Ryan's a Total Goober

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Ryan's Great Adventures

Volume 95: Saturday November 7, 2009

We last left our hero wracked with indecision—the scenic sea route fraught with dangers, or the safety of the boring inland trail?

September 25

The route around Owen Point, technically speaking, would be underwater. Low tide for the morning was 6.2 feet, but Owen Point, according to my map, wasn't passable at tides above 6.0 feet. Could I hike through 0.2 feet of water? Allegedly ropes on each side of Owen Point would allow people to pass around the water, but thus far, ropes led to nothing but trouble and danger. However, the shoreline hike was supposed to be spectacular, and it was certainly a beautiful day for it. The inland trail, however, would be a terrible mud bog, slow going, and not particularly scenic. Scenery vs. safety, which was more important?

I finally decided on scenery, with the caveat that I may very well backtrack and end up taking the safety route. Plan A was to hit Owen Point exactly at low tide: 11:36 AM. If I arrived early, even better—I could sit and wait until low tide if necessary. If I could not pass at low tide, I would go to plan B: the ropes. I'd check out the ropes closely and try to figure out if they were death traps in disguise. If it didn't seem too bad and didn't lead into deep pools of water, I'd make use of them. Otherwise, I'd go to plan C: turn around, backtrack two kilometers, and take the inland trail.

The shoreline was wonderfully easy to walk on, back again on the tidal shelf I loved so much. I also saw the first surge channels that I had read so much about. Surge channels form in small cracks in the rock, narrow cracks that waves rush into and out of at high velocities. The first one I saw wasn't particularly wide—only a couple of feet across, but it looked dangerous, like a snaked coiled to strike. The water was deep—I couldn't tell exactly how deep, but certainly deep enough to drown if I fell into it. And the walls of the surge channel were smooth and bare. If I did fall in, it would be darned near impossible to ever pull myself out. And the water looked angry. Each wave that came in was funneled into this narrow channel, bashing into the sides and end at a tremendous velocity. The only way out if I fell in would be to swim out toward the ocean until I reached a point where I could swim parallel to the shore away from the surge channel. That looked like an iffy proposition, however. The water would bash me to death against the rocks first. I wouldn't be able to swim in such fast moving waters—it would carry me wherever it wanted to go.

The surge channel was hypnotic to watch, but I started losing my nerve looking at it. It's only a couple of feet wide—it should be easy to step over! But what if I slipped? What if a wind gust blows me over? If it was simply a line drawn on the ground, I'd have NO problem crossing over it. I wouldn't even think twice about it. "Just go," I thought, "before you chicken out completely.

I jumped.....

...and did not fall in. Argh! My heart was beating fast, like I just finished a marathon. I needed to sit down and rest a bit.

The shore hike crossed several more surge channels, but the rest I was able to hike around since small trails had been beat into the cliffs around them. It was the narrow channel, so easy to jump over, that they hadn't bothered with building a path around it.

At Owen Point, the trail turns sharply left into Port San Juan, the small cove protecting Port Renfrew from the direct force of the ocean. Across the water, I could see where the Juan de Fuca Trail allegedly begins. It was an incredible view. I climbed out as far as I could on Owen Point. I arrived about an hour before low tide so I didn't expect it to be passable—not yet, at least. But I took one look at the churning waters and decided that it never would be. The water looked at least six feet deep—there was no way the tide would drop that much in an hour. I could certainly jump in the water and swim around to the other side, but that water is cold, and I still had a heavy pack that would make swimming difficult even if I did consider that an option. No, time for Plan B.

The rope was there, dangling and enticing. It went up a steep cliff, perhaps six feet up. Even a fall from that height wouldn't likely be deadly, and there was no creek or pools of water for me to fall into. Knots were tied every couple of feet along the rope to give people something to grip onto, a nice feature when it's available. Pulling yourself up a rope without knots is considerably more difficult.

So I scrambled up without any trouble. I walked around to the other side of the point, when I saw two sets of ropes leading down. The drop on the other side was a bit higher, but it was broken up into those two stages of ropes. The first stage looked about as difficult as the one I climbed up, but the thought of going down the rope seemed a bit sketchier. I'd have trouble seeing where I put my feet and 'feeling' my way down. I decided to go down it without my pack on to make things easier.

