The Snow to Scuba Tour 2010

Well hello again, fair readers! This particular tale should find you in the middle of your holiday festivities, so I apologize for not being the cause of a little slacking at work. Today I find myself recounting a trip from a couple weeks ago, as this is the first opportunity I've had to sit down and actually write it all out. Well, there's been time, really, but this is the first chance where I wasn't simply too lazy. What has your intrepid adventurer been up to this time, you ask? Well, it was a whirlwind tour that involved snowboarding, drinking, flying, drinking, snorkeling, drinking, scuba diving, drinking, shopping, drinking, and sightseeing. Oh, and did I mention drinking? Don't get me wrong, I didn't spend my week and a half completely sloshed the whole time. It's just that I likely consumed more alcohol in that week and a half than I had the entire year and a half before. But we'll get back to that.

So here's how it went down. Glen and I were flown to Edmonton, and then bussed out the the Jasper Park Lodge for the weekend of December 10-12, courtesy of Glen's employer, Autopro Automation. They paid for transport, the hotel room, and several meals over the weekend. You see, it was the company's 20th anniversary and they'd done the same thing for the 10 year anniversary. And who are we to say no to a free weekend at the nicest hotel in Jasper? We flew out early Friday morning and made it to the hotel around 5 pm that night. The next day we were to amuse ourselves, and that night was the big Christmas dinner. Then the next morning there was brunch before our bus left for the airport.

The flight was just that, a flight. We bussed to the Edmonton office, where we were treated to pizza, which is where the overeating began, really. Then the Edmonton office joined us for the bus ride to Jasper. Someone, in their infinite wisdom, had thought to acquire a permit for us to drink on the bus. So the liquor began to flow. While neither Glen nor I really drank too much, Glen's co-worker Roham made a sizeable dent in a bottle of vodka, and seemed to be having a rather excellent time. Though we were a little concerned when he wanted to crack open the bottle before we'd even passed Stony Plain. It's a long ride, man. You gotta pace yourself. When we reached the hotel we found that it was the "Grand Re-opening" of their basement shops. So we went to check it out. Well, it wasn't just the shops, it was the restaraunts, too. And there were samples. And drinks. Up to this point, Glen and I were thinking that we might have to order pizza or something that night for dinner. After roaming the basement for about an hour we no longer needed to. Ahh, free samples. Those mini-macaroons still haunt my sugar-drenched fantasies.

The next morning we were up bright and early to catch a ride to Marmot Basin for some snowboarding (or skiing if you're Glen). It was early December so while the hill was open, the snow base was slightly less than a meter, so there were rocks and twigs and whatnot that we both ended up running over. But my snowboard made it out reasonably unscathed. I'm not gonna say this was due to my complete lack of skill, but hey, draw your own conclusions. Also, apparently, living and skiing on the West Coast has made wimps of both of us, because after about 2 runs we were starting to get really cold. Halfway through the day we had to go into the shop and buy scarves because we'd neglected to bring any with us. What?! You didn't bring any scarves? You don't need them here, it doesn't get that cold in Whistler. At any rate, it was an excellent day on the ski hill, and I managed to come away with yet another beautiful set of knee bruises that I could be proud of. Or ashamed of, considering that if I had any skill or talent I wouldn't actually be causing the bruises. Next time, knee pads under the ski pants.

That night we got all dressed up for dinner. The picture below is us, trying to look like grown-ups. You'll note that Glen is looking rather dapper. I made him buy a suit for this. He cleans up not too bad, actually. Me? Well, we won't go into my self-esteem issues. But we looked all right, I think.Dinner was a buffet, and you all know how I love me a buffet. A slightly fancier buffet than I'm used to, but a buffet nonetheless. And thus the gluttony continued. The after dinner entertainment was provided by Atomic Improv, and I gotta say I'm impressed by Autopro's choice. I was kinda expecting some boring speechifying, and there was a little, but thankfully not much. Atomic Improv was really quite good, especially considering they probably had no idea what most of the people in the audience really did for a living. After that there was a DJ and, once the Burnaby boss' wife had enough to drink, some dancing. I'm not sure how Glen managed to get out of dancing with her, 'cause she kept threatening to drag him out on the dance floor, but he did. Perhaps it was the look of terror in his eyes. Glen's not the best dancer, so I guess it's really all for the better, anyway.

Brunch the next morning was lovely. Another buffet. You know how they say most people gain weight on vacation? Well it's true. Especially if you start said vacation off with a couple buffets. And then began the marathon of travelling. I'm going to try and make this short, 'cause really all it ended up being was a string of airports, buses and cars that eventually landed us at our resort on the Yucatan in Mexico. So here goes: Bus to the airport in Edmonton, ride back to my sister's place, dinner with the family, ride back to the airport, flight to Toronto, flight to Cancun, bus ride to the resort in the Mayan Riviera. We left Jasper just before noon on Sunday, and arrived at our resort in Mexico somewhere around 5 pm Monday. We didn't shower in that time, nor did we get to sleep anywhere other than on an airplane. By the time we reached the hotel, all we wanted to do was shower and go to bed. Which, if you throw in dinner, was exactly what we did.

But now, my friends, we were in Mexico! We stayed at the Aventura Cove Palace Resort, which, if you've been to that area, is one of the gigantic and onoxious city-sized resorts along the same stretch at the Barcelo and the Grand Bahia and all those. Though the sign for ours wasn't quite as obnoxious as some of the others. It's right next to Puerto Aventuras, if that helps. We stayed at this particular place because for some weird reason my Dad is a member, and we got a discount. It's apparently a 5-star resort. I'd go with that, given the mini-bar. Which wasn't really a mini-bar, but several full bottles of liquor in a handy dispenser for your convenience. Oh, we could get used to this.

The next day we awoke to beautiful sunshine without a cloud in the sky. And after having left "sunny" Vancouver only a couple days before, a cloudless sky in December feels like a miracle. We promptly went over to the concierge desk and booked ourselves in for some activities, and a little time at the spa. Okay, I have to explain this now. So our resort had 2 sides, the "Cove" side, and the "Spa" side. The spa side was adults only, whereas kids were allowed in the cove side. We didn't see many kids, as when we were there I think the resort was relatively empty. It worked out well because the spa side was way busier, and we were happy to be able to sit wherever we wanted around the pool without tripping over other people. We ended up visiting the concierge desk many times, as that was the easiest place to book any activities, and we did a lot of those. There was a special deal with the resort at the time that because we were staying for a week, we got $1500 in "resort credits" that we could use to book certain tours and spa treatments. Not everything we booked was included, but a lot of it was. So if I say something was "free", I mean we used our resort credits for it. We didn't nearly spend all our credits, despite the prices of some of the tours and spa treatments. I think when Glen and I checked out we had nearly $700 left that we didn't use.

So first up, a therapeutic massage. I'd not had an actual massage before, so I was quite happy that I got to have one bascially for free. It was 90 minutes with a tiny little Mexican man named Whilmer. I was really expecting more from it, and ended up leaving a little disappointed. It was plenty relaxing while I was in there, but once I left the little room the relaxation was basically gone and I felt the same as when I had gone in. Except for the greasy coating of massage oil, which I really didn't enjoy. Sorta made me feel like a basted turkey or something. The whole spa experience was odd, too. There were so many people around, helping you, asking if you wanted anything to drink or to sit in a particular mineral bath or something that it got a little irritating. I'm more of a "help myself" girl than a "wait on me hand and foot" girl, so I felt a little intimidated by all the people milling about bothering me. I really just wanted to be left alone to mellow. And speaking of mellow, what was with the music? I know those elevator instrumentals are supposed to be soothing, but to be honest I get more relaxation out of a good jazz song with catchy lyrics than some cheesy relaxation music. So the spa ended up being a bit of a bust, but now I know enough that I don't have to go back. And it didn't cost me a dime (unless you count the money to get there, but I don't, since I didn't go there expressly for the spa). Tanya, my Dad's wife, was in her glory, though. I think she must've spent almost all her credits. If I remember right, she had a massage, a couple facials, and a chocolate wrap. And yes, she actually smelled like chocolate afterwards. I even recall her dragging Aunty Penny over there to sit in some of the mineral baths with her.

