The West Coast Trail - Resigned

The following letter was inadvertently sent to me (wassamatta_u), since I was listed on Ryan's "Contact" list in his WCT application.

To: Mr. Bruce Withington, Director of Hiker Services, WCT Association

From: Jeff Antonome, Park Ranger/WCT Instructor

Re: Letter of Resignation

Mr. Withington,

It is with deepest regrets that I feel compelled to offer you this, my letter of resignation. As you know, I have been an Instructor here on the West Coast Trail for over 7 years, teaching the Trail Orientation Class for prospective WCT hikers. But due to today's, how shall we say, "unbelievable" experiences, I can no longer in good faith perform these duties, at least not without becoming violently ill. I fear my mental health is seriously in jeopardy, and must therefore resign from my position posthaste, never to return. Ever.

I suspect I owe you an explanation. Doubtless by now you have heard rumors about today (as has most of the Western Seaboard), but I seriously question whether you have grasped the full implications of the actual occurrences. Let me set you straight on these.

The day started out normally enough. There were only 3 hikers scheduled for the Orientation class: a hairdresser from Seattle named Spike, a tattoo-artist named Lefty, and... excuse me while I involuntarily shudder... a veritable spawn of the devil named Ryan. You could tell just by looking at him he would be Trouble with a capital T... wearing old rotten sneakers instead of proper hiking boots, carrying the most dilapidated homemade backpack I have ever seen, and his HAIR! It looked like some sort of long-tailed incontinent jackass had mated with a diseased porcupine, and their ungodly progeny was precariously perched on his head.

So there they sat on the log benches, waiting for me to begin my presentation, notebooks on their laps and (for some reason) tiny little pencils in their hands. That's when I made my first mistake. As you know, I have a rather nice little Powerpoint Presentation that I like to show about the WCT, and I had read on their applications that this Ryan fellow was a computer guy. Stupidly... oh, so stupidly, I uttered the words: "Ryan, can you give me a hand and fire up that computer, please?"

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a soda can and a knife, and then proceeded to cut up the can, slicing it and poking holes in it and who knows what-all, until in a matter of seconds he had produced what looked like a small stove. He then produced a bottle of liquid (which the local Forestry Service fire department later deemed to be kerosene), and poured it all over the ersatz-stove. He ran over to the computer and, as I stared unbelieving, unable to move, like a moose in the headlights, he put it under the computer and very literally "fired it up." There was a loud explosion and bits of electronics and soda can flew everywhere, whereupon he immediately stomped out the burning remains of what little was left of the stove, put it back into his pack, and sat down with his little pencil as if nothing had happened.

Several moments of dumbfounded silence later, Spike and Lefty burst into uproarious laughter, while Ryan sat there innocently waiting for class to start. I know it sounds absurd, Mr. Withington, but you must believe me when I say I was in such shock that my only method of coping at that moment was to press on with the class as if the world had NOT gone bonkers.

I calmly passed out the Official WCT Information Packets, which as you know include maps, tide tables, emergency contacts, trail etiquette, and helpful hints. Spike and Lefty immediately made paper airplanes out of the tide tables, and had some sort of contest to see who could impale the most planes on Ryan's hair. Ryan, in turn, fashioned some of his strangely abundant stash of soda cans into a cannon and started shooting down the paper airplanes. I am very sorry to report that 3 civilian squirrels were wounded by "friendly fire" in the ensuing battle.

Striving to make headway in the Orientation, I started to discuss "Trail Etiquette". I think the best way to convey the futility of this would be through a transcript:

Me: The issuing of a Trail Use Permit obligates you to be a responsible steward of National Park resources...

Ryan: Ryan!

Me: Huh?

Ryan: Ryan, not Stewart. You called me Stewart. My name is Ryan.

Me: StewarD, not StewarT. Moving on... There are no garbage cans on the WCT, so pack it in and pack it out. No glass, plastic, or cans on your hike.

Ryan: WHAT?!?! No cans? I need my cans! I use cans for my stove! For defense! For lock-picking! For a Van de Graaff Generator!

