The day began early, just before sunrise. It was the first morning of our May long weekend camping trip at Ralph River Campground on Buttle Lake in eastern Strathcona Provincial Park. My dad and I had driven up island the day prior, arriving midafternoon after a long drive. North to Campbell River and south again along Upper Campbell Lake to the 23 km long Buttle Lake. It was official designated as a “fishing trip” but I myself was more excited about the prospect of hiking. Regardless, sunlight had just started to colour the peaks of Philips Ridge, three peaks still scattered with a patchwork of diminishing winter snows which dominated the view from our campsite when my dad woke me up to go fishing. A sheltered bay lay at the end of the path that led through the flats surrounding the campground, and it was there we launched our boats. I had elected to bring the canoe for myself, while my dad had his inflatable outboard dingy. The bay was still. Barely a ripple disturbed its mirror like surface, and as the sun rose, breaking over the peaks to the east, it cast a stunning glimmer upon the water which shone like polished silver. As the morning went on, I fished unsuccessfully – truthfully, being more interested in taking pictures - and the wind kicked up, carrying clouds into the valley and making it difficult to keep my canoe on course. After a while we decided to finish up for the day and head in to make breakfast before setting out on a day hike.
The destination for the days hike for us was Lower Myra Falls and the Myra Falls trail. Myra falls is one of the largest in BC, and consists of four tiers of powerful falls that empty right into the lake. They are very near to the southern end of the lake, and on the west side, accessible with only about a one km walk down a trail. There are two viewpoints. From one you have access to the entire rock formation the encircles the falls, from times of higher water when it sweeps across the rocks, smoothing them and forming them into a series of tumbled ledges and cracks of light colored stone. Lucky for us, the water was fairly low, but still immensely powerful. The roar of the falls drowned out all else. One unfortunate misstep here could mean ones end. We were cautious. If anything however, the deadly force of the waters only served to make them more magnificent, one of many reminders on this trip of the awesome powers and sheer immensity of the natural world.
After a fair bit of exploring and picture taking at the lower falls, we headed back up to the road and drove past the massive Westmin Mine to reach the trailhead to Upper Myra Falls. The trail led entirely through the forest, which was littered with massive boulders. Whether they fell from the sides of the mountain long ago, or were deposited by retreating glaciers, it’s hard to know. We walked for about an hour and a half and passed two small streams, however, we stopped after the second, as given that the map was not very comprehensive, I mistakenly misread it, and erroneously thought the second mountain stream was Upper Myra Falls! So, somewhat unimpressed, we sat down and ate our lunches, and then I read my book while my dad had a nap next to the stream, a pleasant hike, certainly, but what might it have been if I had read the map correctly? Nonetheless, we went back to camp in an amiable state of tiredness, as one always is after a healthy trek, and during dinner I planned for the next day’s hike, which would be a much greater adventure than all that had happened yet so far.
The second day had an early start much like the first. The hike for that day, I had decided, was to be the greatest. I wanted to climb a mountain.
The mountain I chose was Marble Peak, or rather, the adjacent Marble Meadows, a subalpine plateau that lay on the west side of Buttle. There is no road along the western shore, so to reach the trailhead my dad and I headed out early to the Auger Point boat launch, strapping his boat to the roof of the truck.
Although Buttle Lake is long, at its widest it is only 1.5km across, nonetheless it took a good 45 minutes to putter across the lake to the Philips Marine Campsite, where the Marble Meadows trail began at 225 meters above sea level. The elevation of Marble Meadows itself? 1450 meters. In comparison, Mount Douglas is a meager 155 meters from base to crown. The halfway point was a “water source” as described in the map book, at 825 meters. An old wooden sign at the head of the trail read “Water: 2 miles.” Luckily, we had brought plenty of water with us, and so with an estimated climbing time of four hours and a starting time of 9:30AM, we set our feet upon the upward trail.
The climb started out in a deep forest much like the Myra Falls trail, but soon opened up into a brighter area with less undergrowth and arbutus trees. The day was sunny and warm, and we stopped to put on sunscreen and take a short breather after half an hour or so. We carried on, once again plunging into thicker forest with more undergrowth, then brighter, open groves. The map was deceptive, not detailed enough to use for any proper navigation, and every time I thought we were nearing the place of the water source, the trail turned and continued to climb. Up and up and up in seemingly endless switchbacks. After a time, even my breathing became labored, my feet weary, how was it that we had not even reached the halfway point yet? But we marched on, determined to prove ourselves and conquer the summit. Finally, after what seemed like an endless climb, we reached the water source; a small forest stream which emptied into a little lake. Knowing that we were halfway was both a comfort and a source of dread to me, but I held on to the image of what it would be like at the top, with no other human souls around for miles and miles, just the sky stretching on to the horizon and the pillars of the mountains, old and strong, and with a great deal of resolution, and some plain stubbornness, we carried on.
