The Sunshine Coast on Canada’s western edge is ensconced in indigenous tales. The white capped Coast Mountains loom sullenly in the east. Their foreboding presence reflected in the grey depths of the vast, Georgia Strait to the west. Both, were a formidable presence to humans, and a safe haven for wildlife. We, were somewhere in between.
When approaching the tiny city of Powell River by air, the first thing you notice from the nineteen-seat Beechcraft aeroplane is the timber mill stacks puffing out white smoke plumes where the fresh water river meets the Georgia Strait. A shadow of its industrial glory age, the city was once home to the largest paper mill in the world. Having no road access to modern, international ports however, due to a vast, impeding mountain chain, posed a significant challenge for trade. With a population of around five thousand today, the businesses of this quaint city now look toward tourism thanks to those very same mountains.
It was fairly easy to spot our ride at the at the one-room airport terminal. Dropping us off at the aptly named Inland Lake, we hesitated strapping on our packs for a long moment. After the sound of our ride’s four-wheel drive finally faded away, we were left to acknowledge our place in this exquisite wilderness. Bec and I had flown for twenty-four hours from Perth to Vancouver, where we bought our camping food and crashed hard for one more night in an Airbnb before we were back in the air again early, to get to this trailhead. The motionless surface of the lake reflected the steep hills that surrounded it, blanketed in rich, green, fir trees. After traveling so far, for so long, we had finally made it to this beautifully remote place, and we were about to hike further into it.
In the academic parlance of rocks and eons, the western coastline of Canada is geologically wealthy. Violently formed by a vast number of different terranes (as opposed to terrains, terranes are a distinct type of landmass that originate from a single identified source) they smashed together, and then were grated like soft cheddar cheese by repeated ice ages, shaping the stunning landscape that exists today. Not to be outdone by the geologists however, from an ecological viewpoint the region also contains an astounding variety of flora and fauna that could be found nowhere else. Thanks to a comparably recent occupation by humans, notoriously challenging terrain (the common version), harsh climate, and remote setting, there still exists here many large predators; though you are unlikely to spot anything other than the occasional black bear. Black bears are more common in the coastal regions, but further inland, brown bears are the forest giants, and along with rouge cougars and enigmatic wolf packs, these forest legends were mystified spirits, and idolised by the indigenous people. My hope of spotting one of these wondrous creatures was exceptionally unlikely besides, we were otherwise occupied with carefully avoiding stepping on the enormous banana slugs that littered the trail. Imagining the cartoonish effect of stepping on an actual banana peel if one of these slimy monsters squished beneath my boot, I was nearly caught off guard when our gentle lakeside path abruptly turned inland and steeply upwards on a narrow single track, engulfed by forest thicket.
The canopy became so dense and the light that filtered through so sparse my camera became ineffective at taking a reliable photo. A wooden sign fixed to a tree simply engraved with ‘TRAIL’ was dripping with moss. At least we were on the right track. The climb upwards was intensely steep and gruelling with our fully laden packs and atrophied legs thanks to days of travel. Even when the trail made another abrupt turn onto the smooth stones of a dried river bed, making our accent more gradual as it ran parallel to the contour lines on our map, I knew the relief would be short lived. We were in the midst of climbing out of a very large, and deep valley, and we were still very near the bottom.
The Georgia Strait is actually only the Canadian half of the Salish Sea, a sixteen thousand square kilometre inland sea passage that includs Puget Sound in the United States, and the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which joins it to the Pacific Ocean. Hiking up out of a steep, water filled valley that spurs off a much larger valley, that was filled by the Salish Sea, I found it interesting our home in Western Australia fifteen thousand kilometres away, had commonalities with this distant landscape. Salish was the common language group among the indigenous settlers, not unlike the Noongar dialect among the aboriginal groups that existed in WA’s south west. Both encompassed dozens of more nuanced languages, that shared similar roots. Salish and Noongar are both simplifications of vastly more complex societies than they let on. Ten thousand years ago on the south coast of WA, it is likely the Wudjari may have shared with the neighbouring Koreng, a Noongar term for the ancient stand of massive eucalypt trees that existed in their region. The Valley of the Giants, as it is known as today, is an endemic tree grove that is a popular tourist attraction which I cannot help but compare to the increasingly rare old growth stand of Douglas fir and Hemlock we would hike through on our first day on the Sunshine Coast Trail.
