An Acquired Taste: Mosquitos, Beer, and Some Phelix Trail Maintenance

Saturday, 06/21/2025, 06:15 AM

This trip was many firsts for me. It was my first VOC trip, my first time backpacking overnight, and my first time really even being in the backcountry. What was a universal first for our entire car, however, was the fact that every single person in the 7-seater minivan was exactly on time for pickup. Our task: improve the conditions of the Phelix trail in preparation for the massive wall replacement project happening in the coming weeks. Our group: 17 strong, split into 3 teams – Team Alpha, who would operate the chainsaw and clear the trail of large debris, Team Bravo, who would cut branches and clear brush along the trail, and Team Charlie, who would redirect part of the now flooded trail around the lake and carry a 28ft ladder up to the Brian Waddington hut.

Hitting the road remarkably on-time, we arrived in Pemberton before the other groups, giving us enough time to enjoy some egregiously priced sandwiches and wraps. After the other vehicles caught up, we made our way to the trailhead, abandoning the minivan along the way in order to preserve its mighty chassis. Yuze volunteered to shuttle the 7 of us to the trailhead, but warned that some of us would “have to” sit in the bed of his truck. This “have to” was really more of a “get to”, as literally every one of us wanted to sit in the bed. For the following 30 minutes, we engaged in an efficient rotation system, hopping out of the truck at every waterbar to switch out who got to enjoy the roller coaster of an FSR. By noon, all 17 of us had arrived at the trailhead. It was roughly 7 degrees outside, overcast with some light rain here and there.

From the trailhead, we split into our respective teams with some minor reshuffling of our pre-assigned positions (AC, for example, was transferred into Team Alpha to serve as the “female voice of reason”, as somehow the idea of 4 adventurous men with chainsaws posed a hazard). Team Alpha and Charlie moved on ahead to carry out their respective tasks, while Team Bravo, consisting of myself, Yuze, Sudha, Eros, Shravan, and John Sherk stayed behind to begin clearing the trail. What would set the tone of the next 7 hours of trail clearing became immediately apparent – the density of mosquitos was unlike anything I had ever seen. Shravan, unfortunately, was the first of the titular acquired tastes of the trip. For the mosquitos, he was something new; they rejected my middle-of-the-pack vanilla-flavored white blood in favor of his (as he put it) “Spicy Indian blood,” attacking him relentlessly, mercilessly, methodically. They paced themselves, starting with just the left side of his face before eventually moving onto the right. When I looked back at him 30 minutes in, he had acquired a swollen ridge across his forehead that made the towering pass between Mount Gandalf and Aragorn pale in comparison.

Eros, Sudha, and Shravan shielding themselves as best they can from the mosquitos.

For hours, we pushed on through our Sisyphean task of cutting small branches with small scissors, occasionally passing a fallen tree cut away by the chainsaw of Team Alpha. It was easy to feel useless. The thickness of the brush did not let up, nor did the mosquitos. The more we worked, the more our thin initial coating of bug spray sweat off, only enticing the blood-sucking bastards to keep at it. Thoughts that frequented my headspace included “why the fuck did I sign up for this”, and “this sucks,” sentiments that I believe were mirrored in the moods of my peers.

Around 5:30 PM, the dense brush finally transformed into forested switchbacks. Waiting for us was a pile of wood left by Team Alpha for us to carry onward, as our brush-clearing duties would no longer be required moving forward. Wanting to feel useful and like a big boy, I chose to carry six pieces of wood in my hands – the wood was light, and the switchbacks seemed mild and forgiving. My hubris was soon met with a swift and cruel response, as we almost immediately encountered a boulder field to climb. Stopping every 2 seconds to grab a rogue piece of wood that had rolled off of my pile, we made our way up the steepening switchbacks, eventually catching up with Team Alpha, who had just finished cutting down another massive tree. It was here that we unloaded our wood onto the backs of the more capable members of our now 10-person group. Joseph graciously received 4 of the pieces I was carrying, strapped them to his monstrous ~30 kg pack, then proceeded to run up the switchbacks at a frightening pace in order to go check on Team Charlie. After sticking with the group for a little bit, Tobias and I pulled ahead, thinking that we might be more useful further along the trail.

