I popped the batteries out—no sense leaving them in considering how waterlogged the camera was, and decided I would try to dry out the camera later in the sun.

I set the camera down, then pulled off my daypack to examine the contents. It held the duffel bag, which held everything I wanted to leave with the shuttle bus driver but didn't, so nothing in it was even meant for use during the hike, but I still wanted to see how much water got in. Remarkably, it was completely and totally dry. I was stunned. When I sewed the pack, I used a waterproof fabric. Not because the pack was designed to be waterproof, but rather to shed light amounts of rain. The seams were never seam-sealed, the zippers weren't waterproof, but amazingly, the contents were completely and totally dry. I was stunned.

Then I took off my main pack and opened it with similar results. I had a ZipLock bag that held all my maps, notes, and other reading material, but I hadn't zipped the bag closed like I would have had I been expecting rain, but it all stayed completely dry. I forgot about the maps. When I started checking off all the items in my pack that I felt I needed to survive while still in the pool, I forgot about the maps and tide tables. Technically, I would have survived just fine without them, but it would have made things considerably more difficult. But nevertheless, they stayed dry. It seemed a bit of water had come through the seems, but so little that it was hardly noticeable. The contents of my pack typically get more wet in a prolonged rainstorm than they did from the dunking they took.

The only damage at all from my dunking was the camera. Everything else came out great, remarkably enough.

I finally felt together enough to finally stand, and I stood up on my narrow little ledge deciding what to do next. The smart thing to do would be to scramble down the cliff with help from the rope and walk around the long way. BUT.... I was already soaking wet, completely sopping wet, and I knew I could get out of the pool if I were to fall in again. I knew it was survivable—if I wanted to try crossing the pool a second time but failed. I decided to go for it one more time. If I failed, I would swim to the ledge, pull myself out, then go around the long way. Call it quits. But I'll give it one more try.

And I figured, what did I have to lose? I carefully zipped up everything that I didn't want to get wet, including the camera so it wouldn't suffer further water damage if I were to plunge into the water again. I put the packs on again, took a deep breath, then leaped for the rocky shelf a second time.

I missed. Again. And once again plunged to my neck in water. I said a few cuss words, angry at myself for trying such a stupid thing a second time, and started to swim for the ledge when another rocky shelf under the water hit my leg. "Whoa—what's this?" I thought. I put my weight on the shelf, and stood up, pulling myself up on the rocky shelf I had missed. The water was dark and murky, and I hadn't been able to see this particular shelf under the water. I made it! I made it! I stood up on the shelf and surveyed my domain triumphantly.

And immediately realized I made a terrible, terrible mistake. I had made it to the rocky shelf, but now I was trapped in the middle of the pool of water. Going back to the ledge seemed dangerous—if I jumped for the ledge, my momentum could push me out completely over the cliff. Not good. If I tried to go forward, I'd likely fall into the water again. I had to climb up a small, four-foot cliff, and I had to use the rope to have any chance of getting up it. Putting my weight on the rope would cause the rope to push me out into the waterfall and the slippery rock underneath it.

I now realized that being on this rocky shelf pretty much guaranteed that I would take a third dunking in the pool. This time, I shouted out every four letter word I could think of, and made up a couple of new ones for good measure. "And if I ever get my hands on the person who decided to install this rope, I'll kill them!"

I waited a few minutes to collect my thoughts, and decided to continue forward. If I, miraculously, managed to make it up the small waterfall, that would be fantastic. I didn't think my chances were good, however, and if I failed, I'd fall into the pool a third time, swim out to the ledge and NOT onto the rock shelf halfway across the pool, pull myself out, climb down the rope, and walk around the long way like I should have done from the very beginning.

It took a few more minutes to work up the courage for the next leap. I'd start to put some of my weight on the rope, and immediately my leg would start shaking when I planted it along the vertical cliff of the side of the canyon. It was a terribly awkward position, since I had to lean unnaturally far to my right to help compensate against gravity and the rope trying to pull me left into the waterfall, and my foot placement didn't seem at all secure. I wondered if I should just jump in the water and call it quits, but the cold water seemed less inviting every time I looked at it.

