Trespassing Prey – Part 2
An adoring fan (I kid) inadvertently encouraged me to put up more of this story I wrote a number of years ago. You can find the introduction here, if you’re so inclined. In the interest of avoiding a 12-post series, this section is lengthy. It’s also from a less succinct period of my life. I seek forgiveness.
As always, the first kilometre was tough, finding a rhythm and warming our muscles up to the idea of a good deal of work ahead. We breathed the air in deeply, enjoyed the scent, shared our excitement, and thought about cougars. For a while, we used a good deal of energy avoiding baby frogs that were making the journey from their nesting place to their new marshy home. They lightly hopped across the trail. We enjoyed their energetic movements and cracked up about being easily distracted, lacking diligence in our attention to potential cougars.
After a brief break at the three-kilometre mark, we hiked on. Here, the real work began, the climb became much steeper, which I hate, and covered with small fallen trees, which drove us crazy. Every fallen tree required a strategy. Most were a metre or more off of the trail – too high for either of us to straddle, very difficult to go under with a full backpack. We were further delayed because we had to stand around and complain before and after, again and again. Luckily, a cougar did not choose such an opportune time – with one of us caught under a tree – to come sniffing.
Along the way, we fantasized semi-seriously that if a cougar were to attack us we could slay it with ease using the knife provided by Beth’s dad.Beth would keep the head as a trophy. In a stroke of serendipity, the cougar would be female and lactating, to ensure that I could have some milk afterwards, for my stomach. Especially in the absence of my stomach medication – yes, that’s right, in my late night stupor the stomach pills had not made it into the backpack. Sigh. This tidy cougar-hunting scenario amused us for quite some time as we hiked, satisfied with our plans.
After another 5km or so consisting of fallen trees, steep terrain, the inconvenient realization that I’d also forgotten my cell phone and our ride wouldn’t know when to pick us up, the trail levelled off and we came to a clearing with a cabin, thus concluding the lower portion of the hike. We intended to drop off our wares, do the second leg of the trail and come back down to the cabin to sleep. Our plans were foiled somewhat. The cabin itself did not have hospitality written on it – anywhere. It was dank and dark, and seemed to host many visiting/nesting/pillaging creatures. Our tent was far more appealing and we set up camp in a nearby clearing.
But first, we had to find the trail to the peak of Mt. Cartier, which would apparently make the arduous hike entirely worth it. Everyone had told us that after the cabin, the trail continues, but try as we might, we found nothing. We could go no further without a severe fight with some devil’s club. After a number of attempts, we despairingly gave up on reaching the peak and glimpsing the fantastic view of the entire valley. No cabin, no peak, no view.
We didn’t pout for long before we quickly set to work making our home. The sun shone, I started building a fire, and Beth, wielding the cougar knife, began preparing our tent site. Each of us was quite happy to do our work. We pitched our tent, enjoyed the view and our dinner in the sun and chatted about nothing particular. Though it was most certainly on my mind, we still had not talked about the date. We were holding a stubbornness contest and neither of us wanted to be the first to bring it up.
After dinner I took it upon myself to figure out how to get our food and toiletries up a tree so that no bear would make us into a grocery store. I threw everything in a garbage bag, tied a rope around it and looked fruitlessly for THE TREE. Very few of the trees had unobstructed branches that I could manage to get the rope around. But oh how I tried. People always made this sound so easy when giving “bear aware” instructions, how hard could it be? Very, apparently.
Eventually I picked a target, setting my sights on a branch approximately 5 metres above my head. I wished myself luck, cocked my arm back, and threw the rope as hard as I could. In a moment lacking triumph of any kind, the rope peaked a metre below the branch and fell limply to the ground at my feet. Not to be deterred, I tried again, with a similar result. I had no more success the third time. Or the fourth. I quickly became frustrated; my patience for my own failures is quite limited. I had no hope in hell of getting that garbage bag up to somewhere that a bear could not reach. The fallen trees that we had been cursing along the hike now seemed very appealing – at least I could stand on one.
So I settled for an even lower branch, perhaps two metres above my head. Pathetic. I threw the rope, angry at my failure, hit the branch and almost knocked myself in the head with the rope as it came back down. We were sure to be robbed tonight. But refusing to sink further into patheticness, I threw the rope again and thankfully (for my self esteem), it came down on the other side of the branch. So I pulled the rope, heaving the garbage bag mightily into the air before relishing in my heroic moment. I had Amazon woman strength. Proud, I lowered my gaze from the glorious branch and looked straight ahead. Sigh. My heart sank. The bottom of the garbage bag hung directly in front of my eyes. Any heroism left in my feeble body was swiftly deflated. How lame! A two-month-old squirrel could have used the bag as a piñata. I might as well have left a stick beside it to make things easy. Alas, I assumed that this was better than having the bag in our tent and gave up, shamed and perplexed.