The next day the real fun began. The first tour. It was a combo tour including rapelling, ziplining, and snorkelling in both underground caves and the ocean. The rapelling was a little lackluster. Especially when I tried to bounce off the tower a little to have some fun with it and got yelled at not to do that. I've been rapelling before, so not really that exciting. Though it was interesting that they offered it at all, considering how incredibly flat the Yucatan penninsula really is. What they had to do was build a wooden tower above the trees that you rapelled down. The same went for the ziplines, as they had to build towers for those as well. The ziplines were about the same as the rapelling. Not really exciting for me. Everyone else that came with us had a blast, as it was their first time on ziplines, but I've been to Costa Rica, where the ziplines reach lengths of 700 m. So a 300 m one isn't really going to thrill me. I'm not saying I didn't really have fun, because I did, it just wasn't as exciting for me as it would be for other people.

Snorkeling came next on the tour. Now's my chance to tell you about the cenotes. They're caves all over the Yucatan-there are tons of them-that are for the most part filled with freshwater. Apparently they're part of an underground river system that dumps into the ocean. Inside the caves stalactites and stalagmites-my apologies if the terminology is wrong, I can mever seem to get those ones right-have formed. And because the water's crystal clear you can see everything. They had laid lights in this one so we could see and didn't all need our own lights. It's actually kindof a treat to swim in fresh water when you're so used to the salty ocean or chloriney swimming pool. You get out and you don't stink or feel gross from what you were just swimming in. In fact, you feel cleaner. It's awesome. Anyways, we swam around in this funky and very cool cave for a bit. At this point Glen and I were very happy we'd invested in a waterproof camera, as we got to bring it along with us and get pictures of all the funky stuff in there.

From the cenote we went to Akumal beach and into the salty ocean for some more snorkeling. This time, unlike the relatively lifeless cenote, there were fish, corals, sea turtles and stingrays. It was all very cool and colorful. My sister was flabbergasted by it all. She had managed to borrow a set of prescription goggles from her mother-in-law and could actually see the fish and what was going on under the water, and she didn't really shut up about it for the rest of the week. Normall this would annoy me, but because I also really enjoy snorkeling, it was quite enjoyable to be with someone experiencing it for the first time. Now we have to get her scuba diving and really blow her mind.

Thursday we went to the Tulum ruins, which are touted as the last real Mayan city. They were pretty cool, though we didn't really get to spend much time there because we were only on a half-day tour. Thursday was also my Dad's 60th birthday, so we all went for dinner together and sang him happy birthday and took a lot of pictures. That night I had planned to take everyone to the Coco Bongo, which is a club in Playa del Carmen that I've been told is a really fun place to go. Well, when the grown-ups found out that it didn't even open until 10 pm they opted out. So it was left to the youngsters to party it up. It really was quite the spectacle, and we all had a good time. Though it might've been better had our waiter been a bit quicker with the drinks. 2 drinks delivered to us in 3 hours does not make for a drunken Sara. But it was really fun to watch the insanity.

The next day we slept late because we didn't get back until almost 4 am, and Glen and I promptly rolled out of bed to catch our shuttle to Puerto Aventuras for our first caribbean scuba adventure. It was incredible! The water was warm, the fish were amazing and so colorful, and our divemaster was great! And the diving was easy once we rolled off the boat. In Vancouver I'd had such trouble trying to sink, and there was the bulky drysuit to contend with, and the water was freezing, and we didn't really know what we were doing. But in the Caribbean? It was like our thin wetsuits were a second skin, our BCD's and air tanks weren't even there, and it felt like we knew exactly what we were doing. It was relaxing, mellow and very fun just floating along with the current looking at all the fish swimming by. By far one of the best experinces I've had in the ocean to date.

Our divemaster, while we were on our way to the boat, explained to us that the divers in the area were being encouraged to kill any lionfish they came across, because they were an invasive species. So he spent most of the dive looking for the little buggers with a thin spear that he brought with him. For any that don't know what they are and remember the movie Deuce Bigelow, it was the big fish that was sick in that movie. I've no idea how they ended up there, but there's lots of them, and apparently they're poisonous. Pretty, but deadly. I think he killed about 8 while we were diving with him. That's a job I could do. Take tourists diving and kill lionfish. Perhaps a career change is in order? This brings us to Saturday. Saturday morning we went swimming with the dolphins. Yes, I know. Sara you are truly a hypocrite. And I agree with you, I am. For the information of the uninformed, I am not a fan of the dolphin. I think they're overrated and overexposed. But I went because everyone else was going and I got to do it for free. That's pretty much the only reason. My sister thought the whole experience was amazing and was very nonplussed that I did not agree with her. To qualify, I did kinda enjoy it. It is a bit trippy to have actual physical contact with another intelligent species that is so different from oneself. That said, I had the same problem I do at most aquariums, museums, and the like. I kept thinking that this would be so much better if the dolphins were actually in the ocean where they're supposed to be, instead of performing inane tricks for tourists so they can have a treat. Thus continues humanity's need to dominate and supplicate any species it comes into contact with. Now, if they'd told me the dolphins were rescued from some terrible fate and were unable to be released back into the wild, then I wouldn't have had much problem enjoying myself. But they never told us that, making me believe that the dolphins were trapped and transported to these tiny tanks simply so some enterprising Mexican can make money off stupid tourists. Now you know why I had trouble enjoying myself. I'll stop ranting now.

Saturday afternoon Glen and I went scuba diving in a cenote. Chac-Mool, to be exact. There is one very important thing to consider when diving in the cenotes. They are caves. So unlike in the ocean, you've got a bottom, but you've also got an overhead. So you've gotta have pretty good control of your buoyancy or you could crack your head-or worse, your regualtor-on a rock and possibly cause some serious damage. That said, Glen and I are beginner divers and had absolutely no business going into a cenote with scuba gear on. But we figured we woudn't be back anytime soon, and this might be our only chance. So we decided to take it slow and be very, very careful. We made it out alive without any major mishaps. It was an interesting dive, but the major problem I had was that I can sometimes get a little claustrophobic. I was all right, but something about having rock on top and bottom with no air source anywhere in between was a little uncomfortable. Worth trying, though.
Sunday we had reserved for shopping, and possibly some general laziness, as it was our last full day. We caught the shuttle into Playa del Carmen and went a little souvenir crazy. Jana and I miraculously managed to reign ourselves in relatively well, and we didn't break the bank too badly. Every store pretty much has the same stuff, the only difference is how much the owner will bargain the price down with you. Glen and Jonathan had a little fun with that in a jewelery store. It's even more fun to watch when there's a language barrier. The one thing I did notice is that they didn't really offer a lot of higher quality souvenirs. Most of it was quite cheap and generic looking, and nothing really stood out as particularly unique or special. But when the whole town is pretty much based on tourism, I guess they can do that. This was the day Glen and I got to try genuine Mexican street meat. And it was excellent! $2 bought us 2 decent sized pork tacos that were wicked spicy but incredibly delicious, and right off a little cart in the street where the vendor spoke no English at all. It's not saying much for the resort food, but that was literally the best meal we had the whole time we were there.
The next day we had to leave. It was quite a relief to get the resort's wristband off, though Glen was developing Stockholm syndrome and wanted to stay. On the way to the bus I dropped the camera, effectively killing the screen. So much for shockproof. Luckily it's still under warranty, and it happened on the last day of the trip. None of our pictures were lost, by the way, it was just that the screen stopped working. At the airport we bought some tequila that we had tried the day before at the duty free. However, on the first flight, Glen managed to chip the bottle and the entire 750 mL container leaked it's contents all over Glen's backpack. It was a sad, sad day for us, as it was really, really good tequila. Plus we stank up the entire plane with the smell. My nostrils burned for 3 hours. Though I'm sure the flight attendants had a good laugh at our expense after the flight. Such a waste. But one must not cry over spilled tequila. Or not too much, anyways.