Me: Furthermore, every WCT hiker is responsible for assisting in the case of another hiker's injury. If you find an injured party,

Spike and Lefty: (chanting) Par-ty! Par-ty! Par-ty!

Me: ...you must NOT abandon them to wait for assistance on their own. Try to get them safely to a Trailhead...

At this point, modesty prevents me from transcribing the comments Spike and Lefty made in regards to the term "Trailhead."

Need I go on? Must I detail the lewd comments of Spike and Lefty regarding my warnings of "Bears" and "Cougars"? Must I enumerate the number of times I had to chastise Ryan for sticking those infernal little pencils up his nose, in his ears, and elsewhere? Must I describe the various incendiary and explosive devices Ryan constructed from his soda cans, or the devastation they caused to the local flora and fauna? I think not.

But one final episode MUST be related. It defies everything I know of nature and natural history, and the memory has caused me many a sleepless night. You recall how I had mentioned in the beginning of this letter Ryan's dilapidated backpack? Well, apparently it got this way from unraveling, as I noticed a thread wending it's way from the backpack back toward town. Just as I thought nothing more could POSSIBLY go wrong during my presentation, I heard a distant rumbling. It became louder and louder, and the backpack thread started vibrating and twanging like some hellish guitar string. As I peered into the distance, I saw an amorphous mass - that is really the only way I can describe it - approaching along the same path as the thread. I saw distant trees crashing down, and the usually lush green of the Canadian wilderness darken into a barren wasteland. For coming towards us, nothing in it's way to stop it, was a mighty horde of ANTS, defoliating everything in their path! Spike and Lefty leaped up, crashing into each other in a very Scooby-Dooish way, and ran for their lives. I also decided self-preservation was the way to go, and rushed away from the oncoming devastation with every fiber of my strength. As I looked over my shoulder, I swear, I saw Ryan simply *shrug*, put on his backpack, and saunter - yes, he SAUNTERED - toward the WCT trailhead, as if this sort of thing was a common everyday occurrence for him. Mr. Withington, I am sorry to say that I honestly can't decide whether I hope he escaped, or whether I hope he didn't.

So please, Mr. Withington, accept this as my official resignation letter. And please approve the enclosed Worker's Compensation forms regarding my ongoing mental health treatment - I have a feeling I will be needing it for years to come!

Sincerely,

(Former) Park Ranger, Jeff Antonome

The West Coast Trail - Hostel Takeover

I woke this morning to an absolutely beautiful sunrise - the birds were singing, there was a slight mist over the harbour, and there were hundreds of gorgeous autumnal leaves fluttering down gracefully from their arboreal origins and impaling themselves on my hair. Took me a while to get them all removed from my Spiked Mullet (and I poked my fingers more times than I care to admit while doing it, too!), but eventually I was able to disengage myself from nature's helmet and survey my surroundings.

I was on land - this much was clear. But aside from that, I was still somewhat disoriented. Being the intrepid hiker/letterboxer that I am, however, I decided to put my skills to use. I NEEDED to find my way to Victoria, and quickly, since my precious stash of toilet paper had been in my somewhat-compromised backpack (errr, technically, now 3/4 of a backpack), and last night's dip in the harbour had reduced it to an amorphous blob. I quickly fashioned a makeshift compass out of an old soda can, some duct tape, a bit of twine, 3 soggy Cheeze Doodles, and a pine cone. I scurried up a nearby pole to get a better view while honing in on my coordinates, when I discovered that the pole I was scurrying up just happened to be a street sign -- which indicated, by my keen reckoning, that I was at the corner of Wharf and Belleville, downtown. Victoria at last!

Now that I was here, I had some time to kill. My bus for the West Coast Trail (WCT) didn't leave until 6:30 the next morning. I had decided, rather than camp out under a bridge or in a dumpster (for fear of running into a geocache), that I would spend the night at a Hostel. I wasn't sure exactly where the hostel was, but how hard could it be to find? And I still had that darn thread on my backpack unraveling as I went, so I figured it would be easy enough to retrace my steps if necessary. And so I wandered around this charming city, taking in all the sights, sounds, and occasional smells of this Jewel of the Canadian Coast.

