Running the West Coast Trail One Day

Twenty-five kilometres into our attempt to run the West Coast Trail in a single day, we realized things might not go as planned.

 

The idea of trying to run the West Coast Trail in a single day formed without my knowing it a long time ago. I lived in the Bamfield area on the northwestern edge of Vancouver Island one summer, and I would often go for a run along the welcoming gentle trail at the north end. Gradually, the thought formed that one day I would like to run its seventy-five-kilometre length in a single day, experiencing its varied topography, including the smooth hard shelf that makes up long stretches of the intertidal zone. Eventually, I walked the length of the trail on two separate occasions, though obviously not in a single day, but over the course of many days of camping. And so, when the inchoate thought became a plan, it was not about improving on a record time-it was more about developing my relationship with the trail. A big part of the attraction was the commitment the trail required with only one access point at Nitnat Narrows, other than entrance points at each end. My past experience gave me the confidence to move into planning a big run.

By the way, just in case you're wondering, Parks Canada does not recommend running the trail at all, let alone in one day, due to abundant roots, large, deep mud holes, and the need to take extreme care on vertical ladder systems. They recommend a six- to eight-day hike. That's what made the idea so great!

 

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Rocky stretch of the West Coast Trail. Photo courtesy Parks Canada/J. McColloch.
Calgary runner Dave Gammie and I arranged a camping trip with our families at Bamfield, which, we figured, could become our finish line with a little planning.

We both got focused on the idea of the run, thinking about clothing, maps, food-all the standard things that run through your head before a big outing. The plan was to charter a floatplane out of Tofino, a fishing village north of Bamfield. The plane would pick us up in Bamfield and drop us off at the trailhead in Renfrew at four in the morning. Simple. Fifteen to eighteen hours later, we would be back with our families. The plan allowed us to run the less forgiving section in the south and move to the mellowing trail as we moved north.

Next came the permit quest. A phone call ninety days prior to our departure date would have landed us the necessary permit, but we were too late for this. Overnight permits are limited to twenty-six per day for each of the trailheads. These permits are usually spoken for months in advance. Without one, our only hope was a day pass; they are issued as needed.

Our request for a day pass stirred up some unwanted questions and then a number of radio calls to the wardens. Dave and I heard the incoming comments from the wardens suggesting we were being less than open about our intentions. There was nothing dishonest about our plan; we just didn't want to be kept from our goal by the lack of a pass. All was well as the quota for day passes had not been filled for our requested day. Once that was arranged, everything was set: We had a flight for the next morning, packs, day passes, and lots of excitement. Soon enough, it was morning and time to eat as many buttermilk pancakes as possible, grab our eight-pound packs, and head down to the dock for the floatplane's arrival.

As the tiny plane broke the horizon my heart rate jumped. This was it. After landing, our pilot, Clause, jumped from the plane with an old leather-cased thirty-five-millimetre camera in hand. He seemed as excited as we were. He said, "I've been telling people all day yesterday that I'm going to be flying a couple of guys to the West Coast Trail so they can run it in a day." This was something worthy of a photo. We said our goodbyes to our wives and kids and headed into the air. It was obvious we had impressed Clause with our objective. He felt it appropriate to impress us with his aerial acrobatics in the small Cessna. He turned and asked if I had had a big breakfast. At first I thought he was concerned with my nutrition for the day ahead; he was really just checking on the likelihood of me turning my stomach inside out as he did his aerial trickery.

A spectacular flight brought us to the trailhead in Port Renfrew. The plane travelled at 125 miles per hour and pulled up directly to the trailhead, eliminating the need to cross the Gordon River by boat before we could run. We thanked Clause and watched as he taxied out to the open water before takeoff. Then Dave and I turned toward the trail and the task we came to do: run the West Coast Trail.

We had not been on the beach more than a few minutes when I spotted the orange jackets of the park wardens heading directly for us in their Zodiac. They landed on the beach and scurried up to have a look at our paperwork. From the events that transpired the day before, they were waiting for us to make sure we had the documents needed. Not a problem. We had our paperwork and were shaking with excitement, ready to start our run.