We made it back to Vancouver in one piece, and we really did have an excellent time. Though next time I think we need to go for 2 weeks. That's be just about right, I think, because I've started to discover with the travelling I've done, that you don't really start to relax and properly enjoy yourself until about 5 days into the vacation. So 2 weeks is about perfect, really. I'm really glad we got to go, because it meant that I got to spend some time with my Dad, who I don't see mearly enough of. And I got to hang with my Aunt and Uncle who I haven't had a conversation with in nearly 5 years. And my sister, who is always a good time. Well, when you get 2 Damgaards together, let's be honest, it's definitely gonna be a good time.

So, what have I neglected to say thus far that still needs saying? Ah, yes.

The food and the booze. Oh, the all-inclusive resort. What have we been missing? It feels really strange to walk into a restaraunt and walk out without paying. It feels even weirder to go to the coffee bar in the lobby and get whatever you want because you don't have to pay for it. Normally you'd have to weigh your hunger with your cheapness and decide if you were actually hungry enough to pay for something to eat. But at an all-inclusive resort? Dig in, my friend! It's all free! It's awesome. And the drinks! I've never had so many pina coladas and daquiris in my life! And it's not like they watered them down, either. Full strength, my friends. Jana and I got on a bit of a mojito kick and had one almost every day. Though I'm not sure Jana finished any of the ones he ordered. Not nearly as good as Aunty Cyn's, but defintely still drinkable.

Hello. You say goodbye, and I say hello...or ohla, as it were. While in the resort, every single person that worked there, no matter who they were, would say ohla to you as they passed. It took me telling Jana and Jonathan what it was they were saying and what it meant for them to figure out what was going on. At first we all thought that they were just being really friendly, and enjoying their jobs, and being cheerful as you passed. But by the end of the week we were convinced that it's a requirement of the resort that they say ohla to every guest they see as they pass them. While I'm not necessarily opposed to this rule, when you realize that it is, in fact, a requirement of their job, it takes the joy out of it. It's not quite as special when you know they have to do it. I'd really just rather have them say ohla when they're actually in a good mood and want to say it rather than being forced to. Oh, and in the restaraunts when you say thank you, they responded "it's a pleasure". Well, thanks for trying, but it's your job and I know it's not really a pleasure that you have to wait on me hand and foot and cater to the whim of every snobby tourist that walks in. I'd really rather you just said "you're welcome", or de nada (sorta the spanish equivalent of you're welcome), than faking it.

Tipping. At our resort, we were told that we didn't have to tip. That was supposedly all taken care of when we paid for our rooms. That said, we found that tipping really went a long, long way when it came to service. At one point, Aunty Penny tipped a guy $1 US to take us to a restaraunt on the other side of the resort on his golf cart. He looked so happy to do it that she even found him afterwards and he gave us a ride back. We were lost as to what a good tip really was, given that $1 US was equivalent to 11-12 pesos. We heard things like the masseuses in the resort made $5/day, and that was actually a good wage there. Jonathan found something online that said the average Mexican can feed their family for 400 pesos/month. That's like, $36. So I guess giving a guy a $1 tip really is pretty generous if that's the case. So did that mean that when we were tipping our tour guides $5 US that we were basically doubling their daily pay? It was really quite confusing. Especially since a lot of the tour guides said that they didn't get paid, and that they lived solely off tips. It's hard to know what to do in that situation. But the guy at the front desk of our hotel said that a fair tip for a tour guide was about 40 pesos, so that's what we went with. Though they could've been swearing at us in Spansh for being cheap bastards and there's no way we would've known it.

I really did enjoy Mexico, and the experience of being at an all-inclusive resort was pretty cool. Though I will say that the resort was really quite isolated. It's not like you could just leave and go shopping in town. You'd have to take a shuttle for that. And even then, they take down your wristband number at the gate of the resort, so they know you've left. Big Brother was watching. I'm more used to having the freedom to go wherever I want fairly easily, even when travelling. So while I did enjoy the resort and not having to pay for every single thing I ate or drank, next time I think I'd prefer the relative freedom of a hostel or hotel where I can leave and wander fairly easily without having to take a cab or a shuttle to get there. Which also affected the nightlife, really. At the hotel, once dinner was finished, there wasn't really much to do. Sure, they had entertainment, like magic shows and fire demonstrations and stuff, but none of it was particularly exciting. And the day we spent in Playa del Carmen reminded me of how I like just wandering around on the street at night, people watching or looking for something to do.

So that was what I am now referring to as the "Snow to Scuba Tour" of 2010. It was a pretty good time, I gotta say. Now, what shenanigans can I get into in the next few months?

Bloop...bloop...

Do I look cold in the above picture? Because I am. I definitely am. That picture, fair readers, was taken less than 2 weeks ago while I was standing waist-deep in the Pacific. Yes, the ocean. It was November and I voluntarily submerged myself in the frigid water that is the ocean. What lead to this insanity? Well, read on and I shall tell you.

Glen and I will be headed to the tropical, booze-infested paradise that is the Mayan Riviera in Mexico in...let me check the calendar...15 days. So in just over 2 weeks my husband and I will be oceanside, basking in some gorgeous sunny weather. But one cannot simply lie on the beach all day drinking umbrella drinks for an entire week, can they? Well, okay, they can, but why would you when there's a gorgeous ocean right there with tons of underwater beauty to enjoy if you could only, let's say, scuba dive? Oh yes, it was time. Time to finally get that plan in gear that I've had running around my skull for a few years. Time to literally take the plunge. So in October I signed Glen and I up for a PADI open water scuba certification course.

The course is designed so that once you're certified you can rent or buy gear and safely dive on your own if you choose to. I've been wanting to at least try diving for a few years-pretty much since I moved to the coast-and now seemed like a good time to finally do it. I pretty much forced Glen into the course by telling him if he didn't come with me I'd go by myself, which he knew was true. As it turns out, he's gotten very excited about diving and has already started planning dive vacations for us over the next several years. I may have created a monster.

The classroom and written work was quite easy for us, and we managed to get through it without too much trouble. In addition to the classroom sessions we spent about an hour in a swimming pool on 5 separate days, learning the skills we would need once we actually started diving. The pool sessions were a bit frustrating at times, as the pool was nowhere near deep enough to really accommodate Glen and I. It's hard to have a regulator in your mouth and breathe through it when the top of your head is literally out of the water. But we did get through all the necessary material and became a little more comfortable breathing bottled air.

The open water ocean dives were where all the excitement happened. We had to complete 4 separate dives, during which we would practice the skills we learned in the pool. We did them over a weekend-2 on Saturday at Whytecliffe Park in East Vancouver, 2 on Sunday at Porteau Cove near Squamish.

The main difference for us between the pool and the ocean was visibility and temperature. Visibility in a pool is essentially limitless. You can see everything, everywhere. Visibility in the ocean is affected by the sand that gets kicked up from the bottom, the color of the water, and the sediments floating around in the water. It was a little disconcerting at times when you couldn't see for more than a few feet because someone had stirred up the sand (Glen!). Temperature was on a whole other level. The ocean is bloody cold to start with. But we did this in November. And holy crap was it cold! I had originally planned to just use the wetsuit rentals that came with the course, but after getting a bit chilly in the pool, I decided we needed the drysuit upgrades.

