Simplicity

One of my favourite things about backpacking is it's simplicity. This summer, I worked a fair bit on the ocean, paddling sea kayaks in beautiful and disparate sections of the BC coast. A couple of weeks ago I was offered the chance to get out to a place I had never been. It involved a long drive, a water taxi ride and an 8-day return paddle to where I was to leave my car. My sea kayak is not big, and I often comment that it's good thing I'm a backpacker too since my habit is most often to leave the kitchen sink at home. However, most sea kayaks (even mine) have space to fit enough stuff to furnish a  small bachelor apartment (ok...maybe a slight exaggeration), and so we have a tendency to fill them up with much stuff on our journeys on the ocean. Added to that the logistics of vehicles, trailers, water taxis and all the trappings of moving our boats and gear to the start of a trip can be none too simple. I have wheeled a small fleet of kayaks onto an overbooked ferry only to have one nearly smushed under a Greyhound bus and another needing to be loaded onto the roof of a strangers' car in order to make sure all the boats ended up making the trip. Needless to say, kayaking can be a complex and not so cost-efficient endeavour (don't get me wrong - it can be, I've certainly been known to throw the boat on the car and go to the closest put in for a day or multi-day paddle without much of a plan). Backpacking on the other hand has a simple and brutish elegance; an ethos of 'less is more', all our needs transported on our backs by the grace and balance of our bodies. One foot in front of the other.

As it turns out, the forecast for my 8 day sea kayak journey was looking a wee bit too windy and the likelihood of getting windbound out on an island for at least the first 3 of my available 8 days was high. But last week, my about-to-be-full-time-employed feet were itchy for an adventure. So the day before my planned departure I threw together a plan B. My pack, basic gear, some simple food thrown together from summer roadkill* and my boots were in the car in a matter of a couple of hours and off I went. Still craving some ocean time, I headed for a section of coast which holds no small measure of memories and magic for me.

I appreciate the simplicity of this process - and the luxury of having the resources of skill and freedom that make this easy for me. It feels less like an epic adventure and more like a return home; to a mode of travel that feels welcoming, comfortable and easeful. There is also an element of this stretch of coast which feels a bit like visiting ghosts - but the good and familiar kind. Over six days I moved at my own pace - a luxury that is notable as I am often in these places moving at the speed of the collective, and attending to the needs of others. I covered ground quickly when it felt right, and also spent a few leisurely afternoons at campsites arrived at early in the day. I read my book, drank tea, watched the surf, scanned for whales.

When moving, I often paused and noticed the small things that appeared along my path. The way gull feathers gathered water droplets from the morning fog on the many-textured beaches, or how the long greeny-brown strands of uprooted bull kelp that washed up on the sand had somehow tied themselves up in
knots. The way the sun and cloud and ocean water conspired with sand and rock to create a certain kind of dark reflective light on a certain morning, in a certain place. I slept one night in a sandstone amphitheatre, put to sleep by the resounding boom of dumping surf, lulled by the sounds of the receding tide sucking itself back to sea, tumbling and reorganizing the cobble beach. I sat in the non-silence of this wild coast, a campsite to myself for once, stoking a small fire and watching the sun set; only for a moment feeling very alone at all.

I was reminded of the power of these simple things. The way the sea can shift and wear at the most unbreakable stone and render them more beautiful with each passing year. That we are just passing through, our lives and petty dramas far less important than we can ever imagine in the grand scheme of time and nature. That all the things that catch our attention or get passed unseen along the way hold more secrets than we can comprehend; if we just pause a moment longer we may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of something magical. The smallest details can sometimes hold the most valuable gifts, and the simple things can be the most profound.

 *'Roadkill' is an affectionate term used for leftover trip food that guides/instructors often scrounge up after work contracts.