But dropping my pack down didn't seem like a good idea—what if momentum pushed it over the edge and into the churning waters below? So I tied the end of a rope to it and lowered it down. Then I grabbed the main rope and lowered myself down. No problem! I untied my pack from the first rope, then considered the second stage down.

I was on a rock, very steep, but not quite vertical either. Technically, it would have been possible to walk to the beach at the other end of the rock. On a practical level, the rock was wet from mist generated by the crashing waves and looked very slippery. A second rope hung from a tree, however. Not in an ideal location, but it seemed doable. The risk of falling in the water was real, but almost certainly would not have been lethal. I could see the sand at the bottom, and it sloped up gradually to the shore. If I fell in, I could practically walk out.

I gripped the rope to arrest my fall if I were to slip, but kept my weight on my feet and side-stepped across the rock to the shore without any additional trouble. I made it around Owen Point.

And wow! The other side was nothing short of awesome! From this side, I could see that it was a sea cave. Or rather, more like a sea arch, since I was able to walk behind and stand under it. The first rope led up one side of the arch—though from that angle I hadn't recognized it as an arch—then the walked across the top of it still oblivious to the fact that I was on an arch—the trees had blocked my view—then down the ropes on the other side of the arch. Back at sea level, from behind the arch, the view was amazing!

I stopped for a lunch break before continuing on. The shoreline changed dramatically at the turn around Owen Point. Enormous boulders and logs littered the narrow band of dry land between the cliffs on the left and the ocean on the right. The fast walking on the tidal flats turned into a maze of slippery, car-sized boulders. The three kilometers to Thrasher Creek Camp took another three exhausting hours to hike and required as much upper-body strength to navigate as leg strength. I collapsed my trekking pole—it was useless on this type of terrain. I needed both hands free to scramble around the rocks and logs. The view was beautiful, but the going was tough.

I finally made it to camp, once again right on the beach with wonderful views looking across the water to Port Renfrew. On this day, I passed nobody—not one, single, solitary hiker the entire day. It was no wonder—everyone else probably looked at the tide charts and decided the inland trail was the only option available.

Other hikers arrived later in the afternoon, including the group of 11 from camp the night before who came in on the inland trail. Plus three others hiking northbound who started their hike that morning. Once again, a bit more crowded than I would have preferred, but it wasn't a big surprise. There weren't any campsites between these two, so almost everyone stays at these two sites. I knew the group of 11 was coming, but I felt happy about beating them to camp since it meant I had my choice of sites to set up camp and wasn't relegated to leftovers.

September 26

I was anxious to get started—I'd be finishing the West Coast Trail soon! The trail up out of Trasher Cove was relentless, climbing a series of steep ladders then steep trails, the closest to 500 feet straight up as you'll ever find. I followed behind one of the girls from the 11-party-strong church group who made my favorite comment of the entire trip saying she really liked my backpack—probably all the bright colors it had—giving me an opening to tell her all about the making of it. =) She probably had no idea she was opening a can of worms with that comment!

For the most part, though, there wasn't much to report. The sky was cloudy—a definite change in the weather—and while it did not rain, enough condensation did form on the trees that it dropped as tree snot.

I only had about 6 kilometers to hike to reach the Gordon River and the end of the West Coast Trail. The Gordon River is much too big to be forded on foot and is the second place along the trail that a boat is necessary to cross the river. A large, red ball lay on the ground with a note to raise it when you needed a ride across. So I pulled the rope that lifted it high in the tree, then sat down to wait.

I waited for about five minutes before the boat man came by and picked me up. I'm not sure where he had been, but it wasn't at the dock on the other side of the river where he dropped me off.

When I stepped off the boat again, I had officially finished the West Coast Trail. It was rather anti-climatic. The structures in the area looked a bit run down, and some women were watching an old television set nearby. I started following the road into 'downtown' Port Renfrew.

The trailhead for the Juan de Fuca trail was way off at the other end of the town, I figured about 3 or 4 miles away. I needed to stop at the ranger station to let them know I was off the trail, and I wanted to get an updated weather forecast for the next several days. And, if they had it, a map for the Juan de Fuca Trail.

The weather forecast wasn't anywhere near as cheerful as it was when I started the trail—rain was officially in the forecast, but it wasn't expected to hit for another two days. The weather on the West Coast Trail was simply amazing—when you hike through a rain forest that gets more than 10 feet of rain per year, you expect to experience a little precipitation. I got absolutely none. All day, every day was absolutely beautiful, except today, which it was merely overcast. I joked with the ranger that I was going to go home and tell people that it never rains on the West Coast Trail trail—just a bunch of baseless rumors to keep tourists away.