Wearing a drysuit is a bit like wearing a giant ziploc bag. It's airtight and waterproof. It's lovely 'cause you don't get wet. Or at least you're not supposed to, though my drysuit had a bit of a leak in the arse so my behind got a bit damp and chilly. The theory was that the more layers you wear, the warmer you'll be. It sorta worked, though at times we were still cold. Glen was wearing around 3 layers on top and bottom and he seemed to do all right. I had 4 layers on the bottom and 6 on top and I was still cold. But this is Sara the Human Popsicle we're talking about, so that's not really surprising. Normally when diving you wear a weight belt to keep you from floating to the surface. With a drysuit, because of the larger amount of excess air in your suit, you need heavier weights. And apparently if you're Sara, the standard amount won't work and you'll need even more weights. Like, 50 lbs of weight.

The thing with a drysuit is that it's not very easy to move in. It's suctioned to your skin because the pressure of the water has forced all the air out of it, and unless you've had it custom made, it's a little baggy in places. Thus they're not easy to move in. Well, add 50 lbs of weights, an air tank that probably weighs 30 lbs, and a BCD(buoyancy control device) jacket with various accoutrement (like a regulator), that maybe weighs another 15 lbs. Now strap that all to your body, somehow drag yourself to the water, and try to swim around in it. It looks a little funny. Now picture me trying to get out of the water with all that strapped to me. I swear that was the most difficult flight of stairs I've ever had to climb.

The other thing about diving in the cold ocean is that it seems once I hit the freezing water, the cold goes straight to my bladder and I suddenly have to pee. But I've got 95 lbs of gear strapped to me and I just got in the water. So I hold it. Unwise decision. After the first dive of the day, both Saturday and Sunday, I got out of the water and went straight for the outhouse. Now, I've had some satisfying pees in my life, but up to that point the most satisfying had been after holding it for 3 hours while paddling on Maligne Lake in July, as the snow came down thick and fast around us. Well we have a new number one! That's right, the Maligne Lake pee has been replaced! The new number one? The post first dive Sunday morning pee. I was literally in physical pain I had to go so bad. I was chanting to myself as I hurriedly went for the bathroom, "I will not pee in my drysuit, I will not pee in my drysuit". And I didn't. But it wasn't pretty. Remember the post-cryogenic pee in Austin Powers? It went something like that. But man, was it satisfying.

So what's it like to scuba dive, Sara? Well, my friends, it's interesting. I'm told that in time I will become more relaxed underwater, but in the meantime I found that I had to clamp down on the regulator so hard to keep it from slipping out of my mouth that my jaw was sore after diving. It's a little scary, admittedly, when you first slip below the surface of the water and realize that suddenly the air source that you've been using for 28 years is several meters above your head, and that if anything were to happen you'd have to cover that distance before you could breathe again. I often found myself repeating, "Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic", so that I didn't freak out and bolt for the surface. But once you actually get submerged and start paying attention to what's on the bottom rather than how far you are from the surface, it's not so bad.

Leaving the surface is sorta like that few seconds standing on the edge of the bungee platform before you go off. Or standing at the edge of a cliff while your climbing buddy belays you over the lip. Or those few seconds when you're standing on the landing gear of the plane before your tandem instructor shoves you into free fall. It's the hardest part, but once that's done, the rest is fairly easy.

The one thing that they require you to do in the course that I really hated was removing your mask underwater. Scuba masks cover your nose, so that you can equalize your ears with the water pressure and your eardrums don't burst. But it is possible that your mask will come off while diving, so you have to be able to put it back on underwater. Well, it's not fun, let me tell you. The water rushes up your nose when you take your mask off, which makes it rather difficult to breathe. We're taught our whole lives to breathe through our noses, so what do you do when your nose is filled with water and you have to breathe through your mouth? Concentrate. Again I had to remind myself not to panic. Confounding this problem was that I can't open my eyes underwater with my mask off for fear of losing my contact lenses. So I'm blind and I feel like I'm drowning. It was awesome. But now that I'm finished the course I need not do that again unless it's involuntary.

So now Glen and I are patiently awaiting the arrival of our fancy cards with our pictures on them, which will state that we at least theoretically know what we're doing when it comes to scuba diving. It's a completely unique experience to me thus far, and if you ever get the chance to try it I would highly recommend doing so. If you don't like it then at the very least you can say that you've tried. Which, in my humble opinion is the whole point of life.

I have experienced pain...

...and it's name is marathon. Oh yes, dudes and dudettes, this past weekend I ran yet another marathon. Well, ran really isn't the proper word. Attempted to run would categorize it better. But we'll get to that later. Last weekend's choice of torture was the Victoria Marathon. Formerly known as the Royal Victoria Marathon. I've no idea why they changed the name, 'cause I kinda liked the "Royal" bit, but whatever floats your boat, I guess (or in this case, whoever pays the sponsorship dues, as it were). It was yet another full marathon, which meant 42.2 km of sheer, unadulterated masochism. Or 26.2 miles for those of you yet to give up the antiquated imperial system. That's really far, kids. Really, really far. Don't believe me? Get on your pedal bike and simply see if you can actually pedal 42.2 km (this doesn't apply if your name is Rob Belanger). Yeah, that's what I thought.

This year was a bit different, because my loving and normally running-resistant husband actually agreed to participate in the 8 km road race held the same day as the marathon. There are usually shorter races held along with the marathon so more people can participate and feel the excitement that is a running event. I've been nagging Glen for years to run something, anything with me, and I finally wore him down. I was pushing for the half marathon, but he would only agree to the 8 km race. But it's a start. After the race he was talking about potentially running a 15 km race to see how that went, and you know what that means. A full marathon is mere years away. Soon, young grasshopper will run the marathon. Soon.

So we headed over on the ferry bright and early Saturday morning, because we anticipated a long wait a the ferry terminal due to it being Thanksgiving weekend. We didn't end up having to wait, either going or coming back, which if you ask me is nothing short of miraculous considering how long those lines have gotten in the past. We stayed at the Fairmont Empress, which if you've ever seen pictures of Victoria or gotten a postcard from someone who's been there, is the ivy-covered old looking building. Yes, that one. Fancy-doodle, my friends. Why did we stay there? It was cheaper than the Marriott. Seriously. I didn't want to stay at one of the cheaper hotels because the beds aren't usually that great, and I really liked the Marriott last time we stayed there, but this time it was actually cheaper to stay at the Empress. So we did. As expected it wasn't the largest hotel room we've ever been in-well, actually it was the smallest hotel room we've ever been in-but it was clean and had all the necessities. We forgave them for the small room owing to the fact that the hotel was built over a hundred years ago before gigantic hotel rooms were the norm. Plus it had windows that actually opened more than 2 inches. You could've crawled out the window if you wanted to. It's a hotel with a lot of history, so it was really just a novelty to stay there once to say we've done it.

Onto the race, then. Glen's race started at 7:15 am, which meant that he would be finished before the marathon started at 9 am. 9 am is a really late start for a marathon, for those of you uninitiated in the art of running races. Normally they start before 8 am, so that you don't end up spending your entire day running. Not sure why they made the start so late this year, but maybe the early time was lost amid the dropping of "Royal" in the title of the race. But I digress. Glen got up and was out the door with a mere 15 minutes to spare before his race actually started. I managed to get to the finish line for when I thought he would be finish, but I missed him by a few minutes because he was faster than he thought he was going to be. He ran it in under 55 minutes, which I think is fairly impressive for someone I would consider a couch potato. I can write that here because he never reads my blog. Honestly, he doesn't. He said he had a good race, and he was happy with his results. That's really all I managed to get out of him.

Now for my race. It was disastrous. Sortof. But I did get to see the inside of the medical tent at the finish line. How do I best explain this? Well, I finished. I crossed the finish line and received my medal, completely under the power of my own body. So I completed another marathon. Yay for me. That's the good news. The bad news? I am so disappointed and embarrassed by the horrifying time that I posted that refuse to repeat it here. If you want to know what it was, you're going to have to look it up yourselves. That's how bad it was. But let me start at the beginning, when there was still hope and happiness in this young girl's eyes.

