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Destination: West Coast Trail by Craig Carey and Kenneth Wise
THE FOUR-HOUR RIDE THROUGH rural twolanes and rutted logging roads is almost worth the price of admission alone. The driver, bending the “retired” heavy-duty US military personnel bus to his will, races us from Victoria through the thick spruce forests of southwest Vancouver Island like a man possessed. After a series of what those of us near the rear of the bus are quite certain are power slides, we’re relieved to return to terra firma at secluded Pachena Bay and bid him farewell. The slow walk to the Parks Canada information centre is blissful in its pace. British Columbia’s West Coast Trail is an epic trek across seventy-five kilometres of coastal temperate rainforest, and serves as a primeval reminder as to why we all got into backpacking in the first place. The WCT provides the backpacker with a true wilderness experience, but also pays tribute to the region’s maritime heritage, affording one access to a pair of iconic lighthouses, both of which stand sentinel over the coast’s legacy as the final resting place of dozens of ships and hundreds of sailors. The trail follows ancient paths and paddling
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routes used by the area’s First Nations peoples. The treacherous, fog-enshrouded coastline became known as the “Graveyard of the Pacific” among sailors in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries for the numerous shipwrecks and drownings, and over time a dedicated “lifesaving trail,” shelters, provisions, telegraph lines and lighthouses were put in place to assist shipwreck victims and their rescuers. As navigation technology improved, the trail grew obsolete, and in 1973 the trail was included in the Pacific Rim National Park Reserve. Our party of six had opted for the north-tosouth route, starting at the Pachena Trailhead and working our way toward the Gordon River Trailhead over the span of seven days. The headlands between Pachena Bay and Michigan Creek are impassable, making the first phase of our route an exercise in, well, exercise. Ladder ascents dominate the early portion of the first day — we climb from the pale sands and sun-bleached driftwood of Pachena Bay and the Clonard Creek drainage for some one hundred vertical metres to the root-strewn trail overlooking
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the bluffs. Hand-sized banana slugs traverse the trail with glacial urgency, and our lazy lunch at Pachena Lighthouse is punctuated by the thrum of patrolling Canadian Coast Guard helicopters—a stern reminder to not be among the hundred-plus injured hikers pulled from the trail via various means each season. As stunning as the scenery is, one doesn’t quite feel removed from it all just yet, sitting on the lighthouse grounds only six miles out with fresh legs, and numerous day-trippers along the path. The sharp report of sea lions greets our steps beyond Pachena Point; a huge bull out on the rocks below announces to all comers that he reigns supreme. At the 12km post we emerge from the wilderness to a vast expanse of coarse-gravelled beach. The massive boiler of the steamship “Michigan” looms in the tidal pools nearby. Along with huge portions of the WWII-era Russian freighter “Uzbekistan” another mile further, it is among the largest objects of a debris field of huge anchors, barnacle-encrusted iron plates, bolts, and other relics of an era past, stretching the length of the coast.
Our first night is spent at Darling River, and under increasingly-dark clouds our party watches a mother otter entreat her pups back to the safety of the underbrush while a bald eagle watches from the boughs of a towering sitka spruce. We swap tales and single malt with a crew of seven retired California clergyman, and marvel at the engineering of the composting toilets placed at each campsite. As the sun’s final light stretches across the Pacific, we confirm all otters accounted for. Shortly thereafter the eagle soars into the waning horizon, a fish wriggling in its talons. The second day proves itself a veritable obstacle course, and quickly the lingering sense of not being “away from it all” dissolves. After breaking camp we double-check the compulsory tide table, and opt for the beach route toward Tsusiat Falls. Ladder climbing and slippery log-crossings are replaced by slogging across miles of heavy sand (as well as the genuinely fun cable car crossing at Klanawa River). As we reach the falls just past the 25km marker, the cold of the cascading water is jolting and a fine chance to reflect on this coast’s isolation.
Getting there: West Coast Trail Express bus (+1 250 477-8700; trailbus.com) from Victoria bus depot (700 Douglas St) to either Port Renfrew (2 hours) or Pachena Bay (~4 hours).
