Nick
DAY 1
A short five-minute ferry ride
was all that stood between the trailhead and us. We walked through the
downpour to the ferry, adjusting packs, fixing rain gear and checking
pockets. As we walked, Gordon explained that this first section of trail
was the toughest and least interesting, and could apparently be avoided
by sweet-talking the ferry operator into giving us a lift to the first
campsite, Thrasher Cove. We got off to a rough start with the operator
when we asked him about his boat. He snapped, "It's not a boat,pointing
at the vessel he was standing in. "This is a boat," he said,
pointing to the magnificent, handcrafted, vibrantly painted canoe we were
referring to, and said "That is a canoe. We suspected that this might
have had something to do with his response to our request for a detour.
"If I do that, I'll lose my license. No way."
Minutes later, we jumped off the boat and onto a pallet covered in mud, taking the first few steps of the most difficult hike any of us have ever encountered.
The group wanted to jump right into the hike, but I would not start this one without some fuel. I dove into a bag of trail-mix ("gorp,"as Norm likes to call it) and we started up a gnarly trail up the side of a mountain. The trail was extremely steep and frequently required a handhold to help hoist you and your new friend-a 60lbs backpack-up the next step. The rain had become torrential by this point, so most of the trail was awash or temporarily flowing out to the sea. We found ourselves clutching anything that would assist us up or down-a slippery root outcropping or a stone on the trail. Massive fallen trees criss-crossed the trail and often required climbing over, under or onto. The smell of wet and rotting cedar was palpable, but more striking was the blood red mush that the inside of a rotting cedar metamorphs into. I found myself looking into small pools of what looked like blood and wondering if someone had been hurt until we had walked across enough of them to make that idea impossible.
Early on, I removed my poncho (and first line of defence against the rain), as it had become more of a liability than an asset because I couldn't see my feet while negotiating the treacherous terrain. We spent literally every moment with our heads bent down, looking and deciding where to gingerly place our next step. This was my first experience in a rain forest. The vegetation was lusher than anything I had imagined. Moss, ferns and bushes carpeted the mountainside. The only land not covered green or with water was the trail itself and all the roots. The root structure of these massive trees spanned anywhere from one to three metres and often formed natural (or not so natural) steps. After ascending the side of the mountain, we traversed along side of it, climbing in and out of ravines. Despite diligently re-waterproofing our boots and wearing gaiters, we all had water in our boots after three hours of hiking. I was the last to get what we had coined "squishyfeet" and became a little discouraged when I did. I knew that my boots would not be dry for many days, as the leather interiors would take even longer to dry out.
None of us were conditioned, physically or technically, for this portion of the WCT. This was a crash course in root hopping, puddle jumping, creek crossing and log walking-in the pouring rain. We all hike regularlyin the Rockies. There a tough day means snow, gaining a 1000m in elevation and covering 25 km. Yet, this little 6 km here on the coast (where we would gain a maximum elevation of 150m above sea level) was beating us like an angry principal from the 1950s. This coming from a group with the combined experience of over 50 years of hiking.
We found ourselves climbing down Teflon-slippery, wet ladders with small waterfalls raining cold water on our hands and heads as we descended. Then we'd cross a creek and climb up a wet rockface with no footing using only a rope and our arms to yank our weight up to a small platform. Difficult and demanding drudgery, to say the least. A few hours into the hike, Norm and I broke ahead of Gord and Nick. Throughout the trip, we would frequently have to stop and wait for father and son to catch up. As the day progressed, the time Norm and I would wait for the Derks to catch up grew steadily, to a worrisome level. Without any protection from the rain, my body cooled to a dangerous chill in the absence of exertion, and the Derks were clearly capable of a better pace. Something had to be wrong. I stopped and made Norm help me unwrap the bivy off my pack and pull a PowerBar out of my secret stash of emergency fuel. I broke it in half and held a portion in front of each Derk and said, "Eat." They did and hiked the remaining two kilometres without the worrisome stops we had faced earlier.
After five hours, we found the turnoff to Thrasher Cove and started the 150m descent to the beach. The last portion of the day was a collage of slippery ladders, steep root structures and unstable earth. Once on the beach, the challenge shifted from getting there, to getting set up and then dry. Rain still showered us relentlessly, but thankfully, we had by then become somewhat oblivious to it. Rain aside, I needed a smoke. Before we began our day I had handed Nick my smokes and asked him to shove them into a cargo pocket in the rush to lock up the car and get moving. When I asked for them, he bellowed, "Oh shit!" He pulled from his pocket a half-pack of tobacco mush-filtered Lucky Strikes, brought back from Paris as a gift. "That's OK," I said quivering. "Let's see the other pack I gave you." I enjoyed a (mercifully) dry Canadian cigarette and wondered if I would have to quit smoking later this week.
The campsite was small beach littered with pretzelled brunches of enormous driftwood. It was very small and by 6:30 p.m., when we arrived, almost full. The coming high tide forced us as far back up against the bush and to the highest ground that we could find. We ended up backed up against a massive fence of wet driftwood a metre in diameter and 10m long. The site was barely big enough for two tents, but perfect otherwise save for a small stream emanating from beneath the giant log. It was only an inch or two wide but we knew that with the rain coming down as hard as was, the trickle would become stream. The stream would become wet tent and wet tent would become wet sleeping bag-not a challenge any of us were willing negotiate. As it was already dusk, we sprang into action. Norm took charge and directed the group to digging ditches, lifting and moving as much sand as we could in an effort to divert the water's trickle away from our little piece of safety. Because the stream had to be diverted to lower ground, it had to go away from our spot and into a neighbouring pile of driftwood. This and setting up a small tarp to huddle under took well over an hour.
The tarp provided much needed shelter and an area to cook in and devour the first of our dehydrated meals. We hung a short clothesline beneath the tarp and Norm built-to the utter astonishment of us and the rest of Thrasher Cove-a small but healthy and warming fire. As we lavished Norm with praise and astonishment over starting such a fine fire with wet wood, he told us about camping with his brothers and dad. His father would give each son one match to start a fire. If unsuccessful the next son was up to bat. Equally impressive was Gordon's surprise litre of fine red wine. So, for a few moments we sat, sipped wine, warmed up and chatted about the day's hike. We were all stunned at what the WCT had dished up at us as a first helping. We were soaked to the core, drained mentally and physically, and just a little afraid of what lay ahead.
We learned later that it had been a record day at Port Renfrew. We were told that six inches of rain had fallen in a 12-hour period. Locals confirmed that that Tuesday was a day to expect in February, not August. The day dropped lower for Norm when he unpacked his sleeping bag and discovered that it was wet.
Wet clothes and wet sand. Everything
and every item in our packs (save some clothes, socks and sleeping bags)
was either wet or wet and covered in sand. We wrung clothes out, slapped
tarps and bags against rocks, and even washed ponchos in the moving water
on the beach. After an oatmeal breakfast, we stuffed everything back into
our packs and hoisted our now 10lbs heavier packs onto our freshly bruised
backs.
© Jim Knutsen 2001
Gord
Jim
Norm
Camp at Thrasher Cove
Norm makes a fire under a log