Legends on the Trail

« Return to Canada

Legend of Kyle, as he henceforth would be known, had wisely picked the route from Port Renfrew to Bamfield, effectively putting the hardest days first, so as to get them over with. Our packs would be heaviest, our muscles stiffest, but once we had conquered those first two days, it would ease up all the way to the finish. “There’s no way I could do this the other way round,” explains Julia, a hiker from Calgary that we met at the trailhead. “Knowing what hell is to come would ruin the experience.” That hell, incidentally, was staring at us in the face. I ask everyone what they’re feeling. “Inspiration.” “Apprehension.” “Nerves.” “Excitement.” “Man-love,” says Chris, and I make a note not to share his tent. Our group of seven (long-time friends and work colleagues) met at an overpriced lodge in Port Renfrew, divided up the food and gear, and weighed our packs. “Perhaps the West Coast Trail is where REAL MEN come to lose weight,” I wondered aloud. So we weighed ourselves too, to test if that hypothesis is true. Despite the previous week’s binge of smoked meat and poutine, I was the lightest in the group, clocking in at a skinny 156 lbs (71kgs). Budget travel, let it be said, is always good for the scales.

More than the rain, my biggest concern was my knee. By day four of the Inca Trail, I was chugging Ibuprofen tablets like E.T and a box of Smarties, my once-broken kneecap throbbing in so much pain I could barely walk. And that hike had porters to carry the heavy stuff, and was only half the distance! I decided that my mantra would be “Failure Is Not An Option”. I thought a lot about Chuck Norris, and about the things that real men think about, like football, cars, and beer. Of course, the biggest drinker I’ve met all summer was a male ballet dancer in St Petersburg, but whatever. Gear-wise, we headed to Mountain Equipment Co-op for everything. Walking sticks, gaiters, tents, waterproofs, backpack covers, thermorests, sleeping bags, storm proof matches, camel packs, water pumps, gas burners, tarps, ropes, fire paste, meals-in-bags, energy bars, chocolate, first aid kits, snacks, Nalgene bottles, dry bags, boots, backpacks - being prepared was key. Early morning breakfast at the lodge, we leave the vehicles on an Indian (in Canada, First Nation) Reserve lot, cross the inlet in a small boat. It starts at the 75km marker. Our route would be a countdown, and I quickly looked forward to religiously banging my walking stick three times on the yellow distance markers. The terrain was muddy, with tangled roots eager to catch your shoe and send you flying. Every step, literally, is a potential hazard. My shoulders felt like Chuck Norris himself was pushing down on them, for although I’ve technically been backpacking for the past 18 months, I haven’t been hiking through rainforests with my pack on. Odds are someone in our group would have to be evacuated, and just past the 5th km marker, Andrew took a tumble on a slippery rock in the black mud. His ankle was toast - sprained and twisted. We were all thinking “evacuation” even if nobody said it. His face wore an expression of a soldier who’d been shot in the gut. Having bunged up his ankle before, Andrew carried an ankle guard and bravely put it on, determined to continue. Walking with a sprained ankle is one thing, putting on a heavy backpack is another.
“Put this twig between your teeth,” I said, as we lifted up his pack and placed his arms through the straps. Somehow, he lurched forward, his two walking poles supporting his weight, every step a grimace.
“He looks like a spider who has just been stood on,” whispers Baron, but more incredibly, Andrew continues the journey. “The nice thing about hurting your ankle now is you forget how much your back and feet hurt,” he says, gamely. An hour later, Jazza takes a spill, his backpack trapping him on the ground like an upturned turtle. We laugh, take pictures, morale is good.
“I came on this trip to get back to nature, to get out of my comfort zone, and hang out with my mates,” muses Jazza.
“I came on this trip to watch Jazza hurt, to watch Esrock hurt, and to watch everyone else hurt,” says Baron, who in the decades that I’ve known him, has always derived a sick satisfaction from watching other people’s misery.

We make it to Campers Bay, home for the night, and cook up the marinated steaks that I’d carried in my pack. Every night, hikers lock up their food in a communal bear locker, and I was hoping the meaty scent of my pack wouldn’t attract any black bears. As it turned out, the only invader all week was a mouse. We pump-filtered fresh water from the creek, set up tents, covered the packs in a tarp and collapsed. Sleep and exhaustion overtook me at last.

Top 5 Campsites
1. Cribs
2. Walbran
3. Tsusiat Falls
4. Michigan Creek
5. Campers Bay

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