Exhausted and fearful of getting attacked (by mosquitoes as much as by cougars) we crawled into our tent to start one of those classic too early to sleep sleepover-type discussions. Beth’s mind, like mine, is over-active at night and we both struggled to find even a fitful rest. I had silly dreams about dates and frogs and cougars and woke up every ten minutes changing positions. Every time Beth’s foot kicked the corner of the tent, the opposite corner, at my head, would pucker and scare me, waking me up frightened and sleepily alert. Beth got even less sleep than I did, disturbed by my kicks and tossing and turning at every sound and silence.
In the morning, we woke to a warm tent. The daylight brought with it, as it always seems to, a sense of relief and safety. We were alive. Not even our toes had been gnawed off, and though uncomfortable and tired, we woke in good spirits, pleased with our adventure. This air of reassurance unfortunately was soon challenged by my physical condition. The warm tent, the excitement, the lack of my usual milk remedy and stomach medication was starting to take its toll. In search of some soothing protein, I found and delved into some peanuts. I’m not sure where the peanuts came from because the food was supposed to be hung, but they were there and I ate them desperately.
Regardless, I was soon rushing to unzip the tent – the date’s tent, conveniently. I mostly managed to direct the pathetic contents of my stomach away from the tent but to my horror was not completely successful. Is it a bad omen to throw up on the tent of the person you went out with 36 hours previous? Between “moments” I managed to get dressed and go sit by the fire pit to spare Beth any more of my scent. I did my best to feel better, eating and throwing up alternately, while she packed up our entire camp without complaint.
… Stay tuned for trespassing, paranoia AND police.
Juan de Fuca Hates me (and other tales of pity)
It is with somewhat heavy heart (excessive dramatization) that I write about my long-anticipated (by me) Juan de Fuca trail hike with my husband, the oft-hypothetial but this time real, Kevin.
The Juan de Fuca trail (JDF) is a 47-kilometre hiking trail that runs parallel, and sometimes on, the coastline on the south west corner of Vancouver Island. It offers old growth forests, beaches, bears – you get the idea. I’m going to summarize my heroic rise and fall on the trail day by day – lucky you.
Day 1
This barely counts as a day since it only involves a 2k hike. We drove to China Beach after work on Wednesday evening. We brought nothing of value since break-ins are frequent. It’s at times like this that I especially appreciate our ’97 civic, Forest, which lacks fancy stereo equipment or valuable parts that I would worry over. Anyway, Kev paid park fees while I set to taping my feet. That’s right, my horrid feet feature prominently in this tale of joy, crankiness, and intrigue.
Bad omen? I think so.
Knowing that I have sensitive skin and blister easily, and heeding warnings from many that the best way to enjoy a hike is to prevent blisters, I carefully duct-taped the more sensitive areas on my feet. I thought I did a bang up job. We hiked the two kilometres in to Mystic Beach enjoying some warm-up forest time. The duct tape burned, but it’s sticky, crazy tape, so I figured that was normal and kept on trucking. We arrived at Mystic Beach happy and excited. I slept in duct tape, thinking I would do more harm than good taking it off. You can begin to see how errors compound.
See: Happy and excited
The next morning - very mystical
Weeeeeee!
Duct tape removed, feet breathing
Despite all this happy good timing, my feet were starting to give me some trepidation. Blisters had formed at the edges of the duct tape, from pinching or rubbing I suppose, as well as between various strips. The heels were doing relatively well but the ankle areas had gotten fairly blistery. I decided to start again tomorrow on a different plan. In the meantime good times were had, few people were seen and the weather co-operated wonderfully.
Day 3
Kevin was responsible for packing up camp and preparing breakfast while I spent half an hour on “health care”. Thus the princess tour begins. Kev packed most all of the weight (insert sigh of the ego) while I applied polysporin, then bandages, then cushions, then medical tape. We started off quite firm in our resolve for this up and down portion of the trail to Chin Beach. Kev spotted seals, we discussed potential bear encounters and world domination. All was normal.
Inclines and green things
Approaching Chin Beach
By the time we arrived at Chin Beach a new pain had overtaken any existing blisters. My feet were absolutely ALIVE with anger. A total of 19k had put them into an absolute tizzy. I sat while Kev selected a campsite but after a break was able to set up the tent and prove myself otherwise useful. Chin was incredibly beautiful, reminding me of a cold Thailand. We watched the tide come in, the sun set, and a pod (group, clan, pack?) of porpoises do porpoisy things.
On a dark and footy note (detect a pattern, perhaps?) my feet were not looking good. The cushions I had attached would not come off so I couldn’t re-treat blisters with polysporin. I had also run out of bandages that would fit tidily over blisters without forcing me to stick them to other blisters. I should have soaked my feet in the ocean, which would have allowed me to get the cushions off and provide my feet with some salty comfort for our last night on the beach. Instead, I gave up and left those cushions on for the rest of the trip. On the up side, other areas where I’d used the medical tape preventatively held up nicely.