The race started all right. I was maintaining my pace well, and feeling pretty good all around. It had looked like it was going to pour rain that morning, but things were looking up as the day progressed, because the sun eventually came out and it turned out to be a beautiful day. That's fortunate because I wasn't relishing the thought of running in the rain and dealing with the giant amount of chafing that always results from that. I made it through the half way point all right. I saw my cousin Leah, but didn't manage to say Hi as she whipped by me headed the other direction. I did see Lori, and managed a thumbs-up which she may or may not have thought was going to be a high five, 'cause somehow the thumbs up came out a little garbled. How does one garble a thumbs up, you ask? Well, run about 23 km, then recognize someone as they're passing you in the other direction, and try to figure out through that haze if you're going to high-five or simply stick your thumb in the air. That's how.

As I was coming up to the turnaround point one of the water station volunteers got in my way and I nearly took him out. It wouldn't have been a pretty sight. Take this as a lesson, readers. If you're gonna volunteer at a marathon or any other running event, keep your head up. 'Cause we'll run you over. We're crazy like that. All was well for a few more km's, and then the head games started. I wasn't going to finish. It was too far and I couldn't make it. Oh, if only I could walk, just for a few minutes. No, dammit, I will not walk! Stop it! You can do this, Sara. You've done it before. You're over half way done, the rest is easy. Oh, crap, this is a hill. So tired...want to stop...No! There will be no walking! That's what it's like to be inside a marathon runner's head somewhere between 29 and 35 km. It ain't pretty. It's going from complete awe and happiness with the fact that you're actually doing it, to total despair and hopelessness that you can't finish all within seconds of each other. I've done that 6 times so far. Bring on the insanity comments.

This brings us up to the 35 km mark. At this point I was on pace. I was on pace and I was poised to set a personal best. A personal best I've been chasing since I last ran the Victoria marathon in 2008. And I was gonna do it! After 2 years of fighting myself I was gonna do it! Then disaster struck. My stomach turned. Over the course of maybe half a kilometer, I went from just being tired and sore to wanting to throw up. It was so bad I had to walk. For shame! For shame!

I walked for a few minutes, glancing at my GPS. If I started running again I could still salvage the race. I wouldn't set a personal best, but it would still be a time I was satisfied with. I tried running again. I made it maybe 500 m and had to stop. Curses! So I walked. I walked with the hope that perhaps in a few more minutes I would feel better and perhaps be able to run again to finish the race. And with each passing minute the nausea got worse. Then, at around 40 km, 2 km from the finish line, I finally tossed my cookies. Right there on the side of the race course, I wretched up the contents of my stomach. To this day I still can't figure out why they came out green, because nothing I had eaten that day was green. But there you go.

A very, very kind man walking on the sidewalk stopped to see if I was all right. I was done puking my guts out at this point and declined his very generous offer to get me help. He did have a kleenex on him, which was a lifesaver if you've ever had to walk 2 km to a finish line after just having barfed. That taste won't leave your nostrils on it's own, kids. If I had to compare that feeling, it was like when you've had too much to drink and throw up. That feeling of nausea and your stomach churning, and then you upchuck and you feel better. Really, it felt just like drinking too much. Minus the subsequent hangover, of course.

I walked the final 2 km to the finish line. Right near the line a woman asked if I'd like to run over the finish line with her, but I declined owing to the fact that I didn't want to be the woman who barfed just on the other side of the finish line. So I walked across, with my head hung in shame, hunched over like a 90 year-old woman. Not a pretty sight, apparently, as one of the lovely medical team asked if I was all right. In a strangely intelligent move, I said no, I was not all right. She quickly grasped my arm and asked me if I'd like to lie down. I'd just forced my body to cover 42.2 km of asphalt. Of course I'd like to lie down! That's when I got to see the inside of the medical tent. She took my blood pressure, my pulse and I explained what happened. She offered water and gatorade, and I took the water. She figured that I had dehydrated myself to the point that my body would no longer absorb plain water without some kind of salt in it. And then she brought me the most wonderful elixir. Chicken noodle soup. But not just any chicken noodle soup. Super, ultra-concentrated, ultra-salty chicken noodle soup. It was like feel good in a cup. Half a cup later the nausea was gone and I was out the door of the medical tent to collect my medal. Not a medal that I'll display very proudly, but one I earned nonetheless.

So I can only attribute my failure to a catastrophic loss of electrolytes, salt in particular. Which if you'd seen my face at the finish line you'd understand. It looked like I'd been attacked by Jimmy Buffet's mysterious missing salt shaker. So I'll know better for next time. I wonder if putting some OXO powder in a fuel belt bottle would work...

Now, onto the little tidbits that I didn't put anywhere else.

The volunteers and spectators. As always, I have to give huge props to the volunteers and spectators who were out along the entire marathon course. Victoria is a wonderful place to run which is simply made better by the incredible enthusiasm of these people. And yes, even that kid that got in my way near the turn-around. He was only trying to clear used cups off the street, after all. The spectators in Victoria are amazing. Some of them don't even have anyone running in the race, and yet they sit there for hours cheering and helping us along. It's fantastic! And again, I have to say a huge thank-you to that random man on the street who sacrificed his kleenex so I could blow my nose. You shall always have a special place in my heart, sir. You and your crazy beard.

The chafing. What would a marathon be without some chafing. I really don't have much to report this time, as the body glide was out in full force the morning of the race. Though I do have some wounds just to the inside of my shoulder blades where my backpack was rubbing. I didn't actually notice those spots until I took the backpack off in the hotel room, and then again when I went to have a shower. Sometimes it's hard to tell exactly where all the chafing is until you get in the shower. And then you hear the "aaaargh!", and the sting of salt in your wounds lets you know exactly where every little spot is. I think the ones on my back are gonna scar a little. More war wounds, I guess.

I did manage to have a good chat with Coach Mark at the pub after the race, and he gave me some advice concerning my disastrous showing, so sometime in the future I plan to take that into account in my training. I'm not sure when that will be, but be assured that I will not rest until I have achieved my goal time. I'm crazy, remember?

Well, that's about all the fun and games I have for you right now, kiddies. Stay tuned for more insanity, as Glen and I are currently engaged in taking a SCUBA diving course which I'm certain will lead to more shenanigans. Until then!

Hello fellow nut jobs...

That's how the email began. The email to inform me and the rest of our ragtag bunch that we had booked a date. A date to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. That's right, this past Saturday, yours truly went skydiving. And as evidenced by this blog, lived to tell about it.

This insanity was first brought about by my friend April, who had apparently been goaded into it by another friend. First she emailed me, and much to her chagrin, I said I was in. Then it snowballed until there were 9 people that wanted to come. So she picked a weekend out of her busy schedule and I booked a flight to Calgary. That's where she lives, so consequently that's where we all decided to meet.

Let's start by saying I'm no stranger to self-inflicted peril. My name is Sara, and I am an adrenaline junkie. I've accumulated almost 4 hours airtime in a paraglider, I've dangled 100 feet over a raging river suspended only by a 6 mm climbing rope, I've bungee jumped not once, but twice, I've climbed 50 foot frozen waterfalls while blindfolded, and I can now proudly say that I've also jumped out of an airplane. Given all that I've done, you'd think that jumping out of a plane at 9500 feet would barely cause a blip on the radar. Not so, my friends. We're talking free fall, here. That's plummeting towards Earth, completely untethered, relying on only some thin cords and nylon material to stop you. I was terrified. But you can't let a little thing like fear stop you. Plus it was on the bucket list, so I had to.

We arrived in Calgary on Friday night, and spent the night at April's. The next day we headed out to Beiseker, where there was a tiny airport with some very nice, very insane skydiving instructors. We watched a short video, then got a quick tutorial from a soft-spoken gentleman who explained what would happen once we actually got in the airplane. That's right, the proper exiting procedure. From the plane. While in flight. I was nervous up to this point, but this really hammered it home. I was going to jump out of an airplane.

