Iām not exactly Little Miss Adventure, but if I was to tell you the tale of my life youād probably mistake me for exactly that ā a year in the Yukon, thrown from a horse, a near-fatal scooter (motorbike) accident, camping all my formative years, been to Alaska and Mexico and back againā¦
ā¦Truth be told, though, Iām a bit of a pussy when it comes to facing Mother Nature at her finest. Spiders? Horrifying. Giant moths? Send me scurrying into a corner, ducking under covers. Creepy-crawlies give ME the creepy-crawlies, thanks very much.
Every now and then, however, I manage to trick myself into feeling like the calm, cool, collected adult I should rightly be now that Iām on the verge of turning 34. Ā Iād better be growing up.
Then stories like this come along. So, without much more adoā¦ a tale of a Steff gone camping.
We pitched our tent bright and early. Our neighbours mustāve made the same ferry as we did, for the British couple showed up mere minutes after we begin staking our site.
We both got our sites rigged and then cracked into our local Limeyās collection of beer while playing Frisbee to pass some time. Finally the pub called Gayboy (@mr_tits_pervert on Twitter) and I away, and we set on our local adventures ā pub grub, beer, shopping for campfire foodies, and then back to the site we went.
Finding our pitch and the next door one both deserted, we decided to have a game of cards, drink a beer, and plan our attack. On three sides of us were the islandās shores. One side a beach, one a lagoon, and one a harbour/marina. We decided to head to the nearby beach by way of the lagoon. Being Slow-Drinker Girl, I wisely brought my yet-unfinished beer with, and we set upon our latest adventure.
We traipsed down the hill and came out alongside the lagoon. It looked pretty dry and had the unmistakable West Coast generations of broken clam and oyster shells peppering the landscape along with the dark coastal rocks. We shrugged and made our way onto the lagoon. The footing was a bit spongey but it was otherwise indicating a crossing seemed pretty reliable.
We took off along the western side of the lagoon, keeping alongside a little stream we planned to cross midway, thanks to dottings of rocks and boulders across its path.
Suddenly, a shriek.
āJesus CHRIST!ā shouted GayBoy. āLook at the fucking crabs!ā
Suddenly I noticed the ground seemed to move in bits. Some very well-disguised crabs were creeping sideways across the shell-covered landscape. They were all around one to two inches in width, but the more I scoured the ground for them, the more I began to notice them. The landscape wasnāt just dotted with clam shells, but the muddy surface of the lagoon was similarly dotted with crabholes. Every couple inches was another hole between Ā½ inch wide all the way up to two inches wide. The holes were fine until a crab would poke its head out and observe us.
Unlike GayBoy, I wasnāt that freaked out. Concerned, yes, avoiding them, yes, but terrified? Not just yet.
āOkay, this is really creeping me out,ā GayBoy muttered. Clearly the dope weād smoked earlier was toying with his perceptions and making things a little more intense than they maybe needed to be.
We decided to cross the stream right there, and I led the way, clumsily hopping across rocks and landing with a splash of beer spilling out my bottle on the other side. I took a couple steps and found myself beginning to sink some four or so inches down into grubby mud. And with every sink, more crabholes were vacated, the stupid critters heading AT us instead of AWAY from us.
āOh, JESUS,ā exclaimed GayBoy.
āLetās get the fuck out of here!ā I reacted. Then I began to mock GayBoy, muttering with sing-song disdain under my breath. ā ‘Letās cross the lagoon. Itās a nice beach on the other side.’ ā
āAll right, FINE! What way do you want to go?ā he bitterly retorted.
āLetās go to the east sideā¦ it looks drier.ā
So, naturally, we crossed back. I surveyed the lay of the lagoon and the spot that looked the driest was the direction in which we decided to head.
Big fuckinā mistake. A few steps later, weāre sinking six inches down. āFuckfuckfuckfuck!ā I started gasping.
āFuck this! Letās head back to the path!ā shouted GayBoy.
Thatās when my shoe came off. I yelped and gasped, beginning to hyperventilate. Crabs were everywhere now. It seemed like theyād all heard there was a new show in town and clamoured for front-row tickets. Not only was I staring down in fear, teetering on one sunken foot as my mud-stuck shoe was hidden from view, but I was becoming increasingly aware that the scattered crabs were now out in force, all hovering around us.
Suddenly I flashed back to my old film job, remembering painful scenes of captioning poor fuckers dying in quicksand. I had clips of nature shows, crabs picking bones clean on shorelines. Then I had a vision of a blog headline, āSomething Tragic Afoot: Crabs Dine A La Steff in Lagoon ā memorial Tuesday at Twin Pines.ā
GayBoy clasped onto me and refocused me. āSteady! Steady. Hereās your shoe.ā
I got the shoe back on, and then, clenching my toes to hold the shoe on slipper-style (the heel was pushed down under my foot, itās all we could manage), I had to use all my strength to hike my feet back out of the now-eight inches of sludge. Every footstep was an epic effort.
Then, the worst that could happen ā one shoe came offā¦ and then the other as I stumbled forward onto my bare-sock foot.
I began hyperventilating like a prison bitch trapped in a shower, but GayBoy acted quickly and got me both shoes, while barely keeping it together himself.
With another 20 feet to go, we continued trying to get to the dry path one step at a time. Fortunately neither of us became crabsā lunches, and we finally made it to the shore.
And me, true Canadian girl I am, succeeded in failing to spill ALL the beer. Thank god for Alexander Keith, patron saint to Canadians lost in crab-infested lagoons, it would seem.
We spent the night exploring debauchery with our new best friends from England, laughing about all our misadventures as we brazenly worked towards the next morningās hangovers.
Camping, anyone?
Below’s the estimated route of our path:
And here, most importantly, is the beer I managed to keep alive all through the turmoil! Truly a Canadian girl with her Canadian beer! And yes I write notes on my hands and arms, hence the weird blue bit on the left there…