Day 4
I think it’s safe to say that my darkest hour occurred on day 4. We woke a little late for a 13k day along the most difficult portion of the trip but set off fairly quickly after breakfast and another health care session. The trail was beautiful, with excellent ocean views as we neared Sombrio Beach, a popular surfing and camping beach. This is also the most difficult portion of the trail however and my feet had become incredibly angry again after a mere 2k. The last couple of kilometres into Sombrio were pure torture and I could not enjoy the views of Kevin’s favourite (sick bastard) portions.
View from crazy suspension bridge
Nearing a breaking point but this was a fun little bit in hindsight
By Sombrio Beach my feet were begging for anger management. We ate lunch and contemplated whether we should leave the trail. The pain had me on the verge of tears much of the day. Stubborness won out by a small margin. What surprised me is that, maybe because of adrenaline or other distractions, the blisters alone would not have stopped me from completing the trip. The soreness of my soles, on the other hand, almost did.
But we forged ahead after lunch into a muddier but otherwise less challenging section. It was on this portion of the trail, last year, that Kev had a run in with a rather aggressive bear and her cub that sent him back to Sombrio for the night. Armed with the knowledge that she was still around we sang and yelled whatever came to mind for the 4k to our campsite at Kuitche Creek. Themes from Cheers and the Love Boat made an appearance as did Eddie Murphy, George Carlin, and Arcade Fire.
The last kilometre was ugly. Crawling may well have been faster. When we reached the campsite I was so sore it took all my energy not to cry. I felt like a huge turd. Kev found a site, brought me to it then set up the tent as quickly as he could while I sobbed taking off my boots. It was not a proud moment. I crawled into the tent and cried some more, first for the pain, then at my own lameness (a never-ending cycle, that one). I may even have been in shock, I was shaking with cold and felt a little confused. Eventually, I calmed down and was able to set up our bedding and walk to the outhouse. We ate dinner by the water and I began to feel somewhat human, though deeply embarassed. Needless to say, the camera didn’t make it out much.
Day 5
We slept well, though wondering if bears were trying to get at our cached food. It turns out a small rodent made it in instead, chewing through our sleeping bag cover and getting at a bag of nuts and some bagels. This really cracked me up though Kev was less impressed, since a couple of his preferred food items were targeted.
My health care regime on this last morning included a dose of painkillers, in the hopes that it would stave off the foot pain for the remaining 14K to Botanical Beach. By this point, I’d given up on the skin and left most of what was on there as it was, with some minor modifications.
We packed up the tent in the rain (yay, heavy). Lucky for Kevin, who had basically taken on the role of sherpa and was packing nearly everything by this point. Early in the day we spotted a bear on the beach below us (or rather Kev did) – a definite highlight. We were grateful that the only bear we saw was afar though it refused to pose for proper body pictures.
It acted a little confused when I alerted it of our presence.
The rain died off early and we enjoyed both scenic forest and ocean views. The ache began at about the 5k mark and while manageable for about another 5k, the last 4 to Botanical Beach were pretty ugly. I was feeling defeated and the pain was compounding my disappointment. At some point in the previous 12 or so hours I had realized that my hopes of doing the West Coast Trail next year were likely unrealistic. My body hatred and self-pity had settled in, despite a keen awareness that I am very privileged to have what I do. We eventually finished, but with little fanfare. Our camera battery had died (my fault) and so we didn’t get either a triumphant or cranky photo of our finish. We were still 2.5K from the shuttle bus in Port Renfrew and at the pace I was walking we wouldn’t make it. My first ever attempts to thumb a ride were jilted though Kevin eventually flagged down a guy who was very nice to drive us the few minutes we needed. Our driver’s son engaged me in conversation and lightened my spirits some. We then waited for the bus and chatted with a couple of women about to start the trail. They offered beer.
In my state of emotional decrepitude insult was added to injury on that shuttle bus ride back to China Beach. The winding road and bouncing bus took its toll. Within ten minutes I was asking the two women for a bag. My situation was precarious. The bag that they had had a knot in it. The bag made it open onto my lap about 10 seconds before I needed to use it. Already in a state of extreme self-pity I threw up on a bus with 12 strangers. I then gripped the bag with all my might and hoped to make it to the parking lot without incident, which I managed.
We arrived to an unlocked car and a note that said Forest had been broken into. Thankfully nothing was missing or broken. Since we’d been gone 4 nights, an incident was almost guaranteed. I was pleased that we didn’t have to drive home with a broken window or something worse. We made it home after one more upchuck, my ego relatively bruised, and a bitter-sweet sense of our hike. I was finally able to take off all bandaging in the shower and see that one set of blisters had reached infection-like status.
I do not regret having gone and am certainly glad I did, but remain disturbed that I couldn’t help out more and even more so, that trips past two days may be beyond my reach. Accepting my body has never been a strength of mine. It’s slowly taking on new meaning. Now I’ve been given a limit. I’m not sure about the next painful step: acceptance.
After a day of healing and some cleaning
Waste not, want more 