COUGAR ATTACKS SMALL BOY

It’s the middle of a hot summer and the year is 1985. I’m 44 years old and I must have been having a midlife crisis or maybe I was just drunk the evening my friend John Stalzer dropped by with a case of beer. Nothing abnormal about that since it was quite typical. However, I have no inkling, not one iota of an idea how he came up with the brilliant idea of hiking the West Coast Trail on Vancouver Island, BC, and he was serious about this endeavour.

Our idea of hiking at that time was to the nearest pub and not packing anything heavy on our backs, only returning home with a couple of cases of beer. I don’t know if I was still drunk from the previous night but the next morning, we’re catching the ferry out of Nanaimo to Vancouver – our destination – Army and Navy Department Store. We returned with all sorts of camping paraphernalia, including sleeping bags, pup tent and backpacks, my wife most likely thinking we’re complete idiots. The next thing I know, after sitting on the lawn knocking back a few beers, we’ve stuffed the backpacks with books. They feel like a ton slung over my back walking down a country road and by the time we return, I’m covered in sweat and every joint and muscle is harshly complaining.

The next weekend my wife drove us to Port Renfrew near the southwestern tip of Vancouver Island. Smiling faces, one step in front of the other, 70 lbs each on our backs, off we go. We could have taken a small boat with a load of other hikers across to Owens Point, which would have saved us a lot of arduous climbing but in our mind, if we were going to hike the West Coast Trail, we were going to hike the entire trail. Upon arrival at Owen’s Point, scratched, bruised, sore and sweaty, we pitched our tent on the beach. When we awoke in the morning, we had forgotten that oceans had tides and the Pacific Ocean was no exception, seawater was licking the front of the tent.

At this point, we had thoughts of catching the boat back to Port Renfrew, holing up near a pub for the next 2 weeks and then call my wife and tell her that we had so much fun hiking the trail, we decided to walk back. However, despite our aching bodies, we packed everything up and headed off into the nearby forest and up the twisty, rocky strewn and knobbly rooted trail. It was a long slog for a couple of out-of-shape hikers to Nitinat Narrows but the closer we got the faster we walked. One would think after packing a heavy load quite a long arduous distance that a person would tend to slow down, but a buddy of ours had told us that it was possible to buy booze from the natives that would ferry us across the treacherous narrow, so we were on a mission of high importance.

A man, his wife and a small child were at the narrows when we arrived, and it must have been close to noon because they were sitting on a blanket having a bite to eat. I forget how much we paid for the case of beer right out of a cooler up to their caps in ice but whatever it was, it was worth every penny. While resting and enjoying an ice cold beer on the other side of Nitinat Narrows, I was amazed when the woman stood up, gathered up the four corners of the blanket in her hands, then walked over to the bank and happily tossed everything into the surging narrows yelling, “Dishes are done!”

The added weight of the beer was negligible as we chatted and laughed along the trail, the woman’s comedic exploit still on our minds. We had decided that we wouldn’t strictly adhere to the well-worn trail but would follow the shoreline wherever possible. This time, when darkness came creeping down through the treetops like a cat-burglar, remembering our last camp, we made sure to pitch the tent well-above the hightide line.

Once the camp was set up, I usually gathered wood for a fire and John did the cooking (he was way better at it than me). So, while I was looking for dry driftwood, my friend took a stroll on the sandy beach. John was a heavy smoker and had decided not to take any cigarettes on our hikes with hopes of quitting. However, when he returned a short time later, he had a broad grin on his well-tanned face. He had found a partially full tin of tobacco and a well-chewed corncob that had washed up on the shore along with some other trash. So much for his not smoking, he was soon like Popeye the sailor man sucking on the corncob pipe and blowing puffs of smoke into the air.

On day three, we hiked mainly on the beaches. It was hot but the continual cool breeze blowing off the ocean was refreshing. We took frequent breaks stretching out on the warm sand, listening to the waves crashing against the rocks and watching raucous gulls soaring overhead. During one of our lazy interludes, we had set our backpacks on top of an enormous log resting on a long ridge of sand. When the rest break was over, as I slipped my arms through the straps and hoisted it onto my back, my peripheral vision caught a slight movement. I barely got out of the way as the log rolled over John’s backpack, down the sandy beach and splashed into the sea. How fortunate was I? I could have been laid out as flat as John’s pack. It looked as if it had been run over by a steam roller, not only were the pots squashed, the toothpaste had been squeezed out of the tube.

By the time we reached Tsusiat Falls it was late in the afternoon. We could have kept hiking but because the falls and the scenery were so spectacular, we decided to camp early and enjoy what remained of our beer. The waterfalls aren’t overly high; compared to Niagara Falls, they are a mere trickle. While John made a pot of tea, I decided to take a dip, au naturel, in the pool of water at the base of the falls. When I dove under the waterfall, I could feel the torrent of cascading water pounding on my back until I surfaced on the other side. I was surprised to find a small cave located just above my head. After I climbed a few slippery boulders and sat inside watching the continual stream of plunging water, it almost felt as if I was a fugitive hiding from a posse in an old wild west movie. And, when I dove back into the water, unable to see anything because of the cloudy turbulence, I was completely gobsmacked! If I’d gone about an inch further, instead of staring directly at a naked pair of boobs, I would have banged my head on them when I popped up out of the water.

That night, as per usual John went to sleep early, while I watched the campfire slowly die down. As I sat under the starry sky, the surrounding peacefulness serene, the lulling sounds of Tsusiat Falls caught my attention. It no longer sounded like water falling into the pool below but more like a band of Indians chanting. I thought of waking John, but instead, continued listening lest the chanting cease and break the spell. We stayed another day and night, but I never heard the chanting again, only the water splashing into the pool before sloughing through the sand to the sea.

