Nonetheless, we pitched our tents on the fine grey sand driftwood-scattered beach (or should I say drift-trees) in time, and then wandered down to the National Parks Office for the compulsory trail briefing. Here we where told about conditions on the trail, tide times (crucial for some sections) and what to do if we came face-to-face with a bear, wolf or cougar, or saw a tsunami heading to shore. We also learnt that 70-90 hikers (out of 7000) were evacuated each year and were encouraged not to inflate these figures. The metal screws in my ankle twinged at this thought.

Then, registered and informed, we headed of to Port Renfrew itself for start-of-trip dinner – bison burger or wild salmon, it was difficult to choose, and I'd also forgotten how big the serves are in North America. I felt as though I had eaten the entire bison. It was a good chance to ge to know my fellow hikers, Ron from the States and five Canadians from diverse parts, Lindsay, April, Simon, Logan and his dad, Mike.

By the time we got back to camp, a sea mist had rolled in and moisture was condensing on any surface. A warmish wind blew in from the west, bringing light rain – welcome to the west coast of Canada! Still, it was pleasant listening to the soft patter of raindrops on the tent fly and, when they had finished, to the rhythmic rise and fall of the sea on the beach. It was just what a jet-lagged hiker needed to reset his biological clock.

The route took a long traverse across the steep seaward slope of this coastal ridge, though in the dense forest the occasional sound of a passing fishing boat was the only evidence of the ocean. It may have been a traverse, but it certainly wasn't flat, as the track undulated up and down gullies and edged around rocky outcrops.

About here, we had our first wildlife encounter – not a bear, wolf or cougar, but a giant banana slug. Still, I'm told that they can give you a vicious sliming, so I followed the National Park's advice and gave it a wide berth.

Eventually we reached a deep ravine and our first (short) set of ladders, climbing down, across a wooden bridge then up again to continue the slow ascent. The odd length of rusting telegraph wire or insulator peg nailed to a tree testified to the original purpose of the trail. A little later, heavy cable and the rusting remains of a steam-driven donkey engine used by foresters to haul giant logs down the steep slopes told of other past uses in this region.

A couple of enormous red cedar stumps among the slender trunks of the regrowth forest bore silent witness to the magnificence of the original forest that once covered these slopes and to the efficiency and industry of humankind in exploiting it.

After a gourmet lunch in one of the few clearings on the track, the path became easier as we climbed gradually to reach the high point of the trail at 210 m.

Walking along, listening to the silence of the forest as the sun dappled the fern and needle covered floor, was superb. Soon we were scrambling steeply down a dry slope to cross one last ravine. From there, an easy path took us to Log Jam Creek and the turn-off for Thrasher Cove. We headed towards the sea, climbing a couple of small ridges before descending steeply towards the ocean, now shining blue between the tree trunks.

We also had time to enjoy the ambience on this sunny west coast afternoon, the steep tree-lined slopes directing the gaze to distant mountains at the back of Port San Juan and out to the south, the pale blue profile of the mountains on the Olympic Peninsula across the Juan de Fuca Strait in the USA.

It was a superb ending to our first day on the West Coast Trail.

We then got underway, making slow but steady progress as we boulder-hopped the smaller obstacles and scrambled our way around or over the larger jumbles of sharp angular rocks that line this western shoreline of Port San Juan. Out to sea, the fishermen of Port Renfrew were heading out for the day, passing us in a steady parade, as did a couple of fur seals with nary a glance in our direction. Ahead the mountains of the Olympic Peninsula rose pale blue above a long sea mist. It took us two hours before we arrived at a stretch of grey sand that marked the end of the rocky shoreline.

Our pathway was a broad and flattish rock shelf, etched with run-off channels and pot-holes, and occasionally cut by deep surge channels. Some we leapt across, others we rounded by heading briefly inland.

On passing an impressive sandstone headland, mists began to swirl low across the platform. A band of sea-mist was moving by and, on looking back, cloaked the headland in an eerie shroud. It was superb – as we crossed the bright green beds of algae and curious lines of congregating anemones, the sun was shining and the sea-mist drifting by at the same time.

Our pathway was a broad and flattish rock shelf, etched with run-off channels and pot-holes, and occasionally cut by deep surge channels. Some we leapt across, others we rounded by heading briefly inland. On passing an impressive sandstone headland, mists began to swirl low across the platform. A band of sea-mist was moving by and, on looking back, cloaked the headland in an eerie shroud. It was superb – as we crossed the bright green beds of algae and curious lines of congregating anemones, the sun was shining and the sea-mist drifting by at the same time.

After lunch, it was back into the forest – a short sharp climb brought us to the trail and we turned north-westwards again. This section was much flatter than yesterday and we followed a series of delapidated boardwalks, punctuated by wallows of sticky black mud (no more than ankle deep) and the jumble of tree roots that we had come to know well yesterday. The forest was more open with an understorey of berry bushes (huckleberries, raspberries, bunchberries and thimble berries – all good bear tucker).

As evening fell, the smoke from half a dozen fires drifted around the campsite, as the different groups of campers sat round the flames recounting the day's experiences. Our group listened to a story of West Coast pioneers read by Beth as the aromatic scent of burning cedar wafted by. It was a hard life here a century ago.

And so ended a second superb day on the West Coast Trail.

We were up at 6am this morning, as we were starting out on the rock platform and that was only passable at the lower end of the tidal range. Patchy cloud had formed overnight, though the sun still shone through at times. We crunched across the coarse gravel to gain access to the sandstone rock shelf and start our westward progression.