A map for the Juan de Fuca Trail was available next door at the community center. They had black-and-white xeroxed copies for free. The lack of color made them a little hard to read, but it was better than nothing which is what I had, so I took it. The first official place to camp along the trail, from this direction, was Payzant Creek, seven kilometers from the trailhead. Doing the math in my head, I worried if I could make it that far in time. I still had to hike TO the trailhead, then another seven kilometers along the trail to reach the first campsite. I needed to get a move-on!

But first, I called my mom and Amanda to let both of them know I had finished the West Coast Trail and was about to start on the Juan de Fuca Trail. To Amanda, I told her I expected to take three days to finish the trail, hiking out on the 29th, and if she didn't hear from me by some point that night to call in the rescue squad! On the West Coast Trail, due to the high rate of injuries, they like to keep a very close eye on every single person starting and leaving the trail. If I didn't check off the trail, eventually they'd start looking for me. There wasn't anything like that for the Juan de Fuca Trail, however. Nope, I needed to make sure others knew exactly when I was supposed to get off the trail.

On my way out the other end of town, I stopped at a General Store to acquire a disposable camera. I may not have many pictures of the West Coast Trail, but by golly, I'd make up for it on the Juan de Fuca Trail!

Except that they had run out of them! Argh! Those bastards!

I was frustrated, but there wasn't much I could do about it. Looks like I wouldn't take any pictures on the Juan de Fuca Trail. *grumble grumble*

Most of the road walk wasn't very fun. No shoulders to walk on, and the roads weren't terribly busy, but they were busy enough to make me leery of walking alongside of it. Once I got further out of town, traffic died down considerably and the road walk became much more pleasant.

I finally reached Botanical Beach late in the afternoon, and the start of the Juan de Fuca Trail. I filled out a permit for myself—there was a self-registration system in place, and it cost $5/night to camp on the trail. I figured I'd spend three nights on the trail and contributed the required $15. (On the permit, it said that also included the price of parking, and I wondered if I could get a refund on that part of the fee since I had no car parked.)

Then I hiked the seven kilometers to Payzant Creek. It was wonderful! The trails were wide and well-groomed. There were no ladders—steps, actual wooden steps were used in place of ladders. And there was a surprising lack of mud on the trail. I can't say it was completely mud free, but it was universal worse on the WCT.

I reached camp near sunset, and quickly set up camp with a view of a tall waterfall. The camp was divided into two circles, and I was the only person to set up in this particular section. It was deep in the trees and I suspected the other circle, closer to shore, probably had better views, but I could hear a cornicopia of kids making noise in that direction so avoided it.

September 27

I woke up to an absolutely beautiful day—the last if weather forecasts are to be believed. I am in a rain forest, however. Gotta expect rain occasionally. The views along the way were astounding, but considerably more crowded with people than the WCT. The trail passed over three suspension bridges, two of which were thrillingly high.

But the day's highlight was Sombrio Beach and Sombrio Point. Despite being crowded with hundreds of other day hikers, the place was gorgeous. A section near Sombrio Point was particularly tough to hike—muddy and poorly maintained and strikingly out of place compared to the rest of the trail, but I would later learn that the trail was washed out there and needed to be rebuilt.

Some of the beaches weren't passible at high tides, but most of the trail was inland and the few beaches that did get blocked by high tides needed really high tides to get in the way. The highest tides of the day, the only ones that could block the beach, happened long after sunset, so I could hike whenever I wanted, as far as I wanted. Tides no longer became a daily concern for me.

At the last suspension bridge I passed, I met a group of folks who looked Asian but lived in Vancouver. When they heard my plight about not being able to take any pictures, they offered to take a photo of me on the suspension bridge and e-mail it me later when they got home. (As I write this a month later, I still haven't received any e-mail. *sniffle* But they probably have an awesome pictures of me!)

The United States seemed closer than ever before from the Juan de Fuca Trail. I could see what looked like a small observatory at the top of one peak across the Juan de Fuca Strait, but didn't know my Olympic Mountains geography well enough to identify the location. Another area held a small town of some sort, and I wondered if it was Port Angeles. Probably not—on maps, I remembered Port Angeles seemingly due south of Victoria and I was quite west of Victoria. But none of the maps I carried went out as far as Victoria or Port Angeles, so I couldn't be completely certain, but I couldn't think of any other towns on the water west of Port Angeles.