Finally my legs committed to the endeavor, and I got both legs on the rock just to the right of the waterfall, while leaning backwards at about a 45 degree angle. The rope was devilishly hard to hang onto since my entire weight was on it as well as the weight of my packs, trying to pull me into the water. I couldn't hold this position long, and quickly moved to walk up the wall. Just as I crested the lip of the waterfall, gravity and the rope finally pushed me into the rushing water, but I had made it over the lip. My feet landed in a few inches of running water and I let go of the rope. I had made it!

I walked over to the tree where the rope was tied, euphoric, and looked for the trail, but there was no trail. I was confused. Why the hell would they have this rope here if the trail wasn't even up here in the first place?! I can't go back the way I came! I just can't!

Then I realized that the trail must be further upstream. The walls of the canyon were much too steep to climb, so obviously I was expected to walk directly through the creek upstream until it intersected with the trail. I took the daypack off my back and replaced it on my chest, pulled out my trekking pole, and started walking upstream.

I walked for a few minutes before I reached another waterfall. This one was tall, perhaps a good 30 feet in height, and I saw no rope to help me up this one. I did, however, see a suspension bridge crossing over the waterfall. The inland trail! That's where I needed to be! But how to get up there? I looked around, examining my options, and decided to scramble up the side of the canyon. At this point, the canyon widened slightly, and rather than a nearly solid vertical rock face, a lot more trees and brush was growing on the sides. The better to grab onto and climb my way up. The left side of the canyon looked slightly less sketchy than the right side, so I scrambled up without too much difficulty. This got me to top of the waterfall, or at least the same height as the top of the waterfall, but I still hadn't reached the trail. It had to be just out of view, though, and I just needed to bushwhack through the brush.

The bushwhacking wasn't particularly easy. This is a rain forest—a place that gets more than 10 feet of rain per year. A lot can grow in that kind of climate, and the brush was incredibly thick. My legs would sink into the brush like it was mud, and I'd be unable to see anything below my knee. Twigs and branches clawed at my skin and clothes, scratching my skin and slicing holes in my clothes. I probably covered all of about 100 feet, but it seemed like a mile. And finally, at long last, I spilled out onto the inland trail. My ordeal was over. Even better, it had a happy ending. I survived.

I walked over to the suspension bridge where I sat down to rest and eat a few snacks. I deserved it.

And the rest of the day, I'm pleased to report, was relatively uneventful.

I crossed the Klanawa River on the first of the cable cars I'd meet. This river is too wide, too deep, and too fast to walk across directly, but apparently too small to justify creating a pedestrian bridge, so they built a cable car across it. The cable car itself rested about halfway between the two ends, where gravity pulls it to the lowest point on the cable. The cable was attached to the car, stretched to me on the edge, wrapped around a wheel, stretched across the river to the other side, wrapped around another wheel, and attached to the cable car again. Another, much thicker cable, stretched across the river that the cable car hanged on. It supported the weight of the car and whatever contents were inside of it, and rollers allowed the car to move easily along this cable. The cables, being flexible and all, did not stretch across the river in a purely straight line, but rather hung from the ends so cables curved down towards the middle and curved up as it approached the edges of the river.

To use it, first I had to get the cable car to my side of the river, which meant pulling on the smaller cable that wrapped around the wheel where I was at. Pulling the bottom cable brought the car to me. At first the pulling was easy, but as the car came further up the main supporting cable, the slope of the cable increased, and pulling grew increasingly more difficult.

The cable car could hold two people comfortably, and would have been considerably easier to move and load had I had someone with me to help. As it was, once I got the cable car to me, there was no lock or break on the system to keep it there. If I let go of the cable, gravity would pull the car back to the middle of the river. So it required some degree of skill to get my packs into the cable car, using a combination of my foot and one hand to keep the car from escaping while I tried to load it. I finally got my packs and myself situated, took one last look around the car to make sure nothing was hanging out that might get hooked on something, and let go.

Gravity took hold and the car picked up speed. Wind blew through my hair as I flew through the air over the water. It was awesome! Gravity would only help get me halfway across, however. When it played out, I looked over the sides, thinking what a calamity it would be if I fell out or the cable snapped. The I could see through the clear water to the river bottom, which looked remarkably deep and cold.

