Solo was and is a big deal for me - it's only been a bit over a week since I slept alone in the (sort of) backcountry for the first time. And I've only done two real hiking trips, and neither of those had been alone. I'd never been to the Pacific rainforest. So this trip - a solo hike of the Juan de Fuca Marine Trail - was a challenge on several fronts for me.
I picked the JdF Trail for a number of reasons: I was going to be in Victoria anyway, and what's the point of flying across the country and not going on some adventure? It is a manageable length (47 km). Unlike its big brother, the West Coast Trail, it has numerous access points so people who aren't sure of what they're doing (me!) can bail at any time. I could do it in the four days I had available.
My preparations were on the typical side: I threw all of my gear into a big duffel bag, I bought (but didn't read) a guidebook and map, and I got on a plane. I thought I'd figure the rest out later. So on Thursday afternoon, I investigated transportation to the trailhead (the bus left at 6:30 a.m.!), bought a fuel bottle and some fuel for my stove, and picked up food and matches.
The JdF Trai is signed east to west. It is signed really well: every turn is marked, every kilometre has a signpost telling you which kilometer it is you've just completed, and there is no nead for trail markers (though in some places they exist) because it's so obvious where the trail runs. I decided to travel west to east, which meant I'd have to read the guidebook backwards.
Truth be told, the only part of the book I consulted before hiking was the map. I realized that I'd rather have surprises, and read about what I'd just hiked at the end of the day. This worked well - I did miss some interesting side trips, but given the general newness of this adventure to me, I was overstimulated with all that I did see already and don't regret this.
So... I got off the bus in Port Renfrew, and wandered the 3 km of gravel road to the Botanical Beach trailhead. I was not yet aware just how *far* a km is when you're carrying a heavy pack, there is a lot of elevation change, and you're not on easy footing. So for the first three km, I investigated everything that captured my interest. Tide pools, reef shelf, every side trip, every interpretive sign, I missed nothing.
After two hours, I had covered... three km of marked trail! That's when I realized that if I were to make it anywhere, I'd have to stop checking out every rock and tree. I didn't exactly put my head down and hike, but I did more or less stick to the trail from then on. With side trips. It was beautiful. The sun even came out for ten minutes or so.
Of course, most of the time it rained. The slippery logs that the trail passed over made me very happy for my hiking poles. I'd never do this trail without poles and gaiters... Until I hit Payzant Creek, there were plenty of boardwalks to cross mud holes, and most streams had bridges of some sort. I stopped at Providence Cove for a break, I thought the place was magic.
Payzant Creek is a backcountry campground, with a bear pole, outhouse, and tent pads in the old growth. I'd originally planned to stay at Payzant Creek, but the standing water on all the tent pads coupled with the fact that it was only 2 p.m. and raining steadily and very dark and spooky in the forest made me wonder what I would *do* with myself there. So I kept hiking, with Little Kuitsche Creek as my new destination. This was when I realized that a km is very far when your pace is 2-3 km/hr.
Around Parkinson Creek, I left older forests and hit regenerating clear-cut habitat. If anyone is in doubt about what clear-cutting does to soil, hike this trail: the old growth areas were dry during downpours, and the trail was cushioned by a thick layer of duff on which footing was good even in areas that did get wet. The clear-cut sections of the trail? Nothing but sticky (on my boots), slippery (under my boots) and deep (up to my calves and in places my knees) mud. I thought the campsite would never come... instead of ogling all the trees, I had my head down to avoid roots, and I wasn't enjoying myself much anymore.
The Little Kuitsche Creek campsites are chopped out of the ubiquitous salal that seems to take over after clearcuts. There are some taller trees there, but I instinctively picked the brightest spot I could find, in the salal. This left me with no trees to hang my tarp from. It started raining harder. I didn't care. I didn't want to do anything but be dry - I was tired, I didn't feel like making dinner, I didn't want to hang out in the dense brush.
Truth be told, I was wet, muddy and very grumpy. The advantage of the solo adventure: I didn't feel bad that I was grumpy, since there was nobody to grump at except myself. The disadvantage: I didn't have to pull myself together, so the crankiness continued throughout the evening. I did force myself to cook and eat my dinner, and then the rain let up for a little while and I slid down the mudslope to the beach (more of a reef shelf beside a suge channel, but nevermind) and read my book. Then I went to bed. It rained most of the night. It was raining still when I got up. My tent was wet on the inside and out: it's a single wall tent, and the heavy rain had pushed down on the fly so one of the vents blocked. I don't think the low vent in the fly was effective either, because it was difficult to stake the tent out properly on this site. (But - the tent weighs less than four pounds, a fact that I appreciated on a solo hike, with nobody to share the weight of gear).
Given the rain, I didn't even feel like having breakfast, but again, I realized that the grumpy Johanna would not disappear unless I snapped out of my "I don't want to" phase. I ate my oatmeal, I packed my wet gear, I hit the mud. This was the section of the trail that the trail singposts had identified as one of the easier ones. I had looked through the guidebook a bit the night before, and it too seemed to think of this section as easy.
I didn't think it was easy. I squelched in mud up to my knees at times. I wiped out twice. I didn't take in any views because all I could do was focus on where I would put my foot next. The waterproofing on my boots gave out. The only thing I remember from this stretch, other than how wet and muddy and grumpy I was, is the Minute Creek suspension bridge. I thought it was cool. Then I went back to the mud.
At this point, I started arguing with myself. On the one hand, I was wet and miserable and wanted to quit. On the other was my pride: I would be bailing before the trail was half done. This went back and forth. After the second time I sat on my butt in the mud, I decided that pride didn't matter, I would quit when I reached the next road access at Sombrio and hike out to the highway. I had enough.
Then I came out on the boulder beach at Sombrio. I stopped stumbling. My jaw dropped. Then I dropped my pack, and sat on a drift log in the rain, and watched the waves. My mood did an instant turnaround. I decided to postpone the final bailing decision until I hit the trailhead halfway down the beach.
Sombrio got to me in a big way. It didn't matter that it was still drizzling and foggy. It didn't matter that I felt out of place in the colourful assembly of surfers and car campers. I liked being out there again. I picked my way down to the beach. I hiked out to the trailhead. I stood there for a minute, then I hiked back in, rejoined the trail, and had lunch on the east end of the beach. I committed to continuing.