At 65, I decided to finally take on the West Coast trail | Canada Voices

Ever since I moved to British Columbia in the 1980s, I’ve wanted to hike the West Coast Trail in Pacific Rim National Park. The 75-kilometre route follows the exposed western coastline of Vancouver Island, through old-growth forests, sandy beaches and rocky headlands. But it is extremely remote and challenging: Parks Canada performs 60 to 80 air and marine rescues of hikers each year. It’s no wonder that for many the West Coast Trail is a rite of passage.

After four decades of contemplating hiking it myself, I was suddenly 65 and still hadn’t crossed the adventure off my bucket list. It was time to get started.

Preparation for the trail, which is open May to September, takes months. It includes attending safety briefings and arranging flights and boat shuttles. And, most tricky of all, getting a permit: Two minutes after the online reservation portal opened at 8 a.m. last January, more than 5,000 people were already queued in front of me (7,740 ended up registering). I waited and hoped and finally landed my preferred dates in late May before the campfire ban would begin.

The West Coast Trail was originally called the Dominion Lifesaving Trail. It runs along a stretch of coastline nicknamed the Graveyard of the Pacific. In 1907, the number of shipwrecks and stranded sailors in the area prompted the Canadian government to establish a telegraph line and rough trail to help rescuers. Today, the official termini are Bamfield (Pachena Bay) in the north of Vancouver Island and Port Renfrew in the south. Most hikers trek the entire length, but at my age, I chose to navigate just the (somewhat) easier northern half, joining the trail midway at Nitinaht Narrows and walking 32 kilometres north to Pachena Bay.

And I would be hiking solo, as I prefer to experience the challenges of the wilderness on my own terms and in my own time. And the WCT has challenges aplenty. Tides can surge and weather can quickly change from sunshine and warm temperatures to cold, pummelling rain. The trail includes deep muddy holes, steep ladders and small cable cars over fast-moving rivers. (Even though I was hiking early in the season, a cable car in the southern section was already out of service.) Hikers are isolated with almost no cell service and must be prepared for anything. That means carrying all essentials, including food and sleeping supplies, for up to eight days.

My first official day on the trail actually started on the water, in the traditional territory of the Ditidaht First Nation. Boat is the only way to reach the midway point so I boarded a herring skiff to travel down Nitinaht Lake. The driver and I covered the roughly 20 kilometres to Nitinaht Narrows in about half an hour. I held on tightly as we flew down the lake, glad for the extra marine jacket offered for warmth. But I was also starting to wonder whether I’d made a big mistake by attempting this journey on my own.

My extra layer was noted with approval once I arrived at the Crabshack, a rustic floating cafe run by Carl and Shelley Edgar of the Ditidaht First Nation. “A lot of guys don’t want to take the extra jacket – they don’t realize how cold a ride it can be to the narrows,” Carl said. Everyone laughed as we gathered around the wood stove for warmth before starting our day.

I was anxious to get going and took another short water taxi ride to the north side of the fast-moving narrows before starting off. It was a steady climb out to Tsuquadra Point, where Indigenous guardian cabins are found along the length of the trail. The WCT passes through the traditional territory of the Pacheedaht, Ditidaht, Huu-ay-aht and Nuu-chah-nulth peoples, who have inhabited the area for more than 5,000 years, using ancient trade and hunting trails. Four or five guardians from each Nation help maintain both the WCT and their traditions: They respectively share their knowledge and history of the land, and keep a lookout for people needing assistance.

After slogging through deep mud and navigating slippery boardwalks for a few hours, I longed for the beach. After a few hours on the beach plodding through deep shifting sand, I longed for the muddy trail again. Both were exhausting work, but fortunately the views were breathtaking, whether from the beachfront or high up on the trail.

Camping the first night at Tsusiat Falls was glorious. I heard, then spotted, a young grey whale blowing only a half dozen metres offshore. Mesmerized, I watched the whale feed as it rolled and scooped up food; I was close enough to almost feel the spray. At night, the waterfall cascaded and spilled into the ocean, drowning out my tinnitus and lulling me to sleep.

My second day started with a big climb, up four sections of steep wooden ladders. Muddy and slippery to navigate, many were missing rungs, and it was tricky clambering with a heavy backpack. I started counting rungs for fun and quickly lost track. Later that day I got into one of the self-propelled cable cars to cross the Klanawa River. It added an element of excitement and broke up all the scrambling and climbing.

On another night, I had the entire Darling River campground to myself, resplendent with colourful buoys and postcard oceanfront views. I needed the evening campfire and susurration of the water to heal my old body and soul each night, and to help me forget the hardship of the day.

During my four-day trek I experienced hours of quiet solitude. Along the ragged trails above the coves I could hear the ocean roaring below; along stretches of shoreline the meditative waves lapped close by. I hiked for miles and saw no one, lost in my thoughts (and pain). I was exhausted at the end of each day, every muscle, known and unknown, aching.

I was lucky and had excellent weather: It rained only on my last day as I headed across the finish line at Pachena Bay and did my final check-in with the park wardens.

I can’t pretend the WCT was easy: It was probably the most physically challenging thing I’ve ever done. Somehow I managed to get a badly infected finger and didn’t notice how severe the situation was until I was home. I’m sure it came down to the ever-present mud that lived under my fingernails during the hike. My doctor stated I must have gotten a cut or bite, but I know that wasn’t the case – it was just the trail that got me.

If you go

-Parks Canada reservations for the West Coast Trail in Pacific Rim National Park open Jan. 20 at 8 a.m. PST for the May 1 to Sept. 30, 2025 season. (reservation.pc.gc.ca)

-There’s a lot of important gear to consider but sturdy boots are the most important item and could save your life.

-Hikers must study tide charts. I wanted the flexibility to walk the beach at low tide at midday.

-I hiked early in the season when campfires were still allowed so I did not have to pack a cookstove. My pack still weighed almost 14 kilograms – and every ounce counts once on the trail.