Season: May to September. Permits: Required (C$127.50 per person; reservations C$24.50), and can be obtained through Parks Canada. Additional ferry fees for the Gordon River and Nitinat Narrows crossings (C$15 each) must also be paid at the time of registration. A maximum of twenty-six hikers (twenty reserved and six waitlisted) in each direction are allowed on the trail on a given day during peak season (June 15–September 15), and reservations ahead of time will ensure a timely start. Max group size is eight.
Camping: All designated campsites are along the beaches; camping in the wilderness proper is strictly forbidden.
Maps: International Travel Maps’ 1:50,000 “West Coast Trail” (itmb.com) is a fine reference, though Parks Canada wardens will issue their “West Coast Trail Map,” as it includes specific tide height data key to the safe passage of certain beach stretches, which the ITM map does not.
Contact: www.pc.gc.ca/pacificrim 42//WHERE
Halfway through our third day we cross the swirling waters of the Nitinat Narrows by ferry under gray skies (a small hut there offers craband-beer lunches) and work along the long stretches of boardwalk toward the Cheewhat River, and beyond, the camp at Cribs Beach. There we reunite with a Tasmanian couple with whom we shared our baptism by bus. Both crews agree: for a part of the world known for some nasty hiking weather, we’ve yet to hit any of the doom-andgloom fellow backpackers had predicted—even the fog burns off most days by the time we’ve broken camp. Some of the more local trampers are kind enough to inform us that a trek along this route without rain will make our excursion the “Wuss Coast Trail” — the region does, after all, average 300cm of rain annually … and we’ve clearly not endured our fair share. The next morning is more in line with what we’d expected: thick fog and everything is either dripping or slippery, or both. We keep to the beach route until Carmanah Point, ascending to Carmanah Lighthouse just before the 44km marker. At the lighthouse lies a collection of bleached whale bones, and as we re-enter the trail the forest is thick and dark. The descent back onto the beach is abrupt and over-run with huge log jams, and we scramble over gigantic sea-scoured tree trunks until reaching another long stretch of beach. We take a collective moment to adjust our gaiters, as we know this is to be the longest day of beach trekking … but we’re buoyed by the knowledge of something waiting for us there, something lurking deep in the wood. Wilderness legends abound the world over, of course — sasquatch, yeti, a truly palatable freeze-dried blueberry surprise — and yet they’ve all eluded definitive ID. One legend, however, proves true as we march along the wide swathe of beach. Chez Monique’s, a small tarp-covered outpost situated on Quu’as IR 6, a small piece of designated First Nations land traditionally inhabited by the Ditidaht, is manned by a colourful French-Canadian frontierswoman. And traditional
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backpacking diets be damned, we all sit down to a wonderful burger and beer and chat with the other crews we’re pacing. Dangerously low on vital provisions, one of the crew restocks with a new 500ml bottle of whisky — after all, doing our part for international relations has its price. The next five miles of marching along the sunsoaked beach are made that much sweeter by our lingering memories of lunch, and the lagoon at Walbran Creek is bracing, but after four days, a welcome respite. We swim in the cold water and lounge on the cobbles until it’s time to prepare dinner. We awake to another heavy fog, and are not expecting our luck to hold. As we descend the ladders toward Logan Creek’s vaunted cable bridge just before lunch, the fog obscures our view of the other end. That night at Camper Bay we search for firewood along the beach in the thick fog, and the next day continue through the soup until the fork in the trail at the 70km marker, where we descend to Thrasher Cove for our sixth and final night. Here, the fog breaks and we have one last sun-drenched afternoon before the fog redoubles itself and settles in. Our final night on the West Coast Trail is the first night for half the crews on the beach; camp is alternately populated by those who’ve had a good run and those hoping to do so. Some crews arrive after dark, already aware of faults in gear or preparation and searching for a suitable spot on the beach … this, the night of the highest tide of the month. The bear boxes all filled, these latecomers struggle to hang their food, and at 3am we awake to cursing, scrambling, and the sounds of mad digging as those too close to the surf are confronted by the relentless advance of the tide. The next morning, after one last fogenshrouded trek through the final few miles of trail, we sit in a small café in Port Renfrew with our heavy mugs of coffee, blackberries picked from the roadside, and bare content feet propped up when the heavens open. We try not to be smug when told rain is forecast for the next six days. “Wuss Coast Trail” indeed.