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On a rainy day a south-bound hiker crosses one of the wider streams via cable car.
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Young Jen had energy to burn, delightful company on the trail and at the campfire.
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Because of inaccessible shorelines the trail necessarily and frequently returned to the rainforest with the ladders, the cable cars, and the gnarled menacing roots of large trees . Much larger trees were nearby, further into the forest with some being the largest in Canada. Our third night camp was at Walbran Creek by the ocean, the creek forming a gorgeous clear pond that invited swimming after a hard day’s hiking. The spectacular setting of the campsite eased the joint pains everyone felt, blisters for the less fortunate. Good hiking boots and soft merino socks were appreciated every day and every night our stash of dried fruit was a dessert treat stewed up with a little water, then applied with Cointreau gravy --- a very big bang for the buck.
At night the pitter-patter of inexorable rain became amplified suggesting a soggy day in store. We were slow in getting up, having a power breakfast, breaking camp, and moving on. The boots were soon off again as Walbran Creek was forded in bare feet, followed by a heavy trudge along the sand beach, boots sinking slightly into the sand and the wind at our backs. Despite the rain it was a pleasant beach hike, the load slightly lighter and better balanced. After a cable car crossing of Carmanah Creek the return to the forest was like walking through Tolkien’s Middle Kingdom though with the continued hazards of frustrated footing.
We awoke to an encouraging sky and took our time with breakfast and packing up, buoyant in better weather. Within a couple of hours the long sandy beach at Dare Point invited an unexpected stay. Neither of us had appointments so we set up camp by noon. Nearby was the “Gang of Seven”, jolly housewives bored with their stay-at-home husbands in Sooke --- they were too much fun, we ran into them whenever convenient along the trail. We were into the frigid breakers to bodysurf awhile, then run the long sandy stretch of beach liberated from cumbersome backpacks. It was like ’playing hooky’ but without the principal’s reprimand.
With time on our hands this day we mused about how the WCT is a metaphor of life --- the ups and downs, the slippery spots, the beauty, the work, the footsteps to a goal by following a pre-set path in one’s own way, and the constant pay-offs. We rambled philosophically into the evening in inverse proportion to the level of our flasks and feeling no pain from the day’s light hike as the evening meal finished and the campfire gradually became simply embers. Just offshore a small grey whale was feeding in the shallows. Soon the constellations were marching across the sky.
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The forest came down to the shoreline frequently --- returning to the forest trail meant more ladders, more gnarly roots, and less scenery.
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The ‘Gang of Seven’ take over a stretch of a beach-side campsite and dry their gear from the day’s rain.
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Much of the shoreline was inaccessible for surf dips. Whales were often
nearby just offshore.
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Seagulls discover a rich feeding ground at Dare Point.
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The morning hike was both on the beach and in the forest, later arriving at Nitinat Narrows which could only be forded by boat. A local named Aaron was available for both that service and for his over-priced beer which enjoyed brisk sales from another season of continuous WCT hikers. Aaron is likely now retired, clipping coupons in Boca Raton in a gated community…..or so one imagines. His entrepreneurial spirit was admirable.
On the north side of the Narrows more ladders and tree roots awaited, along with several views of the scenic but impassable coastline below. The shoreline soon relented, allowing a trudge along the beach, the sinking of the boots into the pebbles reduced by continually lighter loads on our backs. By mid-afternoon our day’s destination was sighted, the highlight of the entire trail. We’d arrived at Tsusiat Falls, even prettier than expected.
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Sporadic boardwalks made for dry footing and easy walking.
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Access to pockets of coastline were frequently inhibited by low cliffs.
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My trail-mate surveys the shoreline after a gruelling bout on the forest trails.
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Like an oasis, Tsusiat Falls finally comes into view as we trudged northward along the shoreline. No shortage of driftwood for campfires if one brings a hatchet.
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We set up camp at the north end of the sandy beach, close to the Falls but too close to the stinking vertebrae of a dead whale. After a chilly ocean dip we were into the much warmer pond at the base of the Falls, exuberant with the falling water pounding on our heads and bodies. Pure exhilaration! An early cocktail hour drained our primary flasks over a crackling campfire upwind of the weathering vertebrae. Later in the evening resplendent stars in a clear sky put on a show for us city-boys, necessitating sleeping outside the tent under the stars.
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We set up our two-night campsite away from the congestion to the south of the Falls.
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Mike warms up after another dip in the pool at the base of the Falls. After a bracing body-surfing bout in the open water chill the subsequent warm-up took awhile, enhanced by the flask of single malt.
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A whalebone vertebrae dries in the sun, casting a distinct pall along the beach.
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For the following day there was no point in leaving this idyllic locale in perfect weather. So we didn’t. More dips in the ocean at the base of the Falls preceded a walk back to a spot we’d previously passed where whales were feeding. They were still feeding, one whale languidly feasting within a hundred metres of the shore. Back to the campsite by the Falls where, over a supper of snapped-up pasta Roma and Japanese noodles, we gazed seaward to watch more whales likewise answering the supper bell. After the campfire embered out on the sand
we both slept under the stars.
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Shorelines near the Falls were magnets to both the camera
and our over-heated bodies.
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Shoreline walking north of the Falls was eased by our eating through much of the backpacks’ weights and therefore not sinking as deeply into sand and pebbles.
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With perfect weather for the past few days we were in no hurry to leave this elemental environment.
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Couldn’t have found a better trail-mate than my pal Mike.
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The next morning we were on the move again, our only camping trace being some freshly chopped campfire wood. Back to climbing the ladders with noticeably lighter backpacks and a brisk pace in the forest along boardwalks and bridges, plenty of roots and mud as well. More beach walking at low tide, a final hike in the woods along a long trail, and the WCT was done by late afternoon. We caught a ride into the village of Bamfield and found the only pub where glasses were drained with a dramatic discount from those of our man Aaron days before. After a week our backpacks were now down to just over twenty kilos each as we’d eaten through a lot of weight. After a massive supper we soon flopped out, returning back to Vancouver the following day by boat, bus, and ferry. I couldn’t have found a better hiking buddy than my pal Mike who I often enjoy seeing back home over thirty years later.
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