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Illustration by Chelsea O'Byrne
The lure of traversing bucolic red clay roads on Prince Edward Island was enough to get my blood pumping. Who knew that Canada had its own version of the Camino de Santiago? The discovery one blustery spring day catapulted me into a backpacker’s frenzy of delusional daydreams of what life on the trail can offer, as the Island Walk, a 704 kilometre trek that circumnavigates PEI loomed on my laptop.
Reading the book by Bryson Guptill, The Island Walk, who broke the trail was my first guilty pleasure. I read it ravenously in one sitting as one would read a menu at a restaurant on an empty stomach. Each page bringing a new revelation about how it differed from Spain’s historical walking pilgrimage, a life-altering trek capable of equal amounts of pleasure and pain that spans 802 km which I had successfully navigated 14 years prior.
Ingeniously, Guptill seemed to have come up with a solution that turned a 32-day walking trek into a pyjama party of sorts. Guptill’s strategy was to have an ally in every village who would rescue him at the end of each day, wine and dine him, roll out a bed worthy of a salubrious slumber, feed him breakfast fit for a king and then shuttle him back to the trail. I was swoony with envy and delight until I was faced with the stone-cold revelation that I didn’t actually know anyone in PEI, and booking accommodation in advance did not suit my spontaneous walking style during the busy tourist season this summer.
The magnitude of this blunder on my part didn’t fully resonate until the first evening when, after walking approximately 30 km, I found myself in a moonscape with the exception of a liquor market looming beside a hot and dusty road as the sun was starting to drop behind red clay cliffs. Denial can be a beautiful thing until it slaps you hard in the face.
I approached the liquor mart shopkeeper with some trepidation, inquiring as to where I might stay for the night. I sheepishly admitted to owning a small tent, something I was hoping not to have to divulge. But with this pithy piece of information, the shop owner burst to life and informed me that there was a secret campground only the locals knew about. It all sounded equally intriguing and filled with subterfuge, but with no other options on the horizon and the light rapidly fading, I staggered in the direction she had gleefully pointed me.
What greeted me was a coastal swamp swarming with hungry black flies, no facilities and the eerie glow from an antiquated trailer that looked like it was a fixture from an abandoned movie set. I found a quiet corner and proceeded to put up my tent, aptly named, Pee-wee Herman. Fortunately, I had filled my empty chocolate milk container at the liquor market with water allowing me the luxury of splashing a thin gruel of watery chocolate milk on my face for the sake of my evening ablutions. I had no other option but to dive into my tent to avoid becoming a smorgasbord for the local swamp flies and other assorted creatures.
When I think of PEI’s marketing of the Island Walk, the disconnect between the reality of the intrepid walker left to fend for themselves on a trail that would appear to be much better suited to e-bikes than trail shoes became greatly magnified. In short, nothing prepared me for the miles of sweltering pavement along highways that were about to boil over with convoys of semi-trailers thundering past at 120 km per hour two feet from my backpack. At this moment, after nearly being blown off the highway by the silver behemoths, the Island Walk started to feel more like a suicide walk than a spiritual pilgrimage.
Basic human necessities couldn’t have been more elusive at different points along the trail. Automotive shops became my new best friend as they peppered the landscape and I knew there must be water lurking somewhere behind the graveyard of rusted vehicles. I became shameless and would approach them with the optimism fitting of someone pursuing much loftier goals than finding a tap to fill my water bottle. Going to the washroom more often than not resulted in a dance with an entanglement of brambles as I pirouetted with my backpack while trying to stay upright.
But it was at the end of each day, in the company of strangers that the true value of doing the PEI Camino shone brightly. Many a day I would find myself casually lounging in dingle weeds beside a parched ditch scrolling on my phone in search of a segue back to civilization, only to have complete strangers drive by and ask if I was okay or needed help, including offering me a place to stay. I can’t help but think that having to call a taxi at the end/beginning of each day is an absurd affront to a walking pilgrimage, is it not? Despite the above, the wellspring of generosity that I witnessed has permanently altered my perception of humanity: I was in the bosom of a culture of kindness, each person leaving an indelible stamp of gratitude on my mind and heart.
The Island Walk is not a user-friendly walk. But what it does offer is a window into the souls of islanders; one that will resonate with me for years to come, or at least until I take my next trip to PEI and rent a car.
J. Nesbitt lives on Salt Spring Island, B.C.