I eventually stumbled upon what I thought was a cool little museum - literally - as the ever-trailing green backpack thread (darn, that is wonderfully strong thread!) tripped me and I landed spike-first upon the pristine doors of "Victoria Miniature World". What a delightful display of deliciously diminutive dioramas! Yet as I wandered through this wee world of wistful wonders, I couldn't help but think something was missing. Oh sure there were medieval castles and villages and magical lands and circuses, but... there were no teeny tiny log cabins! Fortunately, I had a nearly infinite supply of AQ Pencils at my disposal, and proceeded to enliven the "Frontier Town" display with what I am not ashamed to say was a veritable masterpiece of writing-implement construction. Sadly, while erecting this small but detailed shanty, my ever-waning backpack tipped over and somewhat crushed the Dry Goods Store, the Blacksmith Shop, a Saloon, and Miss Scarlett's House of Revelry. This, then, was my cue that it was probably time to leave.

I beat an undersized yet hasty retreat, with green thread trailing behind me like, well, like a green thread trailing behind me. I hurried around the corner, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but ANOTHER must-see sightseeing site: The Victoria Bug Zoo (which I like to think of as the "Trail Snack Museum"). This place was fantastic. In addition to bigger, crunchier bugs, the Zoo boasts the world's largest captive nest of Leafcutter Ants! I learned a LOT about Leafcutter Ants:

1) Leafcutter ants rely on an advanced system of ant-fungus mutualism,

2) There are four castes in the Leafcutter ant colony hierarchy,

3) The clever little buggers can crawl into a backpack when you aren't looking and follow a green thread in single file, tens of thousands of them, marching along the thread back to Miniature World and taking up permanent residence in an AQ-pencil log cabin.

Not many people know stuff like that.

So once again I found myself out on the street. It was starting to get rather late in the day, so I figured it was time to find the elusive hostel! Back and forth, up and down, diagonal and oblique, I wandered the lonely streets of Victoria, searching, ever seeking, knowing that somewhere out there in this compassionless morass of Canadian humanity there was a warm and dry place where I could lay my weary (yet pointy) head to rest. Preferably with internet access.

Just as I was about to give up hope of a comfortable bed and consign myself to camping beneath a bridge, I found it. The. Perfect. Place. It was kismet, it was fate, it was truly meant to be... my heart leaped with joy and rapture overwhelmed me as I gleefully checked in to: The Turtle Hostel! My hands quivered with anticipation as I placed my unraveling backpack upon the mildly stained upper bunk in the main room, surrounded by murals of turtles in backpacks! Seriously! You can't make stuff like this up!

So here I lie, comfortable and comforted, ensconced in cut-rate luxury amid made-to-order art, and awaiting the early arrival tomorrow morning of the bus that will take me to the WCT trailhead, where I will be taking an "Orientation Class" before embarking on the actual hike. I wonder what adventures lie ahead? Only time will tell! But in the meantime, I take one last look around before lying my mulleted cranium to sleep... wait... what is that movement? Something seems to be moving along the thread trailing from my backpack. Could it be...? Uh oh... ANTS!

The West Coast Trail - Victoria Secrets

Ryan is off hiking, and not available for "live" updates. Therefore, in the spirit of helpfulness and camaraderie, I (wassamatta_u) have volunteered to keep the AtlasQuest community apprised of his progress. Mr. Tortuga has been updating me with his progress via text messages, and I have taken it upon myself to expand his necessarily brief statuses (stati?) into a somewhat more reader-friendly format. And so, without further ado, I present to you the completely accurate and truthful (as far as you know) Adventures of the Green Tortuga!

Well, I made it. Not exactly sure where I am at the moment, but you know what they say: wherever you go, there you are! Hopefully, once daybreak comes and the swelling goes down, I will be able to reorient myself and find where I need to be. But I am getting ahead of myself! Let me go back, and start from the beginning...

