Campton Hancock

We sat on a quiet bench by the ocean, savouring the final blushes of sunshine on our faces before the sun dipped into the horizon, passing a joint back and forth in silence. When the joint burnt down to the filter, the havoc of the crowded downtown Victoria Harbour faded and I looked at the most beautiful scene in the world.

The air in the shop was fragrant and warm, a stark comparison to the bitter cold and pungency of the alley outside. Rows of pretty tarts and manicured mini cakes lined the front window, glowing in the murky morning light and drawing wanderers towards the bakery. Rhonda worked behind the counter, hair pulled away from her face haphazardly, buzzing around the bakery. Her left arm was covered in bracelets, beads made of glass and plastic and clay and metal jingling against one another to create a unique melody that followed her everywhere. Rhonda greeted the customers swiftly, her sweet, mischievous voice complemented by the glint of wry wit that sparkled in her dark eyes.

To summit, you must rise when the sun is asleep and walk across cratered terrain lit only by milky stars. A five-hour sunrise summit across five kilometres of rock. Good luck going to sleep the evening before. If you’re lucky, the previous day’s nine hours of walking exhausted you just enough to rest your eyes for a couple of hours.