I rest for a minute or two. My hands were still a bit tired from pulling the empty car up one side of the river and holding it in place while I tried to load the cable car. Now I would have to pull the car—along with an extra 200+ pounds of weight (myself and my gear)—up to the other side of the river. I figured I'd give my hands a few moments of rest before tackling that.

I pulled myself up the other side, again awkwardly trying to extract myself and my packs while not letting go of the cable. I had successfully crossed the first cable car in my life! =) This trail had five cable cars in total, so it would not be my last.

The hike was tough going. Much of the time, I was forced onto the inland trail at impassible headlands—I started paying much closer attention to those on the maps after my disaster earlier in the morning—but the inland trail was a muddy mess. Where I could, I walked on the shore, but the beach is hard to walk on given its lack of solidity, while the rocky tidal shelves had solidity, but were often slippery and wet. Walking was exhausting no matter what route I followed, but I preferred the rocky tidal shelves to the mud and sand whenever I had the choice.

I would have liked to stop shortly after passing the cable car, but I pushed on due to tides. Late in the day, the tide was high, but impassible headlands made it impossible to walk on the shore anyhow. Further up the trail, however, a lot of sections of shore walking were available—if the tide was low. To walk on the beach, I needed to camp close enough to make sure I could hit the beach first thing in the morning when the tide was low. So I pushed on.

At the very least, I needed to get past Nitinat Narrows, the entrance to a 'tidal lake' that was far too wide and deep to cross on foot. The only way across was a ferry boat, and during the orientation session we were told that the ferry was only available between 10 AM until 4 PM. I needed to get past this point by 4:00, because if I didn't, I'd be trapped on this side of the narrows until 10:00 the next morning—much too late to take full advantage of the low tides.

My experiments in attempted drownings put me quit a bit behind schedule, and I practically ran down the trail to make it with about 10 minutes to spare. Nitinat Lake is more like a cross between a bay and a lake. Not quite a lake—I could clearly see the rising tide pouring into the lake. At low tides, the water in the lake rushes out. It's a salt-water lake because the ocean water does get in, but it only mixes for part of the day. I reached the shore, but didn't see any boats to take me across. I wasn't sure what to do. Did I sit and wait, and the boat comes by every half hour to pick people up? I didn't see any bell or other noise-making contraption to get the attention of anyone and signal my arrival. Just around a bend in the narrows, I could see what looked like the corner of a man-made dock, and I assumed that's where my boat ride was. I didn't want to sit around waiting for a ride, though, and I had no idea if that would even work.

So I yelled. "Hello?! Anyone out there!" About 20 seconds later, I heard a motor start up and a boat came into view. Yes! That must be my boat!

The boat pulled up as close to my side of the shore as possible—there was no boat dock for it to pull up to—and I had to walk through a foot of water to get into the boat. No big deal, though—my feet had already been wet all day from walking through the surf. The man asked to see my permit—he wasn't allowed to help people across the narrows unless they had a permit as proof that they paid their way, so I pulled out the permit and showed him and he whisked me back to the other side.

I made small talk with the guy, telling him I'm glad I made it by 4:00. I wasn't sure I'd make it in time, and he told me that he's actually there until 5:00. It's in the contract he signed with Parks Canada, but they always tell hikers he stops at 4:00. Well, shoot, I thought, I expended a heck of a lot of energy trying to get there by 4:00 that I didn't need to.

The other side had a small dock for boats, and a small structure where he could cook and kill time between giving hikers a ride. He had ice cold drinks available in ice chests, and I happily bought a Coke for $2. He told me it cost two dollars, so I gave him two bucks, only realizing later that he meant to Canadian dollars and I gave him two American dollars. Some habits are hard to break, but he didn't even mention it. And anyhow, two American dollars is worth more than two Canadian dollars, so I think he preferred the American money anyhow. He also had crabs and salmon available, caught right out of the lake, but I didn't much like seafood so turned it down. Anyhow, my pack was loaded with ten days of food and I needed to get it first.