At the northern end of the 240-kilometer long Strait of Georgia, at the ominously named Desolation Sound, the Sunshine Coast Trail begins. From there it meanders south alongside a comparatively shallow fjord for around seventy-five kilometres until you reach civilization again at Powell River where you can stock up on supplies and enjoy a fresh meal. From there the trail takes a hard-left inland following Powell lake, and then to Inland lake where Bec and I would start our section of the trail. As Canada’s longest hut-to-hut hiking trail the SCT is 180-kilometres long, of which Bec and I carved out a forty-kilometre section for us to tackle. That included a rare, protected section of old growth forest, and the second highest point on the trail, Tin Hat Mountain, at 1193 meters, for our three-day hike. Afterwards the trail would continue on without us for around sixty more kilometres, skirting around pristine lakes and climbing over tree shrouded mountains until it reached its southern end at Saltery Bay, where narrow channels feed inland fjords with the world’s fastest moving tidal rapids. The indigenous people named this area Skookumchuck, which translated into English means “strong water” but I reckon is onomatopoeic for the sound you make with emphasis when funnelled though it in a canoe.
Falling into a rhythm, Bec and I zig-zagged uphill at an easy pace. Focusing on our breathing and not tripping on tree roots, hours clipped by until we gradually realized we were hiking though the old growth forest. A much-needed energy filled us simply by the majesty of our surroundings. The Canadian Hemlock and Douglas fir trees were tall, strait, and enormous. We proceeded through this surreal landscape silently and trance like. It occurred to me eventually I was smiling so intensely I must have looked like an idiot. There was no one there to notice however, other than Bec, who wouldn’t comment and spoil the moment then, but would save such an observation, like a store of humiliation arsenal, for future dinner parties.
The tall canopy continued to engulf us in complete shade but its millennials long existence hindered much of the undergrowth which was thin, giving us a spectacularly view of our place on the side of an incredibly steep valley. Left without the incursions of humans, the valley floor and walls were littered with the logs of fallen giants. These natural incursions were both barriers and bridges as our trail wound through the solemn stand.
The sad reality is that these valleys of giant old growth trees are nearly extinct. Built from hundreds and thousands of years of stored carbon, formed from millions of years of unique soil compositions, water supplies, and fire resistance peculiarities, these living, ancient wonders fed the western economy from the industrial revolution right up until laws were introduced to protect them, about thirty years ago. Cedar and Hemlock were revered for their natural ability to weather for years and so were used to build every structure imaginable in North America. The tall and straight white pine that blanketed eastern Canada and US were eviscerated for the extensive ship building campaigns by England and France. The exceedingly rare Jarrah tree- another type of endemic eucalyptus- was shipped from Western Australia to London to be used as a base for their roads thanks to its uncanny ability to withstand the ill effects of horse urine.
Light filtered through the much younger canopy near the top of our long climb and tall grasses crowded the narrow trail, the wide blades brushed our legs, soaking us as we walked tiredly past. A small garter snake slithered past my feet with the nonchalance of species unencumbered by human presence. The harmless reptile sports a tidy pattern of yellow lines down the back of its narrow black body and can be spotted throughout southern Canada. Not exactly a rare sighting, but special nonetheless.
A hundred or so metres further on we were surprised by one of the most immaculate scenes on the trail- Confederation hut, situated on the shore at one end of Confederation lake, nestled in a gentle dip at the top of a modest mountain. It was if the trail knew just how exhausted we were and decided we deserved a reward for our herculean efforts. Dropping our packs in exhaustion we soaked in the sun that had been hidden from us for hours now. In leg wobbly glee, Bec crossed a slew of fallen logs on a purpose-built boardwalk to fill our water bottles out of the crystal-clear lake. Smiling on her return she dropped in some purification tablets that would kill any bad bacteria by the time we finished our lunch.