As noted in my previous blog, my plan was to start my trip with a bit of a nautical adventure aboard the Victoria Clipper, sailing from Seattle to Victoria BC. That was the plan. Emphasis on was. In a misguided attempt to make sure everything went according to plan, I had called ahead to the Victoria Clipper to make reservations. I should have suspected something was amiss when the woman who answered sounded downright insulted when I asked her such basic seafaring questions as "How large are you, stem to stern?", "What is your load capacity?", and "Has your hull ever been breached?" After a brief series of screams and legal threats, she handed the phone off to her manager, whereupon I hastily made my reservations and jotted down the address.

I should also have realized that things were not as they seemed when I headed out to the given address and noticed it was nowhere near the waterfront. Turns out, I had inadvertently googled Victoria's Clippers, a high-end hair salon. Not one to waste a good coiffing opportunity, I eagerly agreed to honor my appointment - I figured I still had plenty of time to get to Victoria by this evening! In retrospect, perhaps this was not the best idea.

My stylist's name was Spike. Or at least, that's what it sounded like over the droning whir of a dozen hair dryers. The ambient noise made communication a rather difficult thing. It went something like this...

Spike (yelling over din): How would you like your hair?
Me (similarly shouting): I hadn't given it any thought. Let me mull it over, Spike.
Spike: WHAT? Speak up!
Me: Not sure, let me mull it over, Spike.
Spike: HUH?
Me : MULL IT OVER, SPIKE!!
Spike: OK, GOTCHA!

It wasn't until I looked in the mirror, that I realized, in horror, just how devastating poor communications can be. Yes, it's true. I got a Mullet with a Spike.

Me (still yelling): Aaaargh!
Spike (loudly): Yes you are right, it IS "Talk Like a Pirate Day"...
Me: Not "Arrrr"... "Aaaaarrrgh". Note the difference in the "g" sound at the end.
Spike: Ahhhh
Me: No. Aaaaargh. You see, I am supposed to be hiking the West Coast Trail and Juan de Fuca.
Spike: Oh, yes, I see your backpack. But who are you warning of what?
Me: Huh? I'm going on the West Coast Trail to Juan de Fuca.
Spike: Right. But what are you warning him about? And why so hostile to him?
Me: Who? What?...ohhh.... no, JUAN de FUCA, not WARN the ... well, never mind...

Realizing that the comedy potential for the "haircut scene" was drawing quickly to a close, I paid for my mullet (though I realized I would be paying for it for weeks), and left Spike with what I considered a fairly hefty tip (seven AQ pencils). It was off to the waterfront for me!

The real Victoria Clipper was just pulling away from the dock when I arrived. I quickly sized up the situation (it basically came down to: "uh-oh!"), and decided on a brilliant course of action ("run!"). The brilliant course of action ("run!") was immediately followed by a masterful bit of athleticism ("jump!"), which abruptly became an anticipated result ("splat!"). I landed on the freshly scrubbed deck, face first, and slid a good 10 yards before coming to a rather sudden stop against a bulkhead. Truth be told, my inevitable concussion COULD have been a lot worse, were it not for the protective barrier of my Spiked Mullet. As it was, I was merely unconscious for the remainder of the boat trip, with very little permanent damage. The one real downside of my catatonic state, was that a thread of my new hand-sewn backpack (remember that? I was sewing my own backpack?) had somehow snagged on the pier as I was leaping, and in my comatose state, this simple fact eluded me.

So here I am, somewhere in or about Victoria, British Columbia. The crew of the Victoria Clipper kindly escorted me (in a somewhat airborn manner) off the side of the ship somewhere along the coast, and the envigorating waters of the Inner Harbour roused me into an immediately alert state. I waded to shore, my ever-shrinking backpack in hand, and set up camp. I figure I MUST be near Victoria, since by my calculations, there were about 108 miles of thread that had methodically unwound from my backpack (when you hand-sew a project like this, you get to know these things), and that should put me within a mile or two of my destination. Ah well, if worse came to worst, I knew I could find my way back to Seattle by following the thread, in an Ariadne-like way. So until tomorrow, when hopefully I will make it to the trailhead in time for my "orientation class"... Happy Trails!

--Ryan



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