Dodging Bullets at Crystal Falls
I’m certainly not the most professional of hiking enthusiasts. I’ve encountered bears, been enveloped by fog at altitude and lost the trail, and fallen down a (fortunately, small) waterfall – but none of those happenings were as frightening as the time I heard unexpected gunfire nearby.
It was early January 2014 and I was nearing the end of a visit to my family in Vancouver, British Columbia for the holidays. Before returning to the UK I was determined to stop by one of my favourite places in the world, the scenic Crystal Falls on Burke Mountain near the city of Coquitlam. With no friends or family available to join me that morning I set off alone. To reach the falls it is a pleasant one-hour walk, journeying through the mossy forest alongside the rushing water of the Coquitlam river. The name Coquitlam stems from the indiginous Coast Salish word for “red fish up the river.” There is always a sight to behold each autumn as hundreds of salmon return from the Pacific Ocean to spawn.
Although I’d been to the falls countless times since discovering them as a teenager, I had never ventured above the waterfall to see what was beyond. With no plan and nowhere else to be, I spontaneously decided to start climbing up the wet rocks beside the flowing water. A serene pool appeared, fed by two smaller, calmer waterfalls, with green abounding. That should have been enough of a reward but once the explorer’s ball starts rolling, it is difficult to stop. I kept venturing up the mountain to see what I would discover.
An hour or two later, after some short steep climbs, I reached an unfrequented path surrounded by tall cedars, birches, and pines. Peace. Silence. This is my element. Calmness. Breathe in the crisp air, breathe out. Breathe in –
BANG!
Holy son of a motherless goat, what in the hell was tha-
BANG! BANG!! … BANG!
Duck and cover! At this point, paranoia set in as my reptillian brain considered the most bizarre possibilities. Was it teenagers playing with a weapon in this secluded area away from their parents’ ears? A brutal gang-related murder? Or World War III – were the commies invading? Was it a hunting party? Uncertain and obviously not quite thinking clearly, I crouched and moved cautiously between the trees until it occurred to me that from a distance I might look something like a tasty elk with the long brown jacket I was wearing.
BANG!!!
I thought of calling out but didn’t want to reveal my position in case the shooters were not so friendly. Soon I reached a narrow path underneath a short ridge nearby, and the sporadic gunshots grew slightly louder here. I could’ve stood up to peer above the ridge and investigate but I sure as scurvy wasn’t going to risk exposing myself like that.
Now I faced a choice. I could continue up the mountain along the ridgeline, or descend back the way I came from. Though uncertain of what was ahead, the ridgeline provided much more cover than the relatively open woodland below. So onwards and upwards I went. After ten minutes of moving as quietly as possible, I finally saw a sign fixed to a distant tree:
A Lesson in Preparation
The range was further ahead, I was safe, and was never in any real danger. Reassured I returned down the mountain with a slightly increased awareness of my own mortality – and stupidity. Nothing wrong with being spontaneous but a quick look at any local map or guidebook would have shown the local Hunting & Fishing Club’s shooting range clearly marked, with the path I was on winding just around its perimeter. I later learned the narrow trail is predominantly used for mountain biking. Local cyclists appropriately call it the “Bullet Dodger.”