After this we actually had to wait a while for the group that had been booked in the morning to go, as some weather had rolled in and prevented them from going up at the right time. And, as fate would have it, some weather rolled in just as the first few of our group were about to go. They could only take 2-3 people up at a time because of the size of the plane, so we had to go in shifts. They sent us off to town to get something to eat and promised to call as soon as they were able to jump again. About an hour later, we were back in the hangar and my sister and I were suiting up. We would be going up first, just the 2 of us, our tandem instructors, and the pilot.

They gave us flight suits, which, though not very fashionable, turned out to be incredibly practical. They blocked the wind, kept you reasonably warm, and kept any of your clothes from flapping or getting in the way. We were also given soft helmets (which one of the instructors told us were sometimes called "dick heads" for obvious reasons), goggles and a harness. The harnesses were very well padded, which actually went a long way in making me feel a little more secure.

Then it was into the plane. My instructor, a lovely man named Dave, hopped in, followed by me (where I got to sit in a, well, interesting position between his legs), then Jana and her instructor. Picture 4 people on the floor and one pilot in a seat crammed into a tiny tin can like sardines, with the smell of fear thick in the air. The plane ride to altitude, in this case 9 500 feet, took about 20 minutes. The longest 20 minutes of my life. I was terrified. I was so scared I was actually shaking. Dave said at one point he could actually feel me shaking. But once you're in the plane there's no chicken tickets. The only way you're getting back to the ground is by jumping out. He pointed out a few things to me as we were riding up, like that you could see downtown Calgary at one point, and he did keep showing me our altitude on the altimeter on his wrist. Strange as it may seem, the higher we went the safer and calmer I started to feel. More buffer until I hit the ground? Perhaps. Either way it just made me feel a little better the farther up we went.

A little bit before they opened the door they tightened up all the straps and gave us a quick refresher as to what to do once the door opened and it was our time to go. In the case of me and Dave, we had to scoot over and back so that we were positioned right once Jana and her guy were out of the plane (how many people get to see their sister disappear out the door of a moving airplane?). Then I had to get my left foot out the door and onto a step just over the landing gear. Landing gear that was 9500 ft above the ground. Then I would get my other foot out. At this point I might add that this was not as simple as it sounds. It was a small airplane, and the door wasn't very big. So I actually had to grab my ankle and force my foot closer to me to get it outside. Then, once my body was basically outside the airplane, I had to cross my arms in front of me and lean my head back onto his shoulder. Then he'd count to three and we'd be off. Let's just say it was a good thing he was the one pushing us out, 'cause I'm not sure I would've been able to do it myself. Then we were supposed to assume the position, which was to arch our backs, put our knees together and bend them as far as possible to try and reach the instructor's butt. Then, when we were clear of the plane, they would give us a tap and we could extend our arms to feel the full force of the wind.

So this is how it went. We reached altitude and they opened the door. They opened the door! While the plane was still moving! A gush of rushing air came into the plane and Jana was already wiggling her feet outside. Then, in a flash, they were gone. My sister was rushing to Earth with nothing holding her back. Just like that. Then it was our turn. And Dave didn't take his time getting us to the door either. No time to think once the door's open. We reached the door and I had no time to back out once we got there, as I popped my feet out as fast as I could. Then I crossed my arms, leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Why? Because I didn't want to scream, and I would have if my eyes were open. Then there was a countdown that I didn't really process and we were falling. Falling through the air. There was that momentary feeling of falling that you get when your car goes over a big bump. That feeling of your stomach up in your throat as you completely lose control of your surroundings. But then that passed and I opened my eyes and we were still falling. Plummeting towards Earth. It was amazing. In all of the insane things I've done I've never felt anything like that. The wind was rushing past us so fast we couldn't hear a thing, and I remember the feeling of it rushing up my nostrils, making it a little harder to breathe than normal. But it was incredible. Exhilarating.

Then Dave pulled the chute and we came to a quick stop. Well, not a stop, really, but we definitely slowed down a lot. They warned us before we went up that it takes the parachute 1000 feet to open once it's pulled, so not to worry if it took a bit. Well, I didn't even know that Dave had pulled the chute until I heard it rustle behind us and felt the tug as we were slowed down.

As we were waiting for our turn to go up in the plane, Jana's husband looked up how long it takes a human body to reach terminal velocity in a free fall (that is, the highest speed at which an object can fall based on gravity and the amount of drag that object has). 20 seconds. At 9500 feet we were in free fall for about 40 seconds. So we reached terminal velocity. Oh yes we did.

Once the chute was open, as the tandem person who doesn't control the wing, you kinda just hang there like a piece of meat until you land. But they did take us for some fast and slow spins, which was cool. This part for me wasn't overly exciting, because as I mentioned before, I have nearly 4 hours of airtime as a paraglider pilot, which is very similar to an open parachute. A little more comfortable, though. Though with those parachutes they can do some fast spins that, while you're in the air, take you nearly upside down, which is a little freaky. And the centrifugal force doesn't really hit you for a second in the spins, but when it does it's pretty strong. Sorta like riding a rollercoaster, without the safety railing. And while you're 4000 feet above the ground.

Landing was an interesting experience, too. They try and get you to lift your legs as high as possible as you're coming in so your feet don't get in the way of the instructors. It's all good in theory, but when you've got those straps tightened around your thighs it gets really, really hard to lift your legs at all. In which case they go for the "butt landing", whereby they use their legs to lift up yours and you slide onto your butts to land. Sure, it's not particularly graceful, but it works. All of us made a safe landing with no serious injuries (other than maybe a little wounded pride).
So April did scream. Not once the chute was open, but apparently as they were falling. We're taking her word on that because we couldn't hear her from the ground. Her sister Adele screamed as well. Neither Jana nor I screamed, which I think says something about the toughness of the Damgaard ladies in general. Glen wouldn't admit to screaming even if he did, so we'll exclude him from the get-go. Everybody jumped. Nobody peed their pants or threw up. All in all it was a good day.

Jumping out of that plane on Saturday was the most terrifying, exhilarating, amazing, crazy thing I've done in my entire life. And I've done some weird stuff. And it was all over in a matter of minutes. But I'd do it again in a hearbeat. In fact, should I ever get the opportunity, I will definitely do it again. It was the biggest rush I have ever felt.

And for the record, Dave has been puked on 7 times doing tandem skydives.

The West Coast Trail: Grunt it Out Tour, 2010

Well, hello, kiddies! I'm pleased to say I have returned from the wilds of Vancouver Island and am back online to regale you with tales of early mornings and mud bogs. That's right, I just came back from hiking the West Coast Trail. That epic, famous hike that covers 75 km worth of "backcountry" on the west coast of Vancouver Island, from Bamfield to Port Renfrew (or the other way around, if you prefer). I use the "backcountry", 'cause I'm not really sure you can call it backcountry when it's right on the coast and the ocean is steps from your tent each night. It's more like "remote frontcountry". And even then, the remote part is relative. But more about that later.

Let's start with the bare bones, shall we? The hike itself is 75 km, and you can either hike it north to south or vice versa. We chose north to south, and I'm quite happy about that, given that the most difficult and taxing parts are at the southernmost part of the trail (the last 5 km took us nearly 4 hours and there were multiple ladders). We started in Bamfield and hiked all the way Port Renfrew. When I say we, I mean myself, Krista (a woman I worked with in the lab in Campbell River), Tim (an Aussie nurse from CR), Jerome (a French nurse, formerly from CR), and 2 young Aussie girls who were staying with Tim for a few months, Bonnie and Sarah (henceforth she shall be known as Sabz, since that's her nickname and it's less confusing for you, dear readers, if there is only one Sara in this story).