Joseph and Tobias carrying the ladder as we near the hut.

What awaited us at the top of the switchbacks was astoundingly beautiful: a sky-blue hut tucked away beneath snowy peaks, preceded by a lake with weeping clouds reflected in its still waters. As I stopped to take it all in, the unpleasantries of the day before me were absent from my mind. Alas, they returned almost immediately, heralded by someone screaming “Ah, FUCK IT!” about 20 meters away, followed by the sound of sloshing water. Looking at the source, I found a comparably epic sight: Joseph Chiao, barefoot, wading knee-deep through the shallow shores, carrying a 28 foot ladder on his shoulder alone. Not particularly wanting to follow in his path, Tobias and I pushed through dense brush around the lake, intercepting Joseph near the shore to lend a hand. Together, the three of us traded off carrying the ladder, slowly approaching the hut. The last stretch of the trail was nothing but mud, and I stepped in more than one stream along the way, soaking my socks and shoes completely.

We arrived at the hut around 7:30 PM. As a newbie, I was lucky enough to be adopted into a dinner group, which meant I didn’t have to worry about cooking for myself. I’d heard rumors that the water was contaminated and making people shit themselves, so I was doubly grateful to have more experienced folks handling the food. I ate better that night than I do on most regular days. No really, they made a full curry with rice, fresh peppers, carrots, chickpeas, and a whole rotisserie chicken, served with naan bread and beer. I don’t drink – every time I try beer, I think it tastes like gasoline, regardless of whether or not it’s an “acquired taste.” Still, someone had hauled twelve cans of it up a mountain for us, and that kind of effort deserved some respect. I cracked one open in honor of the game. It still tasted like gasoline, but… slightly less-so than normal. Maybe things were beginning to change.

Joseph enjoying his first cold beer of the night / our dinner festivities.

The misery of the day before me seemed so far away that night. The summer solstice’s sun lingered high in the sky, lighting the evening long enough for us to enjoy warm food and good company before the cold set in. By 11:00 PM, most of us were back in the hut, fast asleep or winding down, resting up for a big day of scrambling ahead. One can of beer remained, spared from the pack to be relished upon the summit of Mount Gandalf.

Sunday, 06/22/2025, 07:00 AM

Approaching Mt. Gandalf

I awoke at 7:00 AM, fearful of missing Joseph’s hard 8:00 scrambling departure deadline. Due to the weather forecast, we needed to all be out of the hut by 01:30 PM, so timing was tight. I headed downstairs from the loft, smacking my head against a wooden pillar in the process, surely waking anyone who wasn’t already up with a loud expletive. Dining with Joseph yet again, the two of us enjoyed some oatmeal and cheesy bread before he busted out the main course – a full can of spam, that he intended for us to finish right then and there (a can of spam has 1080 calories, and roughly double the recommended daily sodium intake). As he roasted the slivers over an open fire, what started as a privilege quickly became a chore; he was determined to let none of the gelatinous, assorted-meat combo go to waste. Tobias generously helped us out, and we soon after made our preparations for the day.

The sky had cleared and the temperature was mild, with a light breeze blowing through the rocky bowl in which the hut lay. 11 of us set out to scramble up Mount Gandalf at exactly 8:00 AM, and with no interest in wasting any time at all, we moved at the relentless pace Joseph set. I barely managed to keep up, fueled solely by the perpetual myth of “a good break spot up ahead,” which would always be about 10 minutes past the point where any of us actually needed it. We eventually reached a fork in the road, where we split into two groups: those who wanted to continue at breakneck speeds to the summit of Gandalf, and those who would explore the more gentle ridge leading up to Frodo. Incredibly winded and sore, I chose to stay with the latter group, excited for a brief moment of respite from the incline. But as it turns out, FOMO has some wicked control over me, and within 20 seconds of our split I had already turned around and started sprinting towards the other party, up towards the towering scramble of Gandalf.