While drinking my Coke, sitting out in the sun at a nearby picnic table, other hikers arrived hiking in the opposite direction. A lot of hikers. I was surprised. I had passed about four people the entire day, and within minutes, half a dozen other hikers walked up to the boat dock. I hadn't intended to take a long break—I wanted to push on to the next campsite by sunset, but there were people to talk to!

We swapped war stories, and I think my near-death story won the prize. After hearing about my second dunking, one girl gasped audibly. When I realized that I would probably take a third dunking before I extracted myself, one of the guys commented, "That's what I call determination! Most people would have quit after the first dunking!" Yes, that would have been the wise thing to do, I admitted.

I had a good time talking to the group. They weren't all hiking together—they just happened to be together at the time. It seemed like everyone I met on the trail was either from Europe or Alberta. I found it strange that almost nobody I met was actually local to Victoria or Vancouver, and I didn't meet any other Americans at all on my hike. Almost always from Europe (particularly Germany and Switzerland) or Alberta.

We loitered for about an hour, then I pushed off to find a place to camp. I would have been happy to camp right on the dock, except that it wasn't allowed. In fact, camping in Indian reservations was strictly prohibited, and this side of the narrows was an Indian reservation. I couldn't camp anywhere in the next three kilometers since it overlapped two different Indian reservations. The trail passed a beaver pond, the only one on the trail, but annoyingly it flooded parts of the trail itself. "Damn beavers. They think they own this place," I thought ungratefully.

The trail crossed a beautiful suspension bridge across the Cheewhat River, and as soon as I saw it I decided to camp there on the shore. Until I reached the suspension bridge where a sign was posted saying that camping was temporarily not allowed due to bear activities. "Stupid bears" I thought ungratefully. "They act like they own this place or something."

So I pushed on another kilometer or so, finally setting up camp on the beach near kilometer 37. It wasn't an official campground, but we were allowed to camp pretty much anywhere we wanted to as long as it wasn't in an Indian reservation and I finally got past those. The sun was setting by the time I arrived—it was a long day, and I was hurting. Upon closer examination of my packs, I saw that the minor rip in my main pack back in Victoria had grown significantly, and the bottom of both straps was starting to pull out now. A definite hole, about two inches long, had formed on both sides, and I grew increasingly worried that the pack would not survive the hike. Hiking with a daypack and duffel bag certainly wasn't ideal, but I was increasingly glad I carried the backups. It looked like I would need them eventually.

My body was protesting too. My legs and torso had a dull throb, and even laying down hurt. Rolling over in my sleeping bag was an exercise in torture. It seemed unusual for me to be hurting this badly after only two days—typically I felt like this after a solid week of hiking on my thru-hikes. I had only walked 25 kilometers this day. Doing the math in my head, I figured that was about 15 miles. Certainly not an extreme distance, but I felt like I'd been beat to a pulp. "But this trail is tough." I thought. "Much tougher than the start of the Appalachian or Florida Trail hikes."

September 23

I planned to take it easy today. My body seemed surprisingly sore for only having been two days on the trail and there was no reason to push hard this day. There were a couple of beaches early on that required tides below 7 feet, and it would be at 4.9 feet at 9:59 that morning—exactly the time I'd be hiking through. During the orientation session, the lady warned us that the 50 km mark is essentially the psychological halfway mark. The trail was about 75 km long, but it generally took most hikers the same amount of time and energy to do the first 50 kilometers as it did to do the last 25 kilometers. So I planned to go only about 12 kilometers to Bonilla Point, at the 48 kilometer mark. I'd save the 'hard' hiking for another day and give my body an easy day today.

That was my plan, at least, and it worked out exactly as planned. Almost the entire hike was along the beach, most of which was along a rocky shelf with tidepools and my favorite terrain to walk on. My feet were constantly wet walking through shallow pools an inch or two deep in most places, but it was far easier than the mud of the inland trail or the sand of the beaches.

The shore route I followed led past the second lighthouse of the trail, the Carmanah Lighthouse. Apparently plans are afoot to automate this lighthouse so no lighthouse keeper is needed to keep things running and there's a big hubbub over that with a rallying cry of "Save our lighthouses!" I'm not sure I understand it exactly&mdsh;I was told they were thinking about automating the lighthouse so it could run without a human around to keep things ticking, not that they were going to tear the thing down never to be seen again. So I'm not exactly sure why so many people are so upset about this suggestion, but there was a petition for Canadians to sign at a kiosk at the lighthouse to protest the change. Non-Canadians need not sign it—apparently our opinions don't matter to their politicians. (To be fair, it's not like we count signatures of Canadian voters either.)