Before reaching Pachena Beach the next day, we came to a narrow river that had a lift with wire sides hooked onto a cable. Once we loaded our gear into the tiny cable car, there was barely any room left for us to squat down. I was glad that John was strong, because between the two of us, we were barely able to pull ourselves across to the other side. Later, as we strolled the rocky seashore, John stopped for a smoke break and I continued onwards until I arrived at a narrow but deep surge channel. It was a little too wide to step across, so I decided to jump. I guess with the heavy load on my back or just dumb bad luck, it didn’t quite go as planned. There I was watching the seawater rushing under my body, while clinging to one side with my hands and my legs stretched out on the other. There was no use yelling for help because the roar of the water would have drowned out my calls, so I waited, and I waited, and I waited until John arrived and came to my rescue. To think hiking the West Coast Trail is just a walk in the park would be a big mistake because one could easily be injured or even die if they don’t take precautions.

Our next day, and our last day, before my wife picked us up and drove us home, hiking the last distance was pretty much uneventful. However, the following year, because we had enjoyed ourselves so much, we decided to walk the Trail again, only this time we would start at the northern end. As it turned out, this would be a hike even more memorable than the first one.

Another year later and another year older, John Stalzer and I strapped on our backpacks and headed on down the West Coast Trail. The day was hot and as we walked along the dappled path under the towering firs and cedars, the air felt cool. But since, we were just as unprepared as the first time we hiked the Trail, we were puffing like little old men climbing a long steep stairway by the time we reached Pachena Beach. While lying exhausted on the seashore, our backpacks like pillows for our weary heads, I noticed someone coming our way in the distance and drawing closer, turned out to be a woman.

A Clairol Hair TV commercial at the time, “the closer she gets, the better she looks” seemed appropriate as the woman’s long blonde hair glowed in the sunlight. However, as she splashed across the nearby shallow stream, I couldn’t help but notice her white T-shirt was covered in blood. She was panting and clearly upset when she gasped, “Are either of you a doctor? My nephew was attacked by a cougar.”

When we told her no, she asked, “How much further is it to the Pachena Lighthouse? I believe they have a radio.”

And pointing towards the path I answered, “It’s about 3 miles away.”

“There’s two very distraught women and my nephew back at my camp. Could you guys go help out? It’s at the next stream you come to. And be careful, the cougar was still hanging around when I left.”

As we watched her running along the beach and into the forest, John and I had a very brief discussion. Because the sun would soon be setting, we agreed that John would stay behind to set up our camp, while I went to help the unfortunate people. Although tired from the long hike, I was surprised to find myself jogging along the seashore until I reached the other stream.

The women’s camp was set up a slight distance from the shore and as I approached it, a pretty young woman with long black hair rushed towards me. She was terrified and had tears in her eyes when she flung herself into my arms crying, “I’m so glad you’re here! Although I haven’t seen the cougar for awhile, I’m sure it’s still around!”

The woman was so distressed that she had broken the handle off their only weapon. She had been violently beating a big pot with their hunting knife trying to keep the cougar at bay.

I checked on the 10-year-old boy lying inside a tent with his mother but there was nothing I could do. Apparently, she had froze when the cougar had grabbed the boy who had been playing a little further up stream. If it hadn’t been for the blonde lady covered in blood, beating the wildcat off with a big stick, he would have had more than his scalp torn and his throat slashed, he would have been killed.

Realizing it would soon be dark, help would be arriving before too long, and to get the terrified woman’s mind off the cougar, I told her to start packing everything up. While she was doing that, I returned to the beach and started a fire and as the flames engulfed the dry driftwood, I stacked more and more wood on it. The woodpile was much taller than I and when the bonfire reached the summit, the whole camp was lit up by the bright flames leaping into the black sky.

As I sat next to the scared woman with my arm around her and watched the wicked flames devouring the driftwood, it wasn’t long before I heard the whump, whump of an approaching helicopter. I had been expecting the chopper to touch down on the beach but instead, it hovered in the air. Three men dressed in red survival suits soon emerged, slid down a cable and ran into the camp. Before I knew it, the terrified woman, the mother, and her son, plus all their camping gear had disappeared with the fading sounds of the helicopter.

So, there I was, all by my lonesome, with a cougar in the vicinity and a long walk back to our camp in the dark. Although it felt kind of freaky and spooky, I couldn’t resist. Since the largest fire I had ever started was still blazing, I stripped down and was soon hooting and hollering as I danced round and round the burning inferno with a long stick in my hands. I was certain if the fire hadn’t scared off the cougar, a naked skinny white man screaming at the top of his lungs would have the desired effect.

As I wandered down the beach, constantly looking over my shoulder, the huge bonfire getting smaller and smaller, I was more than a little bit worried about the cougar. I wondered if diving into the ocean and then swimming away would deter a possible attack?

When John’s campfire was in sight, I felt more and more confident the closer I got to it. And, the juicy steak he prepared for me, never tasted so good.

Because it started raining the next day, we never hiked any further than Tsusiat Falls before turning back. Not that we were scared, but the cougar attack had somehow dampened our spirits more than the continual downpour.

During my time talking to the terrified woman in my arms, I never mentioned my name, had only told her that I had a sign shop in Nanaimo, BC. So, I was pleasantly surprised when she and the boy’s aunt walked into my shop and told me that her nephew had survived. They wanted to thank me for helping them and took me to a lounge, a cold beer on a hot summer day always hit the spot. The last thing I remember was when the woman that had been covered in blood, her long blonde hair flowing down her back as she ran towards two tired hikers, stood, and raising her glass high, toasted, “Here’s to adventure!”