It looked so close, though. Early in the hike, the mountains looked hazy and distant. Now they looked so crisp and near.

I camped on Chin Beach—just one letter away from my exit on China Beach! Okay, bad joke. I thought it would have been funny had each of the camps along the trail were variations of China Beach, though. First C Beach. Then Ch Beach. Then Chi Beach. Now Chin Beach. And last, China Beach. How clever that would have been. But no, only Chin and China Beach actually existed, and this night I camped on Chin Beach.

There was one other couple camping here, named Mike and Jackie. They seemed in a kanoodling mood, however, so I left to make dinner and set up my own camp. The sunset was amazing—just enough clouds to really light up the sky. Shortly after sunset, I went back over to get water and wander through Mike and Jackie's camp (strategically planted right by the water source) and dropped in to chat.

I kind of got the feeling that I wasn't especially welcome the first time I talked to them, but I was lonely and tired of being by myself and figured I'd impose a bit anyhow. And we did talk, but I doubt more than a half hour went by before Jackie went off to get something and Mike asked if I would leave them alone, wanting a little "boyfriend/girlfriend time," as he referred to it. I was a bit disappointed, but not entirely surprised either, so I headed back to came and read books the rest of the night.

One book I was reading, picked up in Victoria, was Tales of the West Coast by Adrienne Mason. I thought a little local lore would be fun to read while tromping around, and it was interesting. One story described the events surrounding a shipwreck near the north end of the West Coast Trail, and it ended with the three who died being buried in Ross Bay Cemetery—one of the places I had visit before coming out to the trail. Another story described John Voss's attempt to circumnavigate the world in a 38-foot dugout canoe named the Tilikum. He did make it through the Pacific, Indian, and Atlantic Oceans, starting in Victoria, but ended his journey in London. Still a remarkable journey for a dugout canoe! Then boat was abandoned in London for years before being salvaged and sent back to Victoria and today is a display in the Maritime Museum there in Victoria. "Well," I thought, after reading that chapter, "I know one place I want to visit when I get back to Victoria!"

Late in the night, I finally set aside the book, turned off my light, and went to sleep with the sounds of the waves crashing ashore.

September 28

I got a fairly early start to my hike this day. I only had 12 kilometers to hike to reach my destination—Bear Creek Camp—so there wasn't any particular rush involved, but the weather forecast included a good dose of rain for the day. When I woke up, it wasn't raining... yet. I hoped to get a good start on the day before the rain settled in, however, and would be even more thrilled if I actually made it to camp before rain started at all. That seemed unrealistic, but at least I could hike as far as possible while it was still dry out.

My map marked this section Chin Beach and Bear Beach as the 'most difficult' section of the Juan de Fuca Trail, and it did have a lot of ups and downs. I'm not sure I'd consider it that difficult in hindsight, but it's not the terrain where I can run down the trail either.

Remarkably, the first traces of rain started coming down just as I walked down to the beach at Bear Creek Camp. It felt more like fat fog than a genuine rain, but it was clear that the air couldn't hold the water much longer and the fog was plenty wet on its down. I rushed to set up the tarp just under some trees near the shoreline, then jumped under it and out of the sprinkle. It was barely noon.

I cooked a lunch, because why not? I was trapped under the tarp with nothing better to do. Normally I eat snacks for lunch. Cooking is a luxury I usually save for dinner, but I had a lot of time to kill so cooking seemed like the right thing to do. And anyhow, it was cold out. Warm food would taste great.

The sprinkle turned into rain, then back into a sprinkle, then back into a rain, ad nauseam. I finished reading Tales of the West Coast. I wrote in my journal. I made diagrams of changes I might make to the Atlas Quest database. It was exceedingly boring, and I wished I could hike out that day. I could have, actually, except that the bus was only running every other day. I was only nine kilometers from the end of the trail, and sure, I could hike out to there, but then what? No bus would be coming by today. So I killed time, hiding out from the rain under my tarp. "Maybe," I thought, "if I'm really lucky, the rain will have stopped by morning." Maybe....

September 29

I had weird dreams all night long. A QFC opened recently in West Seattle, near where we live, and I dreamed it had a 'private' public library, and I'm not even sure what that means or why it would be in a supermarket. I dreamt of murders and death, but might might have had something to do with reading Agatha Christie's The Man in the Brown Suit just before going to sleep.

