BETTER AS A SOLO HIKE

Not long ago, during our coldest spell of this mild winter season, I set out on a five-hour hike, hoping to catch Norvan Falls completely frozen. I’d seen photos online from the weekend but, by the time I arrived on the scene midweek, the water was crashing down again although it still looked cool with the icy bits that framed it on either side. A decent day. As I walked back to my car, I noticed a marker for The Varley Trail and a large sign that explained it was so named for a famous Canadian painter, Frederick H. Varley, a member of the Group of Seven. He’d lived in this area for a number of years and the trail purportedly covers much of the land he strolled as he searched for inspiration. I knew I’d be back to check it out.

It’s a short trail through the forest with many wooden walkways built over muckier sections. A rushing stream flanks it for much of the way. After dodging mountain bikers on a connector path, I came to a loop around the rather compact Rice Lake with a few mountain views. All lovely. Still, my hikes are never less than three hours so I wandered onto other trails midmorning and after lunch. Meandering took me along a muddier trail—no user-friendly platforms this time—and eventually down a couple hundred wooden stairs. (I have such appreciation for trail builders. Who built these stairs? How long did it take, carting all the supplies from a car parked miles away? Was something about a preexisting dirt path deemed too treacherous?) There, a mere thirty feet from the bottom of the steps, I experienced déjà-vu.

More like déjà-eww.

Oh, the scene itself was spectacular. A pool of impossibly green water glistened, the water so clear, the rocky bottom was in full view. Last time I’d been here, was on a Saturday in April six years ago, when the sound of water cascading downward at a point mostly hidden by protruding rocks was drowned out by dozens of people looking for photo ops after checking out the nearby Lynn Canyon Suspension Bridge. Today, I gloried in having the place to myself, in part because it was a weekday, but also because, as I soon discovered, the suspension bridge was closed, access completely fenced off.

Six years ago, I welcomed the noise of the crowd. I was on a go-see first date that arose from a guy reaching out to me on Plenty of Fish. Such occasions had become routine: show up at a coffee spot, sit and sip, strain to make the conversation feel like something beyond an interview. I was excited that he’d suggested we grab a coffee and head out on a short hike. We could experience something as we chatted. The conversation would flow more naturally while walking and talking, similar to what happens when two people are driving somewhere. Even if we weren’t a match, it would be fun to get out and see a beautiful forest area I’d only explored once, twenty years prior when I’d first moved to Vancouver.

The date was dreadful. It felt like I was on the receiving end of an excruciating silent treatment, whatever conversation that happened being all give, no take. I’d lob a question, he’d answer in the fewest possible words and forgo the courteous, common sense “What about you?” that normal, socially aware people lob back in a get-to-know-you exchange where two people search for a shared interest. He didn’t even bother to pose one of those standard questions like “What do you do for a living?” or “If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?” Okay, I’ve never asked or been asked the latter question. For the record, a weeping willow. On that date, at least. Emphasis on the first word. No actual tears but the experience was painful—weep worthy.

What made things worse was being stuck on the date with no handy exit plan. In a cafe, I could have stood up and said, “Nice meeting you, but I’ve got to get home to [insert something that sounds infinitely more exciting (e.g., re-grouting my shower tiles or self-administering a root canal)].” I was stuck in the middle of a forest, at least half an hour away from where he’d parked his car, my own vehicle still parked near a coffee shop I had no idea how to get back to on my own.

I recall feeling shunned. To this guy, I was some sort of pariah. It seemed he was gritting his teeth, just trying to get through this experience, something in his mind worse than the combined torture of waterboarding, a fully body waxing and Michael Bolton playing on an endless repeat cycle. And that’s where we finally found common ground: his torture was my torture.

Dates like that are best forgotten. Largely, I’d done that although the wall of silence was so off-putting that the outing has occasionally come back to mind on subsequent dud dates as a point of reference and perspective. No matter how flat any other date felt, I could always tell myself, At least it wasn’t as bad as that hike in the forest.

I’m glad I stumbled on this familiar ground again. While the beauty of this spot registered even six years ago amid that air of awkwardness and that throng of people scrambling for selfies, I now had a chance to fully appreciate it. No interruptions. No nagging thoughts in my head like Am I simply hideous? or Do I have halitosis? Body odor? Boogers swinging from dangling nasal hairs?

I’m grateful I got to experience this spot again, to take it back, to have this moment as my own. Such a beautiful place. It deserved another chance.

After twenty minutes and lots of photos—not a selfie in the bunch—I turned back to face the daunting set of stairs. Onward and upward.