Another long descent had Bec and I winding up our first day on the SCT a few hours later at Fiddlehead Landing- a hut overlooking Powell Lake where we were greeted by a lone through hiker. Young and thoughtful, the man in his early twenties seemed to approach his planned 180-kilometre hike as most others would a walk around the block. He had already completed more than eighty kilometres in just three days and had decided he deserved a well-earned rest day at this scenic camp.
When planning our hiking trip, I tried to be considerate in the distances we could achieve while still enjoying ourselves. Tin Hat Hut, just below the peak of Tin Hat Mountain, was our destination for our second day on the trail. It was also the second highest point on the SCT but thankfully only nine kilometres away. Starting off early, I promptly got us lost. Shortly after correcting our route our fellow hiker caught up and passed us with massive strides and seemingly boundless energy. Bec reassured me with a smile we were there for the enjoyment- not to rack up a heap of kilometres. I tactfully under represented to her how much of a climb we had in store for today.
True to the trail’s namesake we were blessed with warm sunshine that seemed almost overwhelming when we reached a high enough latitude the trees thinned and we were no longer shaded. It seemed hotter than usual for that time of year in late summer, and with it came a number of flying insects interested primarily in landing on our sweaty faces. Less picturesque than yesterday’s climb though the old growth, and pestered by flies, this may have been the least memorable section of our hike, until we got nearer to the top. There, the air cooled and the flies disappeared. At the same time the trail became punctuated with views back to the west towards the Georgia Strait and mountain strewn Vancouver Island.
Topping the glorious time we spend hiking though the old growth forest would be difficult- but for the opportunity to spend the night in a hut at the top of a mountain. Not only did we get to watch the sun set behind the mountains of Vancouver Island but on our final morning on the trail we were able to witness the sun rise over the Coast Mountains to the east. It was incredible. Powell lake weaved around Tin Hat Mountain and Goat Island, which was formed by another series of mountains, with even smaller lakes nestled between them. The modest chain of mountains we had climbed over days before, with Confederation lake and old growth forest on its far side, spread out in full view between us and the Strait of Georgia. And laid in front of us a carpet of green undulation hills, horrendously scarred from heavy logging.
Our last day started out much like our first- with exceptional weather. Meandering down the mountain towards our pick up spot we scheduled days earlier, the trail wound past a number of logged valleys, as well as rushing mountain streams, and over ground blanketed with wildflowers. Coincidingly we would feel sad, thrilled, and mindful while hiking through the changing landscape.
Planning any multi day hike can be challenging, particularly from overseas. I had read anecdotes about horrible experiences with mud and mosquitoes, which in Canada, are no joke. Trail notes indicated the official starting point was accessible by boat only- a water taxi we would need to book- delivering hikers to a steep rocky shoreline that needed to be leapt onto from a bobbing boat. This did not appeal to me as I had images of missing my landing and sliding into the freezing inland sea with an eighteen-kilogram pack strapped securely to my back. In the end, I planned a middle section with two nights on the trail, that would take us through what I hoped would be fantastic landscape, yet wouldn’t overburden ourselves with the travel required to and from Vancouver. I wanted to be sure we could make our pick up point on time, no matter what condition the trail, no matter what the weather. We would be without mobile service for most, if not all of our time on the trail, which cannot be understated.
As anyone who has planned a multi-day hiking trip will understand, it is with an astounding amount of luck, after three days of wilderness exploration in the Canadian Coast Mountains, we arrived at Louis Lake only about an hour before our scheduled pick up. The water’s surface, similar to Inland Lake and Confederation Lake before it, mirrored the forested mountains surrounding it. A picnic table beckoned me to throw down my pack and sit with a sigh of relief - and pleasure - having achieved a goal I set for us months earlier from the other side of the world. A long floating dock built of large logs and few remaining planks stretched far into the lake, where Bec would take her kindle, lie on her back in the sunshine, and read until our ride arrived. And before we had even left the trail, I began mentally, planning our return to Canada’s Sunshine Coast.
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