DISPATCH

Lush northwest forest on the way up Tin Hat Mountain.

Thru-Hiking, Canadian Style

When the pandemic shut down my plans to hike Europe, I found a world-class trail right on my doorstep.

BY BRENDAN SAINSBURY

At the top of British Columbia’s Tin Hat Mountain, the 360-degree panorama looks uncannily like Tolkien’s Middle Earth: Below me spread deep-cut fjords and hazy lakes, velvety mountains and densely forested foothills. A hobbit wouldn’t seem out of place.

But today, nothing moves. There isn’t a single backpacker outside the handsome wooden hut perched on a rocky bluff several hundred feet below, a sought-after overnight destination in a normal year. It’s summer 2021, though, and between the fluctuating pandemic restrictions and the shift away from international travel, it has been anything but normal, which is how I find myself alone on the summit.

Tin Hat marks the halfway point of the Sunshine Coast Trail (SCT), a 112-mile path that meanders from Sarah Point in Desolation Sound to Saltery Bay, its route winding through the evergreen forests blanketing the coastline north of Vancouver. Flanked by BC’s skyscraping Coast Mountains on one side and Vancouver Island on the other, it’s the longest hutto-hut trail in Canada and, fortunately for hikers, also one of its most meticulously signposted. The bulk of the SCT’s route twists through a mixture of old- and new-growth forest, climbing at intervals to rocky lookouts and breezy mountain summits. The coastal sections are short and wooded, while the abundant lakes are secluded and beautiful. The ascent of Tin Hat incorporates logging roads, soft forest paths, and a bit of minor scrambling as the trail breaks free of the trees to reach the 3,914-foot summit. Many hikers (myself included) consider this to be the best spot on the SCT, thanks largely to the view and spectacularly situated hut. Just as I begin to tire of the forest, the trees suddenly part and—boom! Enormous mountains and clear lakes seem to sprawl in every direction, with nothing but more peaks all the way to the horizon.

As the sun pokes hopefully through the morning clouds, I’m tempted to savor my surroundings a little longer. But with another 22 miles to cover if I’m to reach the town of Powell River before dark, I elect to keep moving.

Leaping off a rock, I break into a gentle jog as the trail descends into forest, my feet falling softly on a springy layer of fir needles marked with an occasional pile of bear scat. Normally the sight of fresh droppings would make me wary, but nothing can disturb my composure this morning. I’m just blissfully happy to be outside, drinking in the fresh alpine air.

A d v e n t u r e s

Like many others, I found my hiking plans stopped in their tracks when the pandemic hit. Unable to travel outside Canada when Covid-19 closed its vice-like grip on the world, I instead opened up a map of British Columbia in search of closer-to-home long trail options.

I had a rudimentary knowledge of the Sunshine Coast from previous visits, and was aware that a relatively new trail (it was completed in 2000) equipped with overnight huts cut through its wooded mountains. But, distracted by foreign work assignments and family visits to my native England, I had repeatedly put exploring the region on the back burner, instead opting to trek through Peru’s Cordillera Blanca and the Italian Dolomites.

When the door to overseas travel unceremoniously slammed shut in 2020, all other temptations vanished. Working within my new limitations, I started to make tentative trips north from my home near Vancouver to test my mettle on the long and winding SCT.

While the huts were closed due to the pandemic, I improvised by staying overnight in Powell River—a 4-hour drive northwest of Vancouver—and section-hiking the trail on elongated day trips covering up to 30 miles.

Clockwise from above: On the SCT near Louis Lake; Tin Hat hut.

As an experienced backcountry runner, I was able to maximize my trail time and still enjoy the huts as picnic stops. It wasn’t strictly backpacking, but it was a formidable challenge. My first trip took me up to the trail’s highest point, 4,255-foot Mt. Troubridge. The day was wet and drizzly, with the earthy aroma of damp soil in the air and a faint mist hanging over the mossy canopy. On the second, I jogged along the trail’s northernmost section, taking in Manzanita Bluff with its rust-colored arbutus trees and Appleton Canyon’s fern-framed waterfalls. I’d traversed tougher trails in more exotic locales in the past, but the SCT felt pleasantly intimate, like I was on home turf. Today’s trip, Tin Hat Mountain, is my third, and by this point I am thoroughly seduced by the SCT’s unique charms. This isn’t simply a trail designed to get you from A to B; it’s a beloved community project, nurtured and maintained by an enthusiastic group of local volunteers. The grassroots support goes way beyond just building huts and raising funds. There’s an annual race along an 18-mile section of the path, weekly hiking groups tackling assorted trail highlights, and even a comprehensive guidebook written by SCT cofounder Eagle Walz.

Looking out on the peaks and lakes of the Coast Mountains from Tin Hat’s summit.

When I started hiking the SCT, the first thing to impress me was the diligent markings. Detailed map-boards illustrate the topography, signposts indicate nearby water sources, and small orange numbers nailed onto trees denote every passing kilometer. Next to steal my heart was the condition of the trail: scrupulously maintained, from the kitted-out huts (complete with pellet stoves, sleeping lofts, picnic tables, and outhouses) to its sturdy wooden bridges. I can recall only one or two occasions when I had to circumnavigate a waterlogged section or vault over a fallen tree. Best of all are the hidden treats, proof that the SCT isn’t just liked, it’s loved: I especially enjoyed the logbooks left at strategic spots for hikers to share comments, and the lone canoe tied to a jetty on Little Sliammon Lake, which gave me the opportunity to go for a tranquil paddle while temporarily resting my legs. I might be alone in the Canadian wilderness, but, entertained by these thoughtful little gestures, I feel as if I am being looked after, tracked by an invisible guardian angel.

After descending from Tin Hat, I follow the path through the mountain’s forested lower reaches before dropping down to an abandoned farm and orchard at Fiddlehead Landing. The faint reminders of humanity are brief, though. Within minutes, I’m back in the wilderness, climbing through ancient fir forest to Confederation Lake, where I stop for a brief lunch of energy bars and pepperoni sticks outside an attractive waterside hut with a green gabled roof.

As well-managed as it is, the trail remains curiously under-the-radar, playing second fiddle to more famous BC jaunts like Vancouver Island’s West Coast Trail (which, unlike the SCT, employs fees and a reservation system).

The final 9 miles into Powell River, much of it along forested lakeshore, is tiring but immensely satisfying. Enjoying the solitude, I watch loons swooping low over calm waters while—mindful of the local bear population—I sing 1980s indie-rock anthems.

I stumble into the deserted streets of Powell River’s historic townsite at around 5 p.m. with all four limbs still functioning. The liquid reward for most hikers who frequent these parts is a pint of Tin Hat IPA from the local Townsite Brewpub, muddy shoes and aching legs be damned, and I think I’ve more than earned it.

The Sunshine Coast offers me freedom, adventure, and solace from long stints of working at home. More importantly, in an era of disorientating restrictions and uncertainties, it provides me with a clear and well-marked path.

DO IT

Permit None

Season Open year-round; summer is best

Trailhead 50.0576, -124.8361

Distance 112 miles