British Columbia Beaver Ponds

December 19, 2014

Beavers have flooded the trail, diverting the waters of Stories Creek away from their dam. The western hemlocks in the background seem to be fairly flood-resistant.

I was born and raised on Vancouver Island, off the grey west coast of British Columbia. We seldom got snow and it seldom didn't rain. We called it a temperate rainforest, but it was far from tropical--mild winters and mild summers.

As a student in Florida, I missed the grey skies, wet forests, and short days. It was really made mandatory by my loving parents, but Christmas was always spent back home on the island. My siblings and I would fly up from Florida every December, just to be with family.

It proved to be precarious hiking over this trail-turned-creek. The deer ferns are evergreens that enjoy moist areas. Perhaps this is too moist.

I of course took this opportunity to get outside. My parents lived in a coastal fishing town called Campbell River and it rarely got snow. The forests surrounding the town were dark and wet, full of soggy, decaying wood and draped in mosses. Three colours predominated: brown, green, and grey. The grey sky sandwiched the green of the mosses and evergreens against the reddish-brown soil and tree trunks. I was looking for animal life, of course, but the forest was surprisingly quiet. It was late afternoon, but the sun was already setting somewhere behind the high, grey clouds. It made me feel alone, but not lonely. Rather, it was very peaceful. A quiet tit sound notified me of a thrush's presence. In the summer, it might be true that "birds of a feather flock together" but, in the winter, there is no prejudice. They seem to work together to flush up insects and watch for predators. This thrush was sending an early warning to someone about my presence. After several minutes of listening I could discern some other birds in the trees. Chestnut-backed chickadees, golden-crowned kinglets, varied thrushes, and even a few brown creepers. I walked another hundred meters up the trail and everything became silent again.

One of the Stories Creek beaver ponds as seen from the trail. It is amazing how much nostalgia can be associated with a place like this. Beavers and birds might be the only obvious critters here in December, but as early as January the long toed salamanders will be moving in to breed, superseded by a whole host of others, including northwestern salamanders, rough-skinned newts, red-legged frogs, and Pacific treefrogs.

The trail followed part of Woods Creek before taking an old, overgrown logging road across to Stories Creek. Both creeks were full and rushing from the latest rainfall. Some places on the island can get over three meters (ten feet) of rain a year. Soon, I was skirting the edges of the muddy trail to avoid getting anything past my ankles wet and leaning precariously over the trail to keep my scarf from catching on the wet shrubbery. The reason for the flooded trail had more to do with engineering than the water table. A beaver dam had grown out from one of the ponds and clogged the natural flow of water back to the creek. The trail made a fine spillway. I thanked God for my long legs and jumped over the obstacle.

Another one of the Stories Creek beaver ponds. Dusk had already arrived in the forest, it seemed, by 3pm.

There were several ponds up Stories Creek, all of them beaver-constructed. Originally, small dams and spillways were constructed along the stream to help salmon move and reproduce. It was originally part of the local gulf club's mitigation project but, now, the pressure-treated dams are in a sad state of decay. The club made up for the neglect by periodically smashing out sections of beaver dam. I hardly think that behavior is justified.

Sword ferns blanket the forest floor, under a stand of red alder. The ferns are evergreens and continue to grow tall until the first snowfall, which may never arrive.

As the forest became too dark to see the trail, I headed back toward home. My footsteps were the only sound and it made me uncomfortable. I found myself hurrying along, as if the growing darkness would only tolerate my disturbance for moments longer. Another thought comforts me: Rooibos tea. When I'm huddled by the wood stove, watching the lights on the Christmas tree, I'll have a cup of hot, rooibos tea.

The West Coast Trail - Part III: Tsusiat Falls to Cribs Creek

A new day starts foggy and damp, as always. Usually we have two choices: hike on a deteriorating trail on top of those cliffs or along the beach under them, tides permitting. We choose the beach when we can.

There are often a couple different kinds of rock overlaying each other on these cliffs.

There were lots of gray whales close to the beach along the trail.

The hole in the wall is drawing closer.

The Hole in the Wall is much larger in person.

The sandstone shelves can be slick (sense the foreshadowing?).

This is a surge channel. Wouldn't want to fall in there (Sense more foreshadowing?).

Seals have a good life. They just eat and relax and eat and relax and eat and relax and get eaten by a killer whale. Simple life.

Good by to the Hole in the Wall.

Okay. So sometimes seals actually spend time satisfying their curiosity in between eating and relaxing. These ones are having a conversation like,
"You say they walk the beach voluntarily?"
"Ya, dude."
"Why don't they swim?"
"Same reason they do it wearing a giant bag on their back."
"Why is that?"
"I guess their insane."
"Oh, ya. That makes sense, there."

These are sea palms. They are a kind of kelp that grows on rocks in pounding surf. When a wave hits them they face-plant on the rocks and rattle there until the wave recedes. Then they spring back up like, "boinnngggg!"

Sometimes we have to backtrack to find the trail into the forest. Despite the warnings of other hikers that it was a dead end, we just had to go down and look around for ourselves. We should have listened. Exploring is better saved for times when you aren't carrying 40 extra pounds on your back.

Sometimes the trail runs unnervingly close to the cliff ledge.

"Enough with the photos already!"

This, our third day, is when the boardwalk started looking even more rough.

This is the beautiful Rana aurora. My favorite ranid.

This looks like a really evil roller coaster ride more than a hiking trail.

Hmn. That looks like good hiking. Why are we up here on this nasty boardwalk?

An old cabin by the seaside in gif form.

These pretty little white bells belong to Moneses uniflora, a single-flowered evergreen perennial.

I always get that gloating grin whenever I catch a snake. This one puffed up a little bit like he might think of biting me but, as usual, it was just a bluff. I released him unharmed.

Some of the coastal Thamnophis sirtalis have those blushing red cheeks.

There were several juvenile garter snakes on the trailside and I managed to capture a few of them.

He's soooo cute!

Lots of bridges.

Carmanah Creek.

Walking the sandstone shelf is fairly enjoyable, but those patches of green algae are slick as "bug snot," as my dad likes to say.

These slanted shelves of limestone must tell an epic geological story of shifting plates and tectonic catastrophe!

Cormorants are built for this kind of weather.

Whale bones! There must be a carcass around.

I confess! I fooled around with this one in photo shop to give the illusion it is in the evening. Looks nice, eh?

Another wrong turn took us to this cliff. We had two choices: climb a rope up a steeper part of the cliff, or try to climb down this slipper slope above the sea with our 40-pound packs trying to drag us down. Dad thought we might be able to do the rope, provided we took our packs off and pulled them up tied to the end of the rope, but I opted out. Neither sounded so hot, so we decided to go back.

These immense bones probably belong to a young grey whale. There were pools of white blubber underneath the carcass and ravens waited near by for another feed.

The sunset at Cribs Creek was beautiful, but it was surprisingly difficult to get a good picture. There were a lot of people who took this opportunity to walk into the sunset.