Legends on the Trail

« Return to Canada

As I walked over slippery roots, up steep wooden ladders, along long, wobbly logs, in mud, sand, and pebble, I could literally feel Chuck Norris breathing down my neck. This, after all, is the West Coast Trail, the infamously tough, weeklong hike along a coastline so rugged it is called the Graveyard of the Pacific. And even though it appeared that there were more women (!) on the hike than men, it was tough not to view this week as a challenge to my manhood, a test to the hormones, strength, and absurdity that define real men. 55 pounds (25kgs) on my back, shoulders crunching, knees buckling, it’s the last adventure of the summer, so let’s hit the trailhead.

It begins, as so many of my adventures do these days, with jetlag, and no rest. The plan was to sleep on the plane from Montreal, but a SCREAMING baby behind me had other ideas. I had to resign myself to watching a bad movie and reading Hunter S Thompson’s Kingdom of Fear, in which the founder of Gonzo Journalism wrote with so much edge I’m surprised his words managed to stay on the page. I took a cab from the airport, swapped my suitcase for a pre-packed backpack, and was picked up for the ferry. All in, I was in Vancouver less than 45 minutes. For those of you outside British Columbia, know that ferries are a reality of life here, shepherding thousands of people every day to the gorgeous Gulf Islands off the coast, and to Vancouver Island. With a population of only 3/4 of a million, Vancouver Island is 3/4 the size of England, and the largest island on the west coast of North America. Like most of B.C, it is all forest, a land of big fir and cypress trees, often compared to the fictional planet of Endor in Star Wars (think less Ewoks, more retirees). The ferry to Victoria takes about two hours, sailing along the fjord channels, passing islands and sailboats. On a sunny day, it is nothing short of spectacular, which it was, this day, even if we had to wait almost three hours in the line-up to get on the damn thing. Ferry waits, unfortunately, are a fact of life here too.

Some Tips for the Trail

The others had gone on ahead to make the official orientation, in which a very severe parks board employee gave out maps, warnings, advice, and disclaimer forms. But I was with Kyle (Legend Of), who has done the Trail three times, and would be our unofficial guide/savior/hero throughout the journey. Like Chuck Norris, Legend of Kyle has never got a blister on the WCT. He filled me in on the daily schedule, why knowing the tide times is crucial for crossing inlets, how GORP (granola, oatmeal, raisins, peanuts) and energy bars would be more than sufficient for lunch, what to do if I encounter a bear, wolf, or cougar (act threatening and hope they believe you). We hustled a good spot on the ferry, hung with the jeep, and stared across the strait at Mt. Baker, a looming snow-covered volcanic cone across the U.S. border. There was no doubt that weather would be key in the forthcoming week - rain turns the already challenging WCT into a quagmire, drenching gear and freezing appendages. Every year, well over one hundred hikers are evacuated, and common injuries include hypothermia, sprains, and broken bones from slips and falls. I remembered that solitary hour when rain pelted down on the Inca Trail, instantly transforming a magical hike into a dangerous, muddy, very unpleasant experience. On the West Coast Trail, it can rain for weeks at a time, and the rolling fog has led to over 1000 shipwrecks on the Straight of Juan de Fuca, (hence, the Graveyard of the Pacific). Rain, Kyle assured me, would change everything. With nothing to do but wait, we calculated exactly how much sleep and travel I’d had in the last 36 hours. Sleep amounted to 90 minutes, and travel an incredible 18 hours (beginning with a drive into the Quebec countryside). Too much travel, too little sleep. All Kyle would say was, “you’re going to pay for that tomorrow.”

Gonzo Gallery for Legends on the Trail

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