The Hermit of Strathcona

By: Ben Bielert

There once was a hermit who lived off in the mountains and hills of Strathcona Park. Many say he lived there for years, though nobody ever knew exactly why. Some said he got sick of people, others said he thought society was sick, many thought that he had a screw loose, coulda been all three.

In any case, the Hermit of Strath became a local legend, a figure rarely seen but certainly present. He moved like a shadow, knowing when to sneak in and when to stay hidden. In the 1980s he struck again and again, but he was seen only twice, and never spoken to.

The two who saw him described him as an unassuming man, unexceptional and forgettable. He was tall, but not very tall. He was thin, but it was hard to tell because he wore a thick coat and layers underneath. 

He walked quickly and kept his eyes down. His hair was a messy, mousey brown. Many folk were convinced after hearing about him that perhaps they had seen him, but had thought nothing about him and had no impression or memory after he was gone from their sight, that was until someone told them about him and the vague memory came floating back. 

Two had seen him for certain, and only one of the witnesses looked him in the eye, and then it was fleeting. Those eyes, they said, were as cold as ice, light blue and unfeeling.

The Hermit in those days would take the odd thing, a sleeping bag here, a tarp there, one time a family lost one of their water jugs, many reported a few food items being gone from their supplies. He took what he needed when he needed it, but in a slow trickle, he never robbed one camp completely blind. Some even speculated that he probably endured a good amount of hardship and only took things when he became desperate. 

By the 1990s the legend had piqued the curiosity of the local folks pretty good, but nobody outside of mid-Vancouver Island had even heard of him. 

The locals though, they started trying to lay in wait for him, to find him. Whenever he was found out, which was still rare, he ran.

Five more people saw him and gave chase, but as this went on, he got stealthier and sneakier. 

He ranged further, he stole more in one go and from stores and places that could afford to lose things.

Then, one man found his camp. One time when he ran, a fellah named Willy McGilliam followed him back up to his home, or so claimed Willy. When he realized Willy had followed him all that way, he tried to act as though he were going somewhere else, and tried to lead the chase in another direction. But it was too late.

Willy had found a cache of stolen goods in a camouflaged corner of the woods near a mountain. It was so well hidden that many walked by it and everyone had been completely oblivious. It was along a well-known path, only ten meters off of it. Hidden by the trees and underbrush, but also cleverly cut and arranged branches that were made to look natural. He had a few tarps, but always hunter’s camouflaged tarps. Inside the camp, he made use of the green and blue tarps that campers so often used, but nowhere was there an orange one. The area within this arrangement was so well protected from the elements that it was very dry and well kept. 

There were several chairs, two tables, one with a sort of workshop set up with a variety of tools, and the other made into a kitchen design, with a cookstove and wash basin. 

There was a shelf constructed of stone and logs that was loaded with books, and even a foam mattress lifted off the ground on a log frame, making a very comfortable looking bed. 

Along the back of the corner, underneath a break in the tarps but with branches and a jutting piece of mountain overhead, there was a fire pit. There were smoldering coals in it and a pile of very dry timber and kindling not far away. 

Willy couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched, and he knew he almost certainly was, so he took a few things and went down the mountain, eager to reunite people with their possessions and to go back and get the rest.

Only problem was, when Willy led others up and went back, everything was gone. There was nothing there, not a tarp, not a piece of string, the furnishings all gone, and even the first pit’s stones had been scattered and the ashes and soot buried under dirt. 

“It was here! I swear it!” Willy said.

But they still called him a liar. 

The stealing got worse after that, the Hermit moved like a spirit, and he liberated people from their goods, and even began simply wrecking things. He left taps on in houses, he burnt sheds, he even disconnected the power at the local grocery the night before a holiday, ensuring that much of the food would go bad.

Now, when people saw him, they were attacked, and more than one or two ended up floating down Gold River. The RCMP tried to find the Hermit of course, but their searches always came up dry, they’d comb the hills along with conservation officers, but nothing. 

Eventually, they abandoned the search, and then the stealing started up again. But folks knew better than to try and stop him, they learnt not to even look. 

Except for Willy. He swore he’d find his camp again, and he wandered up there for years trying to find it. 

Until one day, he didn’t come back. Folks looked for him, even afraid of the Hermit as they were. But they never found a trace of Willy