The coastline ahead was superb – tall spruce, fir and hemlock silhouetted on the rim of the low sandstone cliffs, honeycombed in parts by the action of sea and rain, smoothly shaped in other parts to curve into a broad rock platform etched with channels and sink-holes, where chitons, shellfish and anemones found shelter in the clear pools left by the retreating tide.

Very quickly the first obstacle appeared - a deep surge channel that led into a sea-cave beneath the cliff. A bit of group co-operation was needed to get everyone down, across and up the other side, before pressing on. Out to sea, a flotilla of small fishing boats cruised slowly by in search of the salmon that frequent the creek mouths along this coast. Gulls congregated on the rocks and the distant foghorn of a passing container ship moaned across the sea as it negotiated a bank of sea-mist.

We crossed wet beds of algae, left by the retreating tide, and negotiated a couple more surge channels before reaching a deep cut in the shelf that marked the entry to Sandstone Creek. Here we had to take our packs off, scrambling down the rock and then passing packs down after to gain the boulder-strewn beach at the creek mouth, hemmed in on either side by tree-lined cliffs.

Back up the creek bed we went, leaving it to climb the 174 rungs in six sections of ladders that brought us back to the forest plateau. The path meandered along for a couple of kilometres, passing through more sphagnum bog and dwarf cypress, beneath giant centuries-old cedars and through the thick understorey of berry-fruiting shrubs.

Long sections of boardwalk, some rickety and collapsing, others new and stable, were connected by muddy wallows or gnarly rooted path. Occasionally, tree-trunks, their tops planed flat, became a type of rapid transit through the thick vegetation. Sometimes we walked along the massive trunks of fallen trees, sometimes we ducked beneath them.

Reaching the Logan Creek ravine, we found ourselves again descending then climbing several sections of long ladders (one ladder of 57 rungs on the descent and one of 54 on the way up). These were separated by a long and narrow suspension bridge high above the creek itself. Not only did it save a lot more ladder work, it gave a mild adrenalin thrill as well as it developed a rhythmic swing.

We hurried on, passing Adrenalin Creek and finally reaching our destination at Walbran Creek. A short set of ladders brought us to its beautiful setting – the campsite spread along the gravel strip between ocean and forest, where tents popped up between the giant driftwood tree-trunks that lined the beach.

Nearby lay a clear waterhole, backed by a sheer sandstone cliff, at the mouth of the creek. The rain had stopped and we were glad that we could pitch our tents in the dry, explore the area and enjoy a hot coffee around the fire. As for last night, the glow and smoke of campfires dotted the site and we sat around one to enjoy another of Beth and Matthias' gourmet camp meals.

The sun finally emerged from beneath the cloud cover to sink a fiery orb behind the distant rock platform – hopefully an omen for a return to fine weather. Then it was time to be lulled to sleep by the soft rumble-tumble of waves rolling the sea-smoothed pebbles up and down on the beach. The day had been very diverse, both in what we did and what we saw. We were also feeling pleased because Walbran Creek marked the end of the difficult part of the West Coast Trail – only one third of the distance covered, but timewise we had reach the half-way point.

 

Better still, we would be able to walk without packs for a while. And so, light of spirit and light of load, we ambled down the sandstone shelf beneath the sculpted cliffs, enjoying the early morning air, checking out the marine life in the tidal pools of crystal clear water, and the crevices filled with goose-necked barnacles and mussels, limpets and shellfish clinging to the rocks, patches of tar-spot algae to avoid, beds of sea-grass, and surge channels filled with the swaying fronds of bull-whip kelp.

It was magical.

Eventually we reached the Adrenalin Channel, just as the sun broke through the clouds. Across the gap, the waters of Adrenalin Creek spilled down from the sandstone cliffs in a fine sparkling waterfall. It was a hard place to leave, but we had to head back to Walbran, pick up our packs and continue on. A bald eagle watched us leave from its lofty perch on a cliff-top fir, while a sea-lion, lolling about offshore, grunted a farewell as we left this beautiful spot.

The shelf to the west somewhat paled to that we had just visited. Cliffless, the forest merged into the it, separated by a thin strip of grey sand. For a while we sloshed our way across the wet sea-weed past Vancouver Point and then commenced a long trudge in the soft gravelly sand that curved round towards Bonilla Point, the official border between Juan de Fuca Strait and the Pacific Ocean. A garter snake swam quickly away as we passed, a pair of herons patiently stalked some fish in the shallows, diving ducks bobbed off-shore and a small flock of sandpipers treated us to a display of precision formation flying. It was time to let the mind go into neutral and absorb the ambience of the wild coast as we walked along.

We set up camp on the edge of the beach near a flock of Pacific gulls – plenty of soft feathers floating around if you needed to restuff a sleeping bag and a slightly fishy aroma, but with exquisite views and only the sound of the surf and the mournful call of a wheeling flock of gulls. For the first time, we were the only group at the camping site.

We had time to relax before getting into our best hiking gear – tonight we wandered up the beach to dine at Chez Monique. Monique and her husband, Peter, a Ditidaht Indian, returned to this small enclave of Indian Reserve 30-odd years ago to build a house on their traditional lands. Gradually they started selling food and drink to passing hikers and have become somewhat of an institution. It is de rigeuer for West Coast Trail hikers to call in and eat at Chez Monique.