A little ways after the lake and stream we came to a section of the trail which I can very easily call my least favorite. After a short descent into a mossy dell filled with the twittering of birds, its seasonal streambed still damp, the trail climbed up again onto a steep wooded slope and a series of tight switchbacks. But these were not the luscious green woods of the lower forest, nor the bright groves of arbutus. Rather, it was row after row of thin and broken cedars, half dead with peeling bark, their feeble lower branches draped with lichen. There was no undergrowth, and as a result the trail was worn away to a track barely eight inches wide in many places, bordered on one side by the precarious slope. It took nearly half an hour of climbing until we escaped the grey forest, and at last it seemed as though the end on the climb was in sight.
We could see before us the final wall of stone upon which sat Marble Meadows, and yet it still took another forty minutes before we found we could go no further. To our dismay – though, it should not have been to our surprise, we were very close to reaching the Meadows when we found our way was blocked by snow! We found our way through the first few patches, but soon found we could go no further, being unprepared for such an obstacle and without the navigational tools required to keep to the trail when it was buried. There were no footprints in the snow, so we concluded that we were the first in the year to ascend the Marble Meadows trail, which gave me for whichever reason a great amount of satisfaction. However, never one to simply turn back, I set down my backpack and my dad found a seat with a view, and I searched out an upward rout that was snow free, scampering up the slope on paths of bare rock and the snow free hollows around the trees. When I could go no higher, I stopped and looked around. Behind me rose the last slopes leading up to the plateau; a week or two more of warm weather and I could have walked to the highest point I could see. To the north was Marble peak, imposing and wreathed in cloud. To the west and south Buttle Lake lay blue beneath me, the few small boats in its waters identifiable mostly by their white wakes. I could see the river outflow and grassy flats where we had landed in the morning, and across the lake, the boat launch, the manmade form of the ramp barely distinguishable. I spotted a helicopter flying across the lake – it seemed to only be flying at half our altitude. Beyond the lake, mountains again rose up, crowned with snow. Though I was viewing them from a much less severe angle than normal, they were no less majestic, no less powerful. Some of their peaks were lost in the clouds that were rolling in, only above the lake were the skies clear, but I could see a front moving in over Marble Meadows from the west, soon the impending clouds would blot out the sun. I lingered for a while, ruling queen of this kingdom of stone and sky, but knew I should return to my dad, lest he worry. We sat for a while, eating cherry tomatoes and admiring the view before deciding it was time to descend. It almost felt wrong, leaving the mountain unfinished, but there was no way to complete it while the snows remained. I vowed to return one day one in late summer, when all the snows will have melted. The descent was uneventful until we were again passing through the slope of broken cedar; suddenly a mighty crashing BOOM split the air, and my blood chilled as I immediately recognized the sound of thunder, and realized that the side of a mountain is not a terrific place to be during a thunderstorm. Fear and fascination mingled as we hurried our descent, worrying also that a storm might make it impossible to get across the lake, either by force of wind or threat of lightning. Still I looked up, hoping to see a flash, so rare in Victoria, and also hoping to be able to calculate the proximity of the storm to use by counting the seconds between lightning and thunder. We passed through the green dell, and by the water source, resting less often and for shorter periods than during our ascent. Just past halfway down it began to rain, but only lightly, thankfully, or else the path would have been turned into a stream unto itself and would have been treacherous. Thankfully, the storm soon abated, and the thunder gave way to only light rain. Nonetheless, the relief I felt upon finally reaching the lake and exiting the forest was incomparable. I looked forward to nothing more than to curl up into my sleeping bag and rest my bones. But the surprises weren’t over yet, upon crossing the lake and arriving back at the boat launch, we found the Ralph River park Rangers waiting for us! My dad’s friend who had stayed back at camp had gotten worried at our long absence (at this point we had been gone over ten hours) and had contacted the Rangers, who went to watch for our return. Obviously, we were just fine, if a little tired and sore, and so we loaded the boat back on to the truck and headed back to the camp, where after a good meal, I settled in for a long and restful sleep.
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