I woke late in the night, and saw a strange light on the beach. A soft light lit up a nearby rock, but who? I was alone. At least I thought I was alone. And in the middle of the night? I saw no movement—just a steady light, lighting up a good portion of the beach through the trees. Maybe it was aliens? Smugglers? I watched it for several minutes but could discern nothing, so I finally got up to investigate. I walked out on the beach, a light rain still coming down, but once I was out of the trees, the mystery cleared itself. What looked like a rock through the trees were actually clouds in the sky. A small break in the clouds, far off in the horizon, allowed the first morning light to shine through a break in the clouds, which looked remarkably like a soft, steady light on a long, narrow rock of the beach. No, just my imagination playing tricks on me. I went back to sleep.

My last day on the trail! It rained all night, and continued to rain throughout the morning. I stayed dry under my tarp, and decided to try waiting out the rain. Maybe it would stop.... the weather forecast did include rain for the day, but it didn't include details about when to expect rain throughout the day. I hoped the rain would let up. I wasn't optimistic, but I hoped. I had nine kilometers to hike to China Beach where the bus would pick me up, a distance I could do in three hours, and the bus wouldn't come by until about 5:30 that afternoon. Even giving myself an extra two hours to walk and loiter along the way, I didn't have to leave camp until 12:30 in the afternoon. No reason to rush out into the rain!

So I laid around and tried to wait out the rain. Strange as it may sound, it was exhausting. After laying under my tarp all afternoon the day before, all night long, and now this morning, I was tired of laying down. I was tired of sitting up. I wanted to get up and stretch! I wanted to walk, to run. But it was wet out.... I'm such a wuss.

In all, I huddled under that tarp for a full 24 hours, getting out only long enough to get water or pee. I was exhausted!

Finally, near noon, I waited as long as I could, packed up everything I could from under the tarp, and finally took down the tarp. The rain had actually stopped, although it was hard to tell because water still dripped from trees at a rapid rate. Then I hiked out.

The hike was uneventful, and the rain held off for the rest of the day. I used an umbrella for the first half hour, protecting myself from the tree snot, but even that tapered off so by the time I reached the end of the trail, everything was dry. The sky was still overcast and threatened to rain at any time, but the rain held off. I did it—I hiked the entire length of the West Coast Trail and Juan de Fuca Trail, and not a single bit of it while raining! Quite the accomplishment!

I hiked at perhaps the slowest pace ever, knowing I'd have hours to wait before the bus arrived, but I still arrived with three hours to spare. I hung out in the parking lot. I took off my shoes—they were wet—and replaced them with dry camp socks and shoes. I talked to the occasional hiker that was getting on or off the trail. And I continued reading Agatha Cristie. I couldn't wait to get back to Victoria, if for no other reason than there was tons of stuff I could do.

About a half hour before the bus was to arrive, I walked up to the road intersection with Highway 14, where the bus would stop, and waited. A little while later, a couple from Wales walked up to join me. They had camped out on China Beach the night before (not realizing that China Beach itself did not allow camping), so I had never seen them until now. The end of the Juan de Fuca trail ended at the China Beach trailhead, but didn't actually go to China Beach itself.

And about 20 minutes late, the bus finally arrived. The three of us piled on—the very last pick-ups of the season. The last half of September, the bus only ran on odd-numbered days. After September, the bus wouldn't run again until May. We were, quite literally, the very last people to get picked up from the trail.

One person on the bus I recognized—I first saw her in Victoria with the enormous pack, hiking by herself. We both started at Pachena Bay on the same day, so I was surprised to see her. She must have hiked at an agonizingly slow pace. I figured everyone who started the trail the same day I did finished two days before on the 27th—when the bus would take them back to Victoria. Finishing the WCT by the 25th would have been tough to do, and finishing today on the 29th would have required an agonizingly slow eight days. So I surprised to see anyone I recognized from my start day.

There were a few other people I recognized, those who I passed the last day or two on the trail when I was nearly done and they just starting out. I expected to see some of those people—the bus options to this part of the island were limited, and I knew some of them had to have used the same one I did.

The bus ride went well—none of that terrible logging road on the way back—but a few of the hikers near the back of the bus looked like they were still suffering from its effect.

We arrived in Victoria near 7:00, shortly after dark, and I booked it to the hostel anxious for a clean shower.

