Bruises and auto presence

not enjoying the process

This is part of an unplanned series that began when I hiked the West Coast Trail, then cracked open my journal afterward. Reading my thoughts, often soaked in exhaustion, has helped me remember what came up in the moment, and to pursue some of it further through writing.

This section was inspired by day two of our hike, from Thrasher to Camper: about 8 to 9 km that typically takes 5 to 7 hours. We decided to aim for a famous stretch that required timing the tides. Since holding my camera for much of it wouldn’t have been safe, I’ve sprinkled in shots from the entire day. Once we got to camp, we found out two people had broken their noses slipping—so while I don’t have photos of every part, I walked away with no broken bones. A win is a win.

I am including ambient sounds, feel free to hit play to hear the ocean while you read.

Bruises and auto presence

Pole first.
Test the surface. Is it steady?
Right foot.
Move pole.
Left foot, move pole.
Glance up. Where to step next?

I am a human crab, weaving my way over shell-encrusted boulders and rocks. Arms extended with poles, tentative forward motion broken by furtive glances up. I search for Corey ahead and aim myself toward him, hoping this strategy will save me from having to find my own path forward. My mistake: forgetting Corey’s long legs can clear gaps and sections I end up dipping into. Once in a while, he waits to point out handholds and shorter-person-friendly routes, places where I can hoist my body and pack up and over the boulders.

Another rock. Another glance for Corey. We’d left camp early, on the trail by 6:15am, skipping breakfast. Pockets filled with snacks to hold us over, coffee in one tumbler brewed the night before. As we set out, we knew that for every hour on this section, the tide would rise by a foot. If we timed it well, our reward would be walking through a sandstone sea cave, carved out by surge waters, while a forest grew overhead. Owen Point.

Shoot.

My mind isn’t on my feet, and just like that, I feel my body tip forward. I have a split-second decision to make: hand forward to break the fall, or let gravity take me? Bruises heal; broken bones mean evac. So I don’t sacrifice delicate wrists—instead, I drop into a crouch and pray. As dramatic as it sounds, it feels like slow motion. When I finally land, my right shin takes the brunt of the weight, just below the knee.

Lord, I feel ridiculous. My centre of gravity is off now; I am wedged between two rocks, already feeling a bruise blooming. I see Corey has turned around and is starting to worry. I yell forward, “I’m fine! It was slow motion, just a bruise!” He replies, “I also fell!”

Struggling to gain a purchase with my hands, I get back up, reposition my pack, and begin again.

The process continues this way for a while. One boulder at a time. Me thinking about thinking. Me reminding myself to stop thinking about thinking, and instead start being present to the moment, for my own safety.

Isn’t this why we are here? Our world shrunk down to the next step. The next boulder. If only I could hold onto this feeling when we step off the trail at the end of the week. Can I continue to move not on auto pilot, but in auto presence? Lost not in the rush and hustle, but the pleasure of taking our time.

The often repeated phrase of “enjoy the process” implies I should have one, some mystical excel spreadsheet of life. Like someone will come check that I in fact am enjoying the process.

It isn’t joy I feel right now, but I don’t want to be anywhere else. Yesterday, when I thought I’d fall off a ladder, I would’ve reported back that I was, in fact, not enjoying the process. But it was a mental trip I grew from.

My poles feel my way forward not because I’m afraid, but because I’m confident enough to take a step that might not work out—because I trust my instincts. I did everything I could to be ready. And when a slow-motion fall leaves a bruise, I can laugh and say: it wasn’t that bad. Nothing is broken.

Again, I am thinking about thinking. My foot looks for the next boulder.

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Owen Point

Hey, you made it to the end! We did, in fact, time the tide well and made it to Owen Point—a place I’ll always cherish, and unlike anywhere I’ve been. So this week is less of a secret, and more of a photo share from the section leading up to (and through) it.