The next hour was a blur. As our hands gradually became more useful than our feet, our elevation revealed the majesty of the surrounding misty mountains. With Tolkien on my mind, I imagined myself as Samwise Gamgee, hauling my weary Frodo of a backpack up the slopes of Mount Doom, seeking not the salvation of Middle Earth, but some sick photos from the summit. But when we finally reached it, the photos seemed such a pointless matter. I was struck again by that same calmness I felt when I first laid eyes upon the lake, engulfed in a sense of peace and perspective and this burgeoning feeling that maybe that Thoreau guy was onto something, that everything I ever worried about were mere trivialities and that nature, the outdoors, were the true path to learning about life’s rhythms and wisdom, and that I needed to become closer to it. These intense, revelatory emotions boiled down to a single, stunned statement as I peered out onto the endless sea of pinnacles and clouds:

“Holy fuck.”

Joseph knew exactly what I meant.

“Yep. This is your life now.”

Views from the summit of Gandalf

This moment was soon swept away to make room for the main event of the summit: BEER. The one surviving can of a Bowen Island Lager, hundreds of kilometers from home, ready to be cherished as the reward of a hard weekend’s work. And I have to admit… as that can made its rounds through the group and I took my sip… it actually tasted kind of good. I had finally acquired the taste.

beer

After basking in all of nature’s glory and taking some drone footage of the summit, we began our descent, electing to take a different path down so that we didn’t have to cross the boulder field again. It was here that the skill difference between myself and the others became apparent. Whereas ascension can be attributed to strength and stamina, the way down was entirely technique that I did not have. My knees were killing me, and every step I took seemed to threaten to fling me down the slope. I went at a snails’ pace, practically on all fours, and if not for Adam and Joseph patiently waiting in the rear, I would have surely been left back there all alone.

We rendezvoused with the Frodo folks back at the fork and made our way down to the upper lake, where we found the non-scramblers enjoying their morning in the sun. Carvin had beaten us down there, and was already atop a large boulder near the shore, ready to dive in. The water was quite shallow there, so what ensued was about 5 minutes of safety-checking and people yelling “DON’T JUMP” as we argued and feared for his life. He did it regardless, and… well, he was totally fine. We snapped a quick group photo, and headed back to the hut to pack up as fast as possible. Thunderstorms were closing in, and the more experienced members were acting as if the rapture was upon us, saying that we needed to get off the mountain as fast as humanly possible.

The whole group at upper lake

Shravan and I booked it out of there, and by the time we made it to the base of the switchbacks, the thunderstorms had begun. It was a warm rain, and since the only rain-protection I had with me was a waterproof winter jacket (I thought it was going to 2 degrees outside when packing), I opted to get soaked in my T-shirt instead. The whole hike back to the trailhead, I was on edge – I’ve played too many video games, and I kept imagining that the large metal loppers I was carrying were about to start blinking and summon a lightning bolt straight into my skull. Naturally, that made it hard to focus on the conversation Shravan was trying to have with me about how the warm rain wasn’t a nuisance at all, but actually “sexy.” I’m still not sure I agree with him on that one.

After making it off the trail and doing a bit more shuttling, we finally made it back to the minivan and headed into Pemberton for burgers. While we were at the restaurant, someone spotted Duncan Macintyre (who wasn’t even on the trip) driving by, and about seven people immediately ran out to chase him down. It was heartwarming, seeing how much the VOCers cared about each other, even in the middle of a much needed dinner. We headed back to Vancouver, quiet and tired, and were dropped off one by one, each goodbye marking the end of the laborious, wonderful adventure we’d just shared.

In the week since, as I’ve returned to the overwhelming monotony of daily life, I find myself in search of bygone days. In search of misty mountains and towering boulders, of glacial streams and sexy rain, of dysentery paranoia and sore knees and really goddamn wet shoes. In search of not just the immortal beauty I witnessed, but the seemingly endless torments that went by all too fast. I can’t wait to get back out there and see what even greater suffering awaits me. When I told this to Joseph, he responded again with this:

“I told you. This is your life now.”

I guess I acquired the taste.