Shortly after we entered the inlet, the clouds opened up and light rain began to fall. As we made our unhurried advance through the calm, dark blue water, each kilometre revealed something singular, something extraordinary: spectacular waterfalls cascading from great heights, their genesis cloaked in thick layers of cumulus; granite cliffs rising many hundreds of metres above us—their extent was also obscured by the low ceiling; voluminous creeks emptying into the estuary with great drama. Every once in a while we’d spot a small abandoned cabin poking out of the forest, only metres above the high-tide line, on the verge of surrendering to the elements. I imagined grizzled old prospectors once having lived in them as they scoured the area for gold decades earlier.
The slow barge ride up the inlet was a lot to drink in. I used up more than half of the film I had brought along to document the adventure, unable to set my camera down for more than a few moments at a time.
Curiously, feelings of loneliness and isolation began to take hold the farther in we went. I suppose if we had flown, or travelled in a much faster craft, those feelings wouldn’t have had the opportunity to develop. The barge, burdened with the weight of trucks, fuel, gear and personnel, plodded along slowly through the dark calm water. By hour eight or nine, not having seen any other vessel travelling in or out, those feelings of loneliness and isolation gave way to a general sense of unease. I know I wasn’t the only one who felt it.
We arrived at the head of the inlet late in the afternoon. The plan was to drive the twenty-five kilometres to the Scar Creek logging camp, unload the trucks, and hike to a nearby creek where we’d pitch our tents. Once set up, we could sit down to a hot meal back in the camp dining hall. I had endured nearly forty-eight hours without any real food.
The road leading inland from the head of the inlet was built specifically for the purpose of harvesting trees and putting wood in the water.1 It did not link up with any other road or highway network. It terminated where the harvesting ended. Beyond that were hundreds of kilometres of pristine, untouched wilderness unbranded by human footprints.
It was a good half-hour drive from the beachhead to the Scar Creek camp. Stepping out of the truck, I immediately sensed something off about the place. It didn’t feel right. I quickly dismissed that first impression. I couldn’t trust it. I was still suffering from the residual effects of a fever and a codeine hangover.
The camp was well organized. Aside from a large machine shop and mess hall, there were a half-dozen mobile-home-like structures sprawled out across two acres, erected to shelter the crews that worked to put wood in the water.
No caulks beyond this point was the ubiquitous message in camp.2 The sign was at every entrance to every building. It was especially prominent at the entrance to the kitchen and mess hall.
Across the compound was a recreation room where the loggers went to unwind after dinner. The door was ajar. I could spot several sets of eyes checking us out from within.
While we were unloading gear from our trucks, a group of loggers assembled on the mess hall porch. Judging by the sour expressions, this wasn’t a welcoming committee. They didn’t seem too thrilled about strangers rolling into their camp. I suppose they decided that we didn’t pose much of a threat, though. They soon lost interest and went back to their meals.
Our late arrival left us with limited daylight. We needed to hike our gear to the creek and set up our camp before nightfall. Wafting across the compound from the kitchen was the wonderful aroma of dinner. Hot food would be waiting for us the moment we got ourselves squared away.
The trail that led to our camping area cut through a thick patch of conifers for the first two hundred metres, then dropped down to a sandy flat where it wound through another two hundred metres of thick salmonberry, terminating at a sandy ledge at the edge of a creek.
The creek was at its seasonal low, exposing a five-metre-wide swath of dry creek bed, checkerboarded by round alluvial stones rendered smooth and slick from fast-running water. The creek just beyond ran shallow but steady. On one side, a large boulder field interrupted its flow, creating deep shimmering pools beyond, and on the other, a sublime sight: the exposed creek bed transitioned into a long, soft carpet of grey, talc-like sand—a narrow swath at first, swelling out into a vast expanse some five hundred metres long and up to fifty metres wide.
Tall timber flanked the beach on the upper fringe, accentuated by cedar, balsam and hemlock. The creek defined the lower boundary, its flow occasionally disrupted by large protruding boulders, inducing sloshes and churns that reverberated throughout the corridor.
Beyond the boulder field on the other side of the creek, the terrain then sloped upward, gradually increasing in grade, the heavy brush giving way to towering cedars with smaller maples interspersed between them. It was an ominous backdrop. This was real wilderness. One had to wonder what lurked along those higher reaches.
The beach offered numerous possibilities for individual campsites, everything from compacted waterfront benches to private alcoves tucked in along the forest edge. Preferring privacy, I claimed a spot at the very far end of the corridor. It was a long walk to the trailhead that led back to the logging camp, but the spot was wonderfully secluded.
After an hour of dragging gear, levelling sand, and pounding tent pegs, we raised an impressive little tent village. One dozen nylon structures of every shape, colour and size extended some five hundred metres from one end of the corridor to the other. My contribution to the neighbourhood: a two-man pup tent with an orange shell and a bright blue tarp fashioned as a rainfly.
By then, the sun was in full retreat. Barrett calling us to dinner was music to my ears. With our tents pitched, our gear organized for the next morning and flashlights in hand, we made our way back up the trail to the dining hall.
The mess hall was set up like a cafeteria. At supper, the entire meal was laid out buffet style—all you could eat and then some. In the morning, there was an assortment of breakfast entrees, also laid out buffet style, but you could have your eggs made to order. We were responsible for bagging our own lunches, and there was a separate room where lunch items were laid out each morning.
A very generous dinner spread was set out for us that first night, and as we filled our faces, Barrett gave us a quick rundown of the house rules, which facilities were open to us and which were strictly off limits. Aside from the dining hall, we were granted access to a vacant unit at the far end of the camp. It had a bathroom, several shower stalls and a good-sized dry room in the event the sky opened up on us. The recreation hall—where the loggers gathered to blow off steam after dinner—was a big question mark. Access would be decided by the loggers and would be by invitation only. I was intrigued by that little detail.
I slept extremely well in my tiny pup tent on the beach that first night. Soothed by the sound of running water and an occasional breeze caressing the canopy of conifer limbs above, I was instantly lulled and transported into dreamland. Nothing could have shaken me out of my slumber that first night.
It was pre-dawn when I emerged from my tent the next morning. Feeling better than I had in days, excited at the prospect of hitting the slopes, I headed off in the direction of the logging camp, eager to get a jump on my day. Along the trail, I heard a dog barking in the distance. It wasn’t a normal bark. It sounded anxious, strained. I remember wondering if it was Lady, and what it was that had her so agitated, so early in the morning.
I wasn’t prepared for the reception I received when I stepped into the mess hall that first morning. Three dozen loggers, all in the final stages of polishing off their breakfasts, stopped in mid-chew and stared me down. Bulletproof faces. Row upon row of them. Not a smile or friendly gesture among them. This hostility was par for the course in many ways. These men were working in one of the most geographically isolated areas on the planet. They weren’t used to outsiders coming in, violating their space, sitting at their tables, eating their food. Tread lightly, I thought. I made a beeline for the safety of the lunchroom around the corner.