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Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
My backpack weighed 53 pounds, full of dried food, water and other bits and bobs. I was ready for my first through-hike.
I’d done backcountry trips before, but being out there for 15 days was a different beast. I was embarking on the 180-kilometre Sunshine Coast Trail on Vancouver Island, Canada’s longest hut-to-hut trail. Getting to the trailhead was a journey in itself – I rode my yellow Vespa in the rain on two ferries and parked it at the end of the trail next to the Saltery Bay ferry terminal. Then I carried by backpack on two local buses to reach the seaside village of Lund, and finally hopped on a Zodiac boat to reach the start of the trailhead at Sarah Point.
While I was in the company of other hikers on most nights, the second hut I stayed at – Bliss Portage Hut – was empty. A hidden path nearby led to a rustic bench on a small knoll overlooking a clearing. I imagined someone had created and placed this bench in this exact spot not for themselves, but for future hikers seeking a moment’s peace in the wilderness.
I came to cherish the solitude. There was something special about having the forest entirely to myself. With nobody around, I sat and gazed out at what felt like my own private lake, daydreaming while listening to the gentle sound of the water, watching the grass sway, and being mesmerized by the rhythm of waves lapping onto shore. Out here, I didn’t need to act differently or accommodate anyone else’s needs and wants. I could just be me with the freedom to do whatever I wanted, with no schedule, no rush and not a care in the world.
The trail varied a lot. Sometimes it was wide and flat; other times it meandered through the forest, snaking its way along; sometimes it was a torturous ascent with no end in sight; and other times it became so narrow and overgrown I wondered if I was the only person to come across it. But each day I hiked onward, staying at a different hut every night – it was like living a new life every day.
The reflective orange trail markers guided me – squares for southbound and diamonds for north. It’s hard to get lost, even for someone like me with no sense of direction. But occasionally, a marker would be diamond when it should be square – the trail likes to test your resolve. If the marker was merely crooked, I always straightened it for those coming after me.
Through-hiking inevitably creates a hiker’s grapevine. At one hut, I was told about a man from France who might be coming my way. Later that afternoon, a pair of hikers also spoke of this happy, easygoing Frenchman with long, curly brown hair who had been hiking the trail at a leisurely pace and hummed cheerfully while hanging his clothes to dry.
Over the next two days, others mentioned his name and at one point, someone even asked if I was that Frenchman, which made me laugh. While preparing dinner on top of Tin Hat Mountain, a man with long brown hair approached me and asked, “Are you Tommy?” “Pierre?” I exclaimed. I had heard of him from multiple people and it turned out Pierre learned of my existence from all the hut logbooks I signed. He’d caught up to me and we became friends even before meeting.
Why do people go through-hiking? Is it to be in nature? To see beautiful views? One could do those things without all this hassle. I sought independence and adventure, to experience a different outlook on life and to truly live and feel the raw grandness of the world. It was a pilgrimage – to visit every hut on the trail and make it from start to finish on my own two feet.
On the last day of my journey, it felt strange that the routines and skills I developed to survive would no longer be needed once I got back to real life.
Soon I came across my scooter, exactly where I left it. I sat and quietly ate the last peanut M&M I’d saved for the occasion. There was nobody there to cheer and congratulate me, nobody to witness what I just did. It felt a bit anticlimactic. As I rode toward the ferry terminal, I couldn’t help but think – it ends just like that? It felt like the last 15 days was a dream, a different reality that never happened.
That evening, I returned to city life as if nothing had changed. Was it supposed to? I’m not sure, but I’m glad I completed the hike. Through-hiking had been a dream of mine and I’ll remember the journey for the rest of my life. I’ll carry these memories with me and a slightly changed perspective about what’s important as I reintegrate into society. The next time I’m at work, listening to co-workers complain about their mortgage or buzz about the latest restaurant, my mind will wander back to life on the trail – content and free.
Tommy Chiu lives in New Westminster, B.C.
