I'm always up for an adventure and over the years, that enthusiastic spirit has landed me in trouble from time to time.
So, when I willingly volunteered to backpack 120-plus kilometres on the East Coast Trail, I should have known better than to think I could handle it relatively easily.
For those who don't know, the East Coast Trail is a 336 km coastal trail around the eastern shores of Newfoundland. A friend of mine was supposed to do the whole thing with another friend of his, but when the friend backed out, his girlfriend, along with my wife and I decided to join in on the "fun", albeit on a modified route.
We chose to hike 127 km of the northern trail, which contained several hikes labelled as "strenuous" and only for the most experienced of hikers. We dismissed these warnings as "experienced" mountain hikers in Alberta, no terrain in Newfoundland could possibly live up to the difficult treks we have in our province. Mistake one.
My wife, along with the two others we agreed to hike with are far more experienced and in much better shape than me. I planned to "train" leading up to the hike, but of course, time got away from me and the only "training" I did was a few 3km walks with the dogs in the weeks leading up to the walk. Mistake two.
This was going to be the most hiking I've done in my life, next to a couple 20-plus km weekend trips in Jasper close to a decade ago, when I was in far better shape.
I had all the gear, which was about 35 pounds worth of stuff when you jam it all into a 70 litre hiking backpack. We dehydrated our own food, had all the maps (there was an individual map for each 15 km section of the trail, including detailed instructions so you didn't leave the trail) and everything else we might need along the way.
In a lot of ways, I was ready, but in a very real sense, I was nowhere near close to as ready as I should have been.
It was a beautiful yet hotter-than-expected start to the trail, where we had planned to hike 17.2 kilometres of a moderate to difficult trail. Everything was going great, a lot of ups and downs on the trail, but nothing that screamed you will contemplate your sanity several times today.
About six hours into the hike, near the end of the trail, blisters started to form, and perhaps I should have taken this as a sign from my body. But of course I didn't. I ran out of water with a couple of kilometres to go on the trail, but overall, I was in mostly good spirits.
Now, we needed to find a place to pitch our tents for the night and refill our water in order to prepare for our hike the following day, a 15 km trek labelled as strenuous.
There are very few dedicated tent pads on the East Coast Trail, which made finding sleeping arrangements slightly more difficult than we anticipated. There isn't a lot of freshwater sources near the trail, another hurdle on our journey.
But, we got lucky.
After pitching our tents near the start of the second trail, in tall grass near a rock that we hoped would provide some break from the wind (it didn't). Luckily, a local restaurant generously allowed us to fill our water bottles and gave us enough water to cook that night and the next morning, as well as fill our hydropacks for the following day. It was the first of many moments of community generosity that spoke to the giving spirit of Newfoundlanders.
We took off the following day, still bouyed by enthusiasm, even if the sleep had been less than restful because of the hollowing wind.
We were followed by a small, playful silver fox on the start of our hike that day, which I wrongly took for a good omen.
A heat dome had hit Newfoundland the day we started the hike and lasted nearly the whole week, with about 35 degree temperatures including humidity and surprisingly little ocean breeze to cool the air.
Mid-afternoon that day, I laid down on the side of the trail, in some moss next to a tree needing to close my eyes and rest, feeling like completing the next 100 kilometres was going to be impossible.
But I dragged myself up and I kept walking.
That eight-hour day nearly took me down. But when my friend brought a bottle of cold water, thanks to the wonderful village of Bauline, which installed a tap for hikers and community members to access potable water, I was lifted back up.
On blistered feet, with a shoulder that screamed for the next four days and a body that wanted to quit every step of the way, I made it further than I ever expected.
Strangers offered us places to stay, generously filled out water bottles and even fed us a plate of fresh crab. As a group, we lifted each up when we needed it, and pushed ourselves through moments of struggle.
My wife and I bowed out around 2 p.m. on the fifth day, just past the 100km mark (if you count some of our detours and wrong turns). Our friends carried on the final 17 km to our final destination the next day. We helped lighten their load for the final push.
The weather was wonderful, the views were out of this world. The solitude at the back of the pack, encouraging myself to keep going was humbling.
Doing hard things – in the face of everything that tells you to quit or give up, teaches us a lot about ourselves and our capabilities. This journey sure did that.
After all, this adventure was all about finding solace in the journey and less about the destination.
At the end of it all, despite all my struggles, it lived up to expectations.
Byron Hackett is the Managing Editor of the Red Deer Advocate and a Regional Editor for Black Press Media.