Krista picked me up from the ferry terminal in Nanaimo and we set off for Victoria to pick up Jerome. Then we headed for Bamfield where we were to meet Tim, where he would leave his truck in Port Renfrew so we would have transportation when we came off the trail. We'd leave Krista's car in Bamfield. Tim ended up being 2 hours late to meet us, probably owing to the fact that the road between the 2 towns is just an old logging road, and thus, totally sucks. On the way back to Bamfield, we missed a turn and ended up taking about a 1 hour detour on crappy logging roads, but did finally find out way back t Bamfield.

The next morning I waited anxiously outside the trailhead office, as I had only been able to make a reservation for the next day, and everyone else was leaving that day. I was hoping they would let me switch my reservation so I wouldn't have to book it the next day and try and catch up. Thankfully they weren't busy so I managed to get on the trail that morning with everyone else. It's a pretty good thing, too, since I would've had to cover nearly 30 km if I'd needed to catch up. After sitting through the orientation session in which they stressed over and over again the dangers on the trail, away we went. I should mention now that Tim was extremely disappointed that there was no picture of the Queen in either the office or in the presentation. He complained about it the whole trip. Seriously, he did.

The first night we stayed at Orange Juice Creek, and covered 15 km. It was pretty easy trail that first day, but still hard as we were adjusting to the added 50 or more pounds each of us as carrying in our packs. Krista, the smallest in the group, probably had the heaviest pack. I don't know what was in there, but I'm surprised at how well she did, considering her bag probably weighed half of what she did.

The second night we stayed at Tsousiat Falls, and covered 10 km. This site was fantastic, as the falls were actually warm enough to go into, and there was a good-sized pool at the bottom of them. Which meant we could all basically have a shower. It was lovely, especially when you're used to hiking in the Rockies where the water is so arctic fresh that you'd never even consider immersing yourself in it. But I managed to wash my hair and all the other bits, so it felt pretty good to be clean. And that's a rare novelty when hiking. Usually you just have to marinate in your own juices until the smell gets beyond tolerance and you're forced to at least rinse out your armpits. At this point I happened to be caught without a bathing suit, as this was a situation I had not anticipated, but I decided that given the circumstances, a sports bra and a pair or underpants would do quite nicely.

I should mention at this point that all the designated campsites on the trail are on the beach. Some of them are sandy beaches, some are a little more rocky or have course sand, but they're all right on the ocean where a river or stream meets it so you have access to fresh water. I haven't done a lot of beach camping before, and let me tell you, the sand gets in everything! I was trying to get the group to help me write a hiking song, 'cause I'd come up with a fantastic name for one, "Sand in My Sleeping Bag". It never got written, unfortunately, but I did end up with a fair amount of sand in my sleeping bag.

The third day ended up being the longest, and most of us were getting to the end of our ropes by the time we pulled into camp. Though we left that morning headed for Dare Beach, when we got there the driftwood was too thick to even consider camping there. Fortunately, there were 2 trail maintenance guys that happened to be taking a break on the beach who pointed us to Cribs Creek, which was just 2 km farther down the trail. They even told us that, despite the fact that the tide was coming in, if we walked along the beach it would still be accessible and we didn't have to use the inland trail. Which was fantastic since as soon as the trail left Dare Beach it went straight to a long set of ladders. They also said it was a much nicer place to camp and a lot larger. By the end of the day we covered 17 km, and my dogs weren't just barking, they were wailing like they've never wailed before.

Day 4 took us to Walbran Creek. It was an interesting day, as almost all of it was spent walking along the beach. Thankfully there wasn't huge amounts of shifting sand, and it was pretty easy going. Especially since there are no hills along the beaches. This was the day we came across Chez Monique's. It's this ramshackle operation along one of the beaches inside an Indian reservation where you can buy burgers, beer, candy and various other things. I'd heard about it before but expected something a little different than what we found. It was made mostly of posts and tarps, and they did all their cooking on coleman propane camping stoves. It really was a pretty ramshackle operation. But it's not like you can just wander down the beach to the next place, so we stopped in. The burgers were $20, fully loaded with mushrooms, bacon and cheese and with a little couscous salad on the side. At first this seemed ludicrously high, but take a look at the picture above and you'll see that they didn't really spare much with the burger itself. Plus, you're in the middle of a week-long hike, and a big greasy burger just sounds right somehow. It was delicious, and despite what anyone says, worth every penny. Even if the people working there were crabby and a little mean. I also bought some candy, of course.

On our 5th day on the trail we covered 9 km which took us to Camper Bay. It was a lovely little spot along a river with a spot deep enough to take a dip and wash off the day's mud and grime. Which we needed given that the day's hiking had taken up through some pretty good mud bogs. We'd been hearing from the people at the previous camp that the mud along the that stretch of trail was just horrendous, so we were bracing ourselves for the worst. I put the gaiters on first thing. But it really wasn't a bad as everyone had said it was going to be. If you were careful you could avoid the mud, and there really wasn't as much of it as we expected. There were also a lot of big tree roots to climb round and over, but in the end it was relatively doable and it took us a while, but we made it to camp all right, and not too dirty, either.

This is the point where we started seeing fishing boats just off the shore, and hearing boat motors as we were getting out of our sleeping bags in the morning. It was really irritating. Here we are, on this lovely hiking trip, trying to get away from it all, and suddenly there are these noisy boats getting in our way and reminding us that the rest of the world still exists. Bastards! I just wanted to yell at them "You're ruining my wilderness experience!" I don't think it would've made them leave, though.

Our 6th day took us down the inland trail about 3 km, and because the tides were out (and this in our favor), the rest of the day was beach walking. But this was also the day of the boulders. We only needed to cover about 5 km, which would take us to Thrasher's Cove. Tim had hiked the trail before and insisted we get up early and head out so we could get there early, because the beach at Thrasher's was quite small. We made it there by just after noon, and got the best spots on the beach, so it was worth getting up early, I guess. This was the day of the boulder-hopping. I've done a bit of boulder hopping before, but never to this extent. This was something else entirely. The boulder-hopping consisted of making your way around huge boulders, some quite small but others the size of large SUV's, along the beach for nearly 2 km. And the boulders aren't flat. They're curved, angled, and quite sharp in some places. Now try and get up, around, over and down them with a 50 lb pack on. It ain't easy. I'm actually quite surprised that no one got anything more than very minor scrapes that day. I did managed to tweak something in my hip and overbend my knee, but that's not too bad considering how badly it could've gone. And Krista and I managed to have a few full-on rock climbing moments too. Moments where we had to pull ourselves up with our hands while trying to pull off rock climbing moves in hiking boots. It wasn't exactly elegant, but it got us through.

The last day we hiked to the trailhead and got the ferry across to our ride and Port Renfrew. It was only a 5 km jaunt, but it took nearly 4 hours to get through it. There were multiple ladders (the very first thing we came across was a set of ladders right next to camp that no one was looking forward to the next morning), tons of tree roots and a good amount of uphill. Once again I was pretty happy we decided to start from the north end rather than the south. I might've lost it if our first day had been that part of the trail.

And now the little tidbits that need mentioning but don't really go anywhere else.

The Bugs. Oi! The bugs! Having lived on the Island for 4 years, I wasn't really expecting too much in the way of bugs. There are mosquitoes in the treed areas, but for the most part they don't bother you unless you're standing still. And since we were hiking I figured that wouldn't really be an issue. There aren't usually bugs on the beaches because there's generally enough of a breeze coming off the ocean that they don't bother you there. Well, I underestimated the little buggers. There were mosquitoes, of course, but those weren't the main problem. It was these teeny little bugs that you didn't really notice until they started biting you. And bite they did. They seemed to especially like getting at you when you were in the outhouse, defenseless and busy taking care business. My legs and various other parts are currently covered in a lovely pattern of raised red bite marks that make me appear as though I have some delightful tropical disease. No, it's just bug bites. Itchy, irritating bug bites. Really. really itchy bug bites. But they're not contagious, I promise. I did have bug spray with me, the problem was that I didn't think I needed it until it was too late. Little bastards (scratch scratch).