I whisked through the door of the hostel. "I need soap," I told the man behind the counter, "in a bad way."

Oh, and a bunk as well. I looked at a shelf behind him, lined with small bottles of shampoos and soap, and ordered one of everything. "And laundry detergent" I told him, pointing to my clothes. Definitely need laundry detergent.

When everything was settled, I turned and noticed a line formed up behind me—four other hikers who got in on the same bus as I did! "Hey!" I told them, "y'all are following me!"

I didn't stop to chat, though. I had soap, lots of it, and it needed to be applied liberally. I claimed my bunk, gathered all of the dirty clothes I had except what I was wearing and started a load of laundry. Then I took a shower, washing my hair three times with the shampoo, and cleaning all the way down to the spaces between my toes. I was very thorough, then repeated the process a second time.

I still felt dirty—much improved, but still dirty—but there wasn't anything else more I could do about it. I got out, dried myself, and put my dirty clothes back on. Checked on the laundry again, moving my washed clothes into the dryer, then ate dinner. Returned again, and I had clean, dry clothes. I switched out of dirty clothes I wore and finally felt slightly normal.

Then I started hitting the phones to call my mom and Amanda and let them know I made it back to Victoria okay. I got online, and spend most of the rest of the night catching up on e-mail and news during the time I was gone.

September 30

I had two things I wanted to do today. First, I wanted to take that FREE self-guided tour I had heard about in the Parliament building. It was free, and the building looked pretty interesting. And it wasn't a weekend so the building was actually open to the public such as myself. And then, I wanted to visit the Maritime Museum and see the infamous dugout canoe that nearly circumnavigated the globe.

I started with the parliament building. I walked in. No security guards asked to frisk me or check my pack, which kind of surprised me. I could see a couple of security guards loitering about, but they didn't seem interested in making sure the area stayed secure. You'd think the main legislative building of British Columbia would at least check people who enter the building for weapons or something. *shrug*

The area was clearly besieged by tourists such as myself, but I pushed through and got a book (in English—they had options!) about the building and what to look for. It was interesting. The building was designed by Francis Rattenbury, a recent English immigrant and only 25 years old at the time, and officially opened in 1898. The self-guided 'tour' wasn't nearly as extensive as I would have expected, allowing us to go only on two floors, and only small portions of them at that. It did, however, let us go into the main dome and view the legislative chamber where all British Columbia laws apparently are argued on and passed. Not being particular familiar with British Columbia politics, I probably didn't appreciate it as much as a local would have, but I found it interesting anyhow. AND—it was FREE! The price was right. =)

Next, I headed out to the Maritime Museum, but was interrupted by an old man hawking books nearby. He thrust a purple page into my hands, and he proudly claimed to have written all these books. He seemed like sweet old man, very grandfatherly, with a huge smile on his face like he would rather be nowhere else in the world, and I asked what his books were about. Historical works, he tells me, about Victoria and other local areas. The man spoke with an English accent, and out of curiosity I asked where he was from.

"You mean originally?"

"Sure, originally."

"England. I moved to Victoria 40 years ago," he told me.

I joked with him, "Oh? So nearly your whole life?" He looked at me, seriously at first, then realized I was joking—he was obviously much older than 40. I'd have guessed in his sixties or maybe even seventies.

Once he realized I was joking, though, he laughed and said, "Oh, no, I'm eighty!"

We talked a bit more, and I figured his books were probably lame—more of a wanna-by author than a real author—but I liked the guy so I kept talking to him. When I told him I was from Seattle, he pointed one book out as being partially set in Seattle. It was about a 'mortal angel' from 1916 Victoria who time travels to Seattle in 2000 and falls in love. It sounded hokey to me, but I liked the guy, what can I say? And I let him suck me into buying Whispers Across Time, by J Robert Whittle, and he autographed it for me writing, "To Ryan, Best Wishes, JR Whittle." I

Then I continued on my way the maritime museum. I spent several hours there, reading through all the displays and exhibits. It's a fascinating place, and I found the Tilikum, the dugout canoe I read about earlier. It was larger than I imagined, but still surprisingly small to go through the open ocean, through storms, and survive. (And, in fact, one of the helpers he had allegedly 'fell' overboard during one storm, never to be seen again. Did he really fall? Or was it murder...?)

