I’ve shot many sunsets in the Pacific Rim National Park over my lifetime, but this one is particularly meaningful as it could easily have been my last. About 5 minutes after I shot it, I was nearly swept out to sea.
If you’ve read about me or my journal entry Why We All Need to Get Outside and Reconnect with Nature for a Meaningful Escape, you know that Clayoquot Sound and the Pacific Rim National Park in British Columbia, Canada, have always held a place in my heart for the years I spent there as a kid in the ’70s and ’80s camping for weeks on end with my family on Long Beach at Schooner Cove.
In the early 1990s, as I was graduating from high school and finding my place in the world, one of the largest acts of mass civil disobedience in Canadian history occurred. The arrests of over 800 youths and elders protesting the clearcut logging of old-growth forests in Clayoquot Sound were seen on television screens and in newspapers around the world. It would become known as the “War in the Woods” and these images would have a profound effect on me. As a place of extraordinary untouched beauty, I knew this land was to be admired, protected, and shared.
So, imagine my joy when 30 years later I found myself alone on a windswept beach enjoying a spectacular sunset downriver from the Carmanah Giant herself, arguably the largest Sitka Spruce in the world, which so many had fought to protect.
Normally, the Carmanah campsite on the West Coast Trail would have been full of hikers due to its proximity to Chez Monique’s, an off-the-grid burger stop run by beloved Monique and her husband Peter Knighton at the lighthouse end of the beach. With the legendary establishment closed for the first time in over 25 years due to the untimely passing of both Monique and Peter earlier that year, this undeniably beautiful campsite was now completely empty. Such a striking contrast from the last time I’d hiked the trail in 1999.
While my daughter rested in our tent following a long day of hiking, I had crossed Carmanah Creek to sit and enjoy this glorious sunset, incredibly grateful for the extraordinary experience of witnessing such beauty alone. As I discuss in my journal entry Is Social Media Destroying our Hiking Trails?, the crowds of Joffre Lakes and Moraine Lake are now so commonplace that any moment in nature completely alone is magic. But to have had this particular campsite to ourselves? Without another soul in sight? That was truly unthinkable, and I deeply treasured the moment.
Perhaps for a little too long. When I made my way back to our tent, I found that the tidal river had swollen. What had been little more than an ankle-high stream minutes before had risen and its full depth was difficult to judge in the fading light. With only a few strides, I was already mid-river and struggling to keep my footing.
The rocks were slick and the force of the water much stronger than I had expected. I knew that if I tried to turn around now, I was sure to slip. It was clear that my safest decision at this point was to continue my attempt to reach the other side. Nature is beautiful but she is also dangerous, and her risks should never be underestimated.
Thankfully, despite losing my footing, I was able to reach the other side. Eighty to 100 people are medically evacuated off the West Coast Trail each year. Had I been swept out – alone, and in the dark – it’s very possible that I wouldn’t have survived.
I have dislocated my shoulder kayaking the Chilliwack river, slid over 75 feet down a snow slope on Black Mountain, and partially dislocated my hip falling from a slick canyon wall in Agadir, Morocco, but this accident was different. I wasn’t hurt. I was completely fine. But seconds before, my safety had been in serious jeopardy. It’s as easy as that. A stupid decision that could have had horrific consequences.
In the age of Instagram, this is happening all too often. Mountain trails are now flooded with hordes of tennis-shoe-clad adventurers woefully unprepared for its challenges. Vancouver’s North Shore Rescue alone performs approximately 130 search and rescue operations annually, and this number is climbing.
I’m a particularly organised and cautious person who values planning. Having spent 7 years working on Vancouver’s Cypress Mountain (including a season on its downhill First Aid Ski Patrol), and many years of hiking with the North Shore Hikers, BC Mountaineering Club (BCMC) and the Alpine Club of Canada, I have a solid understanding of the dangers in my own backyard. I have wilderness training, first aid training, and an up-to-date emergency kit in both my home and car. I carry my 10 Essentials on every hike and would never hike without first filing a Trip Plan. I’ve even posted a journal entry teaching adventurers how to read a tide table specific to the West Coast Trail! And yet for some unknown reason, even though I should have known better, I still walked into that river.
Through my website and social media, I’ll passionately share my love of nature with you and encourage you to reconnect. If you haven’t already, I encourage you to check out my journal entry 8 Days of Survival: Hiking the West Coast Trail for a day-by-day photo guide of this iconic backcountry adventure. I truly hope my fine art photography and journal entries will inspire you to get outdoors as the benefits are immeasurable, but it’s imperative that you do so safely. Hiking and backpacking carry a higher level of risk than many other sports.
Even the most innocuous-looking hike posted by thousands on Instagram can be deceptively dangerous. People have and will continue to become injured and die pursuing the sport. Evaluate risk and don’t take unnecessary chances. Use my information as a jump-off point to get inspired and learn more. Ask questions, take courses, and gain experience with experts. Be prepared and take great care. And may it bring you as much joy as it has brought me.
2 Responses
Alys,
I found your site because I often have nightmares about our stupidity crossing the Carmanah. Back in the Easter break of 1970 my friends and I decided to do the West Coast Trial. At that time the trail was in terrible shape, made even worse by the fact we were probably the first hikers going through that year. We did the trail from South to North. The first night it snowed. Anyway when we got to the Carmanah on day 4, the creek was raging. There were no cable cars back then, well no cable cars that worked. We crossed one by one in fast flowing water that was above our hips. It was crazy and stupid. At some point we were accompanied by a Transport Canada helicopter hovering over our heads. I think it must have been doing a supply run at the lighthouse and saw a bunch of stupid teenagers doing something beyond stupid. It stayed there until all of us got across. The crossing was very difficult, made worse by and extremely high bank on both sides of the creek. One of my friends helped me up and over the bank. If he wasn’t there I don’t think I would have been able to get out of the water. At least we had our group, and the helicopter. Doing it alone and in the dark would have been terrifying.
Wow! What a story. Even when you were safely out of the water, you must have been absolutely freezing! I remember it dropped below zero one night during my first hike on the Trail and it was brutal. I can’t imagine what it would have been like soaking wet in freezing conditions in 1970 when the gear was anything but ultralight and not remotely quick-drying. Thanks for sharing! And my apologies for the late response. Your message was mistakenly sent into spam. Guess I’m now as cautious online as I am on the trail. Cheers!