We moved through the enormous cedars, roots, and mud slowly, running when we could, knowing this was the hardest section, which would give way to the faster intertidal shelf further along the trail.

 

As we ran, we passed hikers who knew who we were. Word had spread along the trail that a couple of guys were running today. We honed our ladder-climbing and log-walking skills in the early sections. It didn't take long before we felt comfortable climbing down the ladders, facing out, like a steep staircase, to quicken the pace. Snacking on power gels and sucking the hydration hose kept my body moving. As we emptied our hydration packs we would refill from creeks, drop a couple iodine tablets,
and let them slosh around for thirty minutes. The hope was that any GI ailment would not hit us until after we had finished our run. Everything was going fine, just not as fast as we had hoped.

Eventually, we made the beach. The tide was too high to expose the sought-after intertidal shelf. This left us running the sandy gravel of the beach. The time passed faster than the miles. Our morning departure was hours later than we had hoped, as we had to wait for sunrise and clearing fog before the plane could start out.

We needed to reach the Nitnat Narrows before the boat stopped for the day at five p.m. At the forty-three-kilometre point the trail is interrupted by a narrow passage passable by boat only. A significant current prevents a casual swim from one side to the other. Boat passage is the only option. We were told earlier in the day the boat's pilot sometimes hangs around an extra hour, having a few beers on the dock. We had been running the whole day, and the physical exhaustion was building on top of the realization we might not make the Narrows in time to pass. Our conversation had dwindled from a running commentary to a grim silence. I was second-guessing my preparation to spend the night on the beach. At seven p.m., with two miles to the Narrows, we were faced with the decision: bunk down on the beach amongst the huge logs littered above the high-tide mark by winter storms, or move on to the Narrows, hoping for an intoxicated skipper or a homeward-bound fisherman to pass by the dock by chance. It would be dark by that time, and soon we would have to negotiate a closed section of the trail because the beach route would be impassable with high tide.

Off with the wet clothes and on with all of the extra clothes in my pack: simply a shirt, tights, rain jacket, and hat. Building fires is permitted on the beach with scattered driftwood. The beauty of the massive winter storms is the abundant driftwood that accumulates. We started a small fire, split a candy bar for supper, and settled down for the night. I tucked the nylon sheet Dave had wrapped around himself into the orange garbage bag he had climbed into. It was never grim-I never thought I would slip into hypothermia-it was just much colder than I had expected. We couldn't really get any rest. Our fatigue put us to sleep, but the cold evening woke us up every fifteen minutes and had us alternating between sleep and putting a fresh log on the fire. I resorted to spooning with Dave just to conserve heat.

Eventually, morning came and we headed for the boat launch for a nine a.m. ride. It was a mixed blessing to see the sky getting light: morning had arrived, but it meant we still had another seven hours of running ahead. I was anxious to get started, but we still had to get across the Narrows. Our ride showed at 10:30 a.m. When you're in the middle of nowhere, I guess you decide when your workday starts.

We knew that from Nitnat to the trail's end the boardwalks and running would improve, and they did. We both found a common rhythm and covered the remaining distance without incident. Occasionally, we encountered hikers undertaking the normal five- to seven-day trek, and they all had lots of encouragement for us. One hiker even pulled us across the cable car that spanned one of the many rivers. He said, "You're going to need all the energy you have," and he was right.

Thirty-six hours after starting out, we reached the end of the trail and saw the Welcome Home signs our kids had made. I was overcome with emotion. I'd experienced a week's worth of spiritual highs and lows, not in a single day, but close enough.

About the Author

Doug Stephen is a native Calgarian, always looking for the opportunity to run a trail. Father of four and a full-time sales representative, he has to be efficient with his time, hence attempting to travel the length of the West Coast Trail in a single day. Stephen is the founder and co-race director of Powderface42 Trail Marathon.

 

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