Just past the lighthouse, along the beach, was Chez Monique's—where hikers could stop to buy cold drinks, snacks, food, or just rest their weary feet. They had an elaborate setup of tarps to keep the elements at bay, but it was surprisingly well-provisioned. I stopped and bought a cold soda but passed on the food. I needed to eat the food in my pack to lighten my load! And being such a leisurely short day, stopped to read in the comfort on actual chairs while resting my weary feet.

I'd been there about twenty minutes when two hikers arrived from the other direction—and I recognized them as the young couple I met on the bus out of Victoria. They started their hike from Port Renfrew, and seeing them again made me happy. Our paths had crossed. If we took our combined experiences on the trail, we had covered the entire route! Granted, that applied to everyone I passed going in the other direction, but it seemed different knowing they had started the hike the same day I did, rode the same bus out that I did, and we now crossed paths at the 'psychological' halfway point.

I asked if they happened to have any thread and needle I could borrow—the holes in my pack where the straps attached to the bottom of the pack had grown increasingly large and I wasn't sure how much longer it would hold. If I could do a little hand-sewing, maybe I could make the pack last through the end of the hike. Maybe. And of all the crap I did carry, some thread and a needle was not among my possessions. They did carry it, however, and I spent the next hour or so chatting with them while doing my best to stitch up the holds my pack. They seemed impressed that I sewed the packs myself—even if it was falling apart in a most alarming manner. I gave them a taste of the fruit leathers I made—they had recently acquired a dehydrator a couple of weeks before but hadn't done anything with it yet.

I assumed the two must have been backpacking pros given their remarkably small packs, but they confessed it was only their second trip in the woods, and this was the longest hike they had ever done. Whoever set them up did a darned good job of it.

Eventually we parted ways, and I felt confident my stitches would hold the pack together for at least another day or two, and maybe for the whole trip if I were really lucky.

I crossed over Carmanah Creek on the second cable car of the hike. This creek looked low enough that I probably could have forded it without any trouble, but the cable cars were still something of a novelty for me so I wanted to use that. Any why wade through knee-deep water if I didn't have to? (And anyhow, what if it was deeper than it looked? I'd already made that mistake once on my hike, and I didn't aim to do it again!)

I arrived in camp at about 4:00 that afternoon, a wonderfully early end to a wonderfully beautiful day of hiking. The campsite had a small waterfall, right there along the beach, and someone had set up a hammock! Luxury! I saw nobody else that afternoon, and had the campsite to myself for the night. My own private waterfall on my own private beach, hanging out in a hammock. Life was good.

The pain I experienced the night before while trying to roll over was gone. My body was still sore, but at rest, it no longer hurt, and it was only felt mildly sore when trying to move or roll over. Things were looking up!

September 24

I woke up, wonderfully refreshed, and hit the trail. The first few kilometers were gorgeous, following the shoreline. Much of it on the rocky tidal shelf—my favorite terrain walk on. After passing next to nobody the day before, I was astounded to pass about a dozen people after the first couple of hours of hiking—including some more people I first met on the bus ride from Victoria. I asked them about the condition of Walbran Creek—not passible if the creek was in flood according to my map. I couldn't think of any reason the creek would be flooded. It hadn't rained for days, and it was near the end of the dry season. But the ranger at the orientation session told us that the only way to find out if Walbran Creek was passible was to ask people coming from the other direction. From my direction, an impassible creek would have required two-kilometers of backtracking that I was loath to do. Those coming from the other direction had the choice between a cable car on the inland route or fording the river along the shore route. On this side of the river, however, it was not possible to reach the cable car from the shore. On the other side of the river, it was, so it was folks coming from the other direction who could confirm of the river was passible or not.

And they all said yes, no problem. The creek didn't even reach their knees, so I took the shore route skipping the third cable car along the trail.