The building used to be courthouse, and one judge, Richard Matthew Begbie, had so many people hanged there he was known as the Hanging Judge, and the top floor has recreated the courtroom of the Hanging Judge. An article about the building, hanging by the gift shop downstairs, describes the building as being haunted and the strange things people have seen and heard. I kept my eyes and hears open for ghosts, but saw nothing. Not a hint or a wiggle.

By the time I finished here, it was getting late enough that I figured most tourist places that I'd likely find interesting would be closed or about to close, so I headed back to the hostel for the night, reading books, watching TV, and catching up on the Internet.

October 1

The next morning, I walked out to Craigdarroch Castle. I picked this for two reason: One, the hostel had discounted entrance tickets for it, and two, it was within easy walking distance unlike the famed Butchart Gardens. The weather was overcast and threatened to rain, but the rain held off during my walk. When I entered the front, the girl at the register look at my pack and her eyes about popped out. My ride on the Victoria Clipper back to Seattle was later that afternoon, but I had to check out of the hostel by 11:00. So I decided just to carry by pack around rather than store it anywhere. After I finished the trail, it was nearly empty of food and weighed about 25 pounds—not especially strenuous to carry around.

It was, however, very unusual for people to walk into Craigdarroch Castle with such a large pack. The girl offered to store it for me in a nearby closet while I toured the building, and I happily took her up on the offer. They handed me a map building with descriptions about each of the rooms. The front of the map had this to say:

Completed in 1890, the fortune amassed by coal baron Robert Dunsmuir is reflected in the Castle's four floors of exquisite stained glass, intricate woodwork and lavish Victorian-era furnishings. The original estate extended over 28 acres.

Since Joan Dunsmuir's death in 1908, the Castle has been used as: Craigdarroch Military Hospital; Victoria College; offices for the Victoria School Board; Victoria Conservatory of Music; and finally as Craigdarroch Castle Historic House Museum.

Sounds like the building has quite an interesting history! Unfortunately for Robert, he died the year before the building was completed and never got to live in his dream house. Bummer for him.

The girl at the register asked for me to use the shoe cleaner before I entered any further. It had bristles on the bottom and sides to knock of dirt and grime, and there was a lever that, when pulled, made the bristles spin. My shoes were still caked in mud from the hike, so I was thrilled to give my shoes a 'deep clean' that this device provided! Why didn't they have this where I got off the trail?! When I got through using it, my shoes looked almost as clean as they did when I started it.

I probably spent a good hour or two walking through the building and reading everything they had hanging about the place, where the self-guided tour ended in the gift shop. (Of course!) I left out the back door and returned to the front to retrieve my pack and walk back downtown.

I still had a few hours before I needed to report in for my ride back to Seattle, and decided to hang out at The Joint, because if there's anywhere to hang out, The Joint sounds like the place to do it. =)

One of the other folks staying in the hostel recommended it to me as a good pizza place the night before, so I decided to try it for lunch. I ordered a slice of pizza and 'cheesy bread rolls.' The pizza—was merely okay. Those cheesy bread rolls are amazing! Pure bliss! I don't know what they put in those, but wow, I could eat those every day of the week. If you find yourself in Victoria, do yourself a favor and order some cheesy bread rolls at The Joint. It might make you fat, but it's so worth it.

And with two hours before I needed to catch the boat back to Seattle, I pulled out Whispers Across Time by my buddy, J. Robert Whittle, and started to read.

The book is a bit corny, but I have to admit, it sucked me in. It starts off with the main character ending up in the Ross Bay Cemetery (hey, I know where that is!) where he becomes a 'mortal angel' and starts doing magical things to help people in need. He's a court reporter, and ends up going to the courthouse where the Hanging Judge is holding a trial. (Hey, I know where that is too!) And one part, where I nearly laughed out loud, describes the two main characters going to present day Victoria, wandering through Bastion Square, and being accosted by a friendly old man named Robert Whittle handing out leaflets about his books. (Hey, wait a minute.... I'm getting a sense of dejavu, now!)

It was a cute story. Perhaps not the most gripping book I've ever read, but I've read a lot of bestsellers that weren't half as entertaining either. *shrug*

Alas, it was time for me to return home. I walked to the Victoria Clipper. Waited for it to board. Then boarded.

The rest of my trip was rather uneventful. The boat arrived on time in Seattle, I cleared through customs and immigration quickly. (I didn't check my pack this time—it was small enough that they let me carry it on.) I walked up to Third and jumped on a bus heading to West Seattle. I made it. My hike was done.

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