I stood on the mountaintop and watched the sun slipping behind the Coast Mountain Ranges in a blaze of lilac and gold. Up on this ridge, above the tree line, at an altitude of 6,000 feet, there was no water to be found – it was all down in the valleys, in the streams and lakes. I tilted my stainless steel water bottle and the last trickle dribbled into my mouth.
I was in the backcountry of British Columbia, standing on the boundary between Whistler Mountain Resort and Garibaldi Provincial Park. I was only about two hours drive from my home in Vancouver, but I was definitely in the wilderness, and I was very much alone.
A few months prior, my long-term girlfriend had left me for another man. Jenny and I had hiked together through Canada, the United States, Australia, Thailand and Vietnam. This new guy was also a hiker, but all the mountains he’d scaled were bigger than mine and Jenny told me his hiking style was akin to that of a mountain goat. I’d been traded in for the new model.
With summer drawing to a close, and no new hiking partner in sight, I decided to take an epic hike all by myself. I hastily threw together some provisions, rode an afternoon gondola to the top of Whistler mountain and struck out into the wild.
Before I was even halfway to the campsite, the sun disappeared and the green valleys below turned to black. The air was cooler now, and my sweat chilled me as I dragged my boots through the dust and rubble. A half moon rose over the snow-capped peaks, illuminating the trail as it led down into the dark forest. As I slipped silently between the twisted pines, my hands instinctively moved to my waistband – one on my diving knife, the other on my bear spray. I moved gracefully and with purpose, eyes fully dilated, equal parts animal and man.
I emerged from the forest into a field of moon-lit boulders, trimmed with a spiky silhouette of subalpine firs, under a dome of countless stars. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, marvelling at the galaxies above. To my surprise, some of the stars were moving in time with my laboured breath. Fearing that I was beginning to hallucinate, I continued along the trail at a much slower rate.
In the next valley, I saw more lights, these ones dancing around like fireflies. I stumbled and tripped my way towards the lights with a huge grin on my face. They’re not fireflies – they’re people! People with headlamps! I was finally at the campsite and I’d never been so happy to see strangers in all my life!
Creative Nonfiction by Drew Clarke 