After Walbran Creek, the shore trail was strongly discouraged due to dangerous surge channels and "impassible" headlands. The rest of the day, I'd be forced into the inland trail... and the very worst that the West Coast Trail could throw at me.

The first issue was mud. The entire inland trail suffered from mud, but this section took it to an extreme. Dry areas become few and far between. Mud pulled at my shoes, and I danced around the edges of sucking mud holes, over slippery roots, stumps, and logs. My legs became caked with mud anyhow, sucking the life force out of me. Ladders, common already along the inland trail, grew into spectacular heights. Reports I read described the ladders as being anywhere from 30 to 50 stories tall with 200 rungs—sure exaggerations, I thought. I was wrong. Maybe they were exaggerations, but the ladder structures climbed up and down incredible heights, some with as many as 200 rungs. Or at least there would have been that many if some of the rungs hadn't rotted through.

The ladders were actually somewhat of a relief to climb up and down. It was slow going, but it was preferable to the soul-sucking mud bogs between them. The ladder structures were structures, broken up by platforms every 20 or 30 feet so hikers going in opposite directions could pass each other or stop to rest. Most of the ladders looked old and worn, not safe to use, but there were no other options. The cliffs were far too steep and treacherous to tackle without any climbing gear. I heard the horror stories, but I didn't find the climbs particularly difficult or exhausting. Just slow and nerve-wracking—hoping they didn't fail. If one failed, it could have meant certain death.

Logan Creek included a fantastic suspension bridge, a narrow plank of wood not even wide enough for two people to pass, suspended hundreds of feet over the churning waters below. Cullite Creek was another cable car crossing, the fourth on the trail and definitely not an optional one at that.

I finally made it to Camper Creek, my destination for the evening. I had only traveled 14 kilometers, but it was a tough 14 kilometers, and I didn't arrive until near sunset. Camper Creek was filled with people, including a group of 11 filled with teens from a nearby Christian school out on their annual trek. They were perfectly nice folks, but considerably more people than I wanted to share a camp with. Ideally, I would have preferred not having more than four or five other hikers around to shoot the breeze with. I couldn't even get an accurate count of all the people at this site, however.

September 25

Today marked an important turning point in my hiking attire. I had finally eaten enough food out of my main pack that I could finally fit my day pack into it. I would no longer have to hike with a daypack strapped to my front, and it felt liberating to get that thing off of me. The stitching of my main pack seemed to hold up well the day before, and things were looking good.

The trail crossed Camper Creek on the last of the five cable cars and went inland through the mud bogs for a couple of kilometers, but then I had a decision to make: the low road, or the high road. I could spend nearly the entire day either hiking along the shoreline or hiking the inland trail. All else being equal, I'd prefer the shoreline, hands down, no questions asked. The thing, not everything was equal. The low road (the shoreline) required a tide below 8 feet. No problem with that, as long as I didn't dwaddle too long. Low tide would hit 6.2 feet at 11:36 in the morning.

The part that concerned me, however, was Owen Point, which was only passable at tides below 6 feet. See the dilemma? The low tide—the absolute lowest the tide would get at low tide, was 6.2 feet—0.2 feet above the level that was considered passible. Now 0.2 feet isn't very much, and I wondered—was there a 'margin of error' built into the tide calculation? Or what is considered passible? Would I be able to simply walk through 0.2 feet of water at that point?

I didn't have answers to any of those questions, and the only way I could find out is to hike the shore and see for myself. But I didn't want to backtrack the two kilometers to get back on the inland trail if it turned out that I couldn't pass Owen Point.

While talking with the adults from the church group, one of them told me that there were ropes on each side of Owen Point allowing people to scramble over it if the tide were too high. Ugh, ropes. Not the ropes....

Decisions, decisions. I thought about what to do all night long, and even the next morning after starting my hike, I still hadn't decided. I wouldn't make a decision until I came to the junction for the beach access. Continue straight on the inland trail, or right onto the shore trail?

Does our hero risk hiking out to Owen Point and, perhaps, face the dangling ropes once again? Or does he play it safe and take the less scenic, mud-ridden but arguably safer inland trail? Find out next week, same bat channel, same bat time....

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