The Boardwalk. The were huge, and I mean HUGE sections of trail that were covered by boardwalk. It really does make sense to use it, I guess, given that the sections of trail not covered by boardwalk seemed to turn into giant mud bogs, but after a while one does tire of the boardwalk. And since it is the wet west coast, the boardwalk gets a little sketchy at times. If it gets wet, the boards get ridiculously slippery because of all the moss and mud caked on them, so you have to slow right down to avoid faceplanting right into the bog. They've also rotted out quite badly in sections, so there are broken boards, boards that are missing, and whole strips where one side of the supporting boards underneath have rotted, so one side of the boardwalk sags, leaving the planks on a treacherous angle, especially if they happen to be wet. All in all it's not a particularly pleasant experience, but I think I'll take the boardwalk over tromping through the same amount of mud. There are also sections where, in place of boardwalk, they've simply used an already fallen tree and just chainsawed cross-hatching into it. I've never been a circus performer but I felt like one a few times on this trail. The one bonus of the boardwalks is that it makes the trail delightfully flat. There's no need to clamber over tree roots or step around boulders, because the boardwalk's been built overtop of them. It's a love/hate relationship with the boardwalk, really.

The Bogs. Sometimes, it's like Tim says, you just gotta embrace the Bog. The Bog, for those of you initiated in hiking on the wet coast, is a huge pool of mud created in a depression on the trail. The water and dirt collect, thus creating a lovely bog of mud. A good chunk of the time you can just skirt around the edges of said bog without getting too dirty. Other times, you have to pick your way across using the logs, roots and other things people or Mother Nature have thrown into the bog to make it passable. And yet, sometimes there's no choice but to go straight on through, mud be damned. There were quite a few Bogs along the trail, but I'd have to say that pretty much all of them were avoidable. Gaiters were a common sight on the trail, but if you were careful you really didn't need them. If we had been a few weeks earlier, or it had rained a bit more than it did, then it would've been a different story. But it was relatively dry when we were hiking, so it kept the mud to a relative minimum. I was still pretty glad I had invested in some gaiters, though. After a while, the mud just really gets irritating and you get tired of pussyfooting around the bogs. Or, if you're like me, you have bad balance and fall into one of the Bogs anyways. So the gaiters make it possible to just charge right on through without getting the tops of your boots and beyond covered in mud and wet. They're lovely inventions, those gaiters. Sexy, too. That's right, I make gaiters sexy.

Food. Food is always a big part of any trip. Whether you've got too little, too much or not enough. I underpacked on the snacks for this trip, and I'll say that outright. I coulda used more snacks. Luckily Krista overpacked on her snacks, so I was able to mooch off her, under the guise of helping her to lighten her pack. Worked pretty good, too. Before I started packing for this trip I was searching the internet for meal ideas, and recipes I could use on the trail to break up the monotony of oatmeal for breakfast and Lipton Sidekicks for dinner. And I think I succeeded relatively well. I even inspired some breakfast envy in the rest of the group. I had breakfast burritos the first morning, complete with freeze-dried eggs. They were pretty good, and the eggs even turned out like real eggs. I also found a delightful way to make pancakes a lot more trail-friendly. You put the mix in a Ziploc, then add the water and margerine, and mix it in the bag. Then you cut a corner off the bag and use that to squeeze the mix out of. It worked like gangbusters! I also discovered that jam on pancakes is almost as good as syrup, but that you don't need nearly as much to cover the pancakes. So for all my efforts I was not only rewarded with some delicous breakfasts, but also the envy of my fellow hikers as they sat slowly eating their oatmeal. I myself had some serious lunch envy on this trip, though. Tim, Jerome and the girls actually packed lunches for each day. This is a new concept to me, as when I hike, normally there is no lunch stop, and it's just gorp or granola bars along the way. And they had delicious things such as PB & J on thin buns, and sausage and cheese on wraps for lunch. It looked rather good as compared to my dehydrated apples. For this trip, Krista got good and cozy with her food dehydrator and made most of her meals that way. And it worked pretty darn well. At dinner it was always an adventure to see what she'd come up with. A couple times she had spaghetti and it looked just like she'd cooked it up fresh. I have since vowed to purchase myself a food dehydrator. Not that there's room in my kitchen for one, but I'll find a place to put it, don't you worry.

The walking sticks. At the beginning of the trail myself and the Aussie girls all managed to pick up walking sticks. Tim, Jerome and Krista all had trekking poles. Well, it took me less than 5 km to completely ditch my stick, but the girls managed to hang on to theirs for the rest of the hike. In fact, they became so attatched to them that they actually named them at the end. Bonnie's became George Negus and Sabz' was previously christened "the Slayer", to which she added Excalibur as well. The sticks come in handy, I'm not gonna lie, with balance and testing the depth of mud in the bogs. But I've never hiked with poles or a stick so it felt weird to have to carry one. Tim seemed rather impressed with my no-stick technology for some reason. I figured my balance was bad enough without hampering it with a walking stick. And technically I didn't need it to test mud depth because I had the gaiters. Though I did borrow the Slayer one in one particularly bad bog.

The ladders. The ladders on the trail were an entirely new experience for me. I've never tried to climb a ladder with a 50 lb pack on. It wasn't particularly pleasant. My pack swayed a little as I was climbing, and your waist strap likes to climb up during your ascent or descent, so it's really quite an irritating experience. Not to mention it's a crapload of work hauling yourself and your gear up a ladder. The longest one we climbed (well, of the ones we counted anyways), had 60 rungs, so you can imagine you get a little sweaty by the time you get to the top. Thankfully the ladders on the trail aren't at 90 degree angles, but are sloped a little so it's not as bad. Though there are some that get pretty close to vertical, and they're the hardest ones to climb. Some of them are also set quite a ways from the actual ground, so you feel a little danger at times. I used to wonder how people would get hurt and need to be evacuated from the trail, but after experiencing the ladders, I can completely understand it. They're dangerous, and all it would really take would be one missed rung and you're waiting for the helicopter pilot. It's another love/hate relationship with the ladders, really. It sucks to climb them, but at the same time, you're covering a lot of vertical distance in very little time. So instead of spending an hour hiking uphill with switchbacks, you get 10 minutes of vertical ladders. I don't know about you, dear readers, but I'll take the ladders anyday.My poor, poor feet. Blister seem to be a given on any hiking excursion. Whether it's because you're breaking in a new pair of boots or you wore the wrong socks, they always seem to happen. And this trail was no exception. Though I did get off pretty easy and managed to get only one medium-sized blister. Which, given what happened at Cape Scott a few years ago, seems like a miracle to me. The blister didn't hurt too much, and once I let the fluid out of it, it dried up and didn't give me any trouble after that. But that's not all my sad little feet had to endure. Being crammed into my hiking boots for at least 6 hours a day for 7 straight days didn't really seem to agree with them too much. Especially since they never really completely dried out at night. So I was hiking in damp boots every day. That, combined with the pressure of an extra 50+ pounds on my back didn't do much for my little toes. Or my big toes. Or any of my toes, really. My little toes ended up bruised and red, and probably about 1/3 bigger than they normally are. The bottoms of my big toes ended up the same. And because of the moisture, I managed to get a mysterious rash on the tops of my feet. Tim, being a nurse, had a look at them one night and figured they'd be fine and there was nothing I needed to worry about. And since they weren't itchy or sore, I figured he was right. The rash is slowly going away now and my little toes have gone back to their normal size, but I think it's gonna be at least another week before they look even remotely normal again.

So that, in a nutshell, was my experince hiking the West Coast Trail. If you're considering it yourself, I would definitely recommend it. It's strenuous (even for someone who's in pretty decent shape), but it's well worth the effort. And if you take your time, don't rush and enjoy yourself along the way, it's a rewarding and amazing experience. Even with the blisters.