Gord and Norm
DAY 4
Neither Norm nor myself are
morning people and this fact had become blatant after three days. Yet
this morning, we arose from our tents unusually early. Trying to improve,
you know, or something like that. We jumped into the cable car required
to get across Cullite Creek, ascended 120m of ladders and started the
trail well warmed up. This day became affectionately referred to as "Bog
Day." It was on this stretch of trail that we first enjoyed short
stretches of boardwalk. The boardwalk was in the process of being built
over and around the deeper sections of the bog. Last night we had laughed
at the description of the bog in one of Gord's books: "Slow but not
difficult." Today we laughed at our ignorance. It was a perfect description.
The bog was unwieldy, unwavering sludge. One step and the mud was undoubtedly
up to your knee. But compared to the previous days' adventures, it proved
not too difficult.
At midday, Norm and I had a few minutes to kill while waiting for Gord and Nick. We walked up the creek to watch a helicopter drop off two men scheduled for eight days of repair to the boardwalk in the bog.
We grilled the two roughnecks for whatever information we could glean: trail conditions, weather predictions, news and beer. After crossing yet another creek with the very cool, but ridiculously physically intensive cable car, the remainder of the day presented mild quicksand along the beach toward Carmanah Creek and a rumoured oasis named Chez Monique.
Nick's research on the trail was inspiring. He reported that there was a store, about 31 km ahead, run on one of the reservations by a legendary woman named Monique. After eight more kilometres in the soft and heavy sand, we dropped our bags near an isolated campsite and pressed on excitedly to the oasis. We sauntered into a makeshift shack, fashioned out of tarps and two-by-fours, with our eyes wide and dropped chins . Chez Monique had obviously been doing this for a while. Burgers, beer, smokes, gorp and candy cascaded from the shelves and into our shopping bags. After four days in the middle of a rainforest, currency seemed silly. So when I handed over $62 for four burgers, four beers and two packs of smokes, I didn't even wince. Nor did Gord after another four burgers and four beers. We didn't even hesitate later on when we dropped yet another $30 for eight more Extra Old Stocks. As we devoured the of all beef patties, we chatted with a large group of Quebecers exiting the trail. Someone had to catch a plane so the whole group was leaving. Local fishermen apparently make a tidy sum each summer evacuating tired hikers at the halfway mark of the WCT in battered fishing boats.
On the way back from Monique's, Gord and Nick took a pit stop. Apparently, Nick had not had a "number2" since we began the hike. Norm and I met two German women, as we were about to cross Carmanah Creek to get back to our site. We exchanged a few stories on familiar hiking injuries. Norm seemed to be having fun, so I didn't hesitate to take the opportunity to cross the creek the hard way. There was a rusting cable car that we'd used to get across the first time, but it was excruciating with two men yanking that cable. This time the creek looked shallow and totally doable.
As a novice creek crosser, I had to guess how to do it properly. No need to get any more clothing wet. I threw all my clothing but my ginch into the plastic bag full of beer and stepped into the modest creek. Carmanah was certainly cold, but I've been in colder. The real problem wasn't the temperature. The creek was fast deceptively deep. Oui. Da. Yup. Bloody fast, scary deep and pretty chilly. Visual inspection put it at three feet deep. So I add another foot to my estimation for good measure and start hopping. A few hops, a couple of wet feet, rushing water up to your knees and the next thing you know, you're in up to your waist. Perfect. The deep part looked to be only four feet across. So I push on like a Viking in July and after being pulled a full ten feet downstream, I fear for a second that I'll be pulled out to sea. I franticly tiptoed onto some ground and clawed my way onto now much-loved sand. I dried off, grinning and wondering how Norm would make it across. It wasn't a question of if. It was question of how. Norm is one wiry bastard, but he's still eight inches shorter than I am. Yet, he demonstrated more wizardry, choosing a much smarter line and crossed fairly safely. My eyes widened for a moment as the current got a good hold of him and pulled him, in a straight line, downstream toward the sea. After a battle to keep his sandals on and a scare of landing in Japan, Norm scrambled to shore and grinned triumphantly.
Here was easily one of the finest campsites of the week. Our lone tents nestled among the trees, safe from high tide, but virtually surrounded by water. Carmanah Creek rushed to the north and the ocean's lullaby washed over us from the southwest.
That night we revelled around
a rainless campfire in the sand with the mother and daughter from Germany.
Far off mist wedged itself into a stunning ocean sunset. The women shared
a beer with us and in the middle of some highly amusing conversation toasted
with much merriment, 4 proud Canadians.
© Jim Knutsen 2001
Nick and Jim
Cable Car
Ladders
Norm and Jim admire the bog
Typical bog walking
Nick ascending the ladder connected to the suspension bridge at Logan Creek
Ladders through a gulley
At Chez Monique's with the Uber Leibchens from Germany
View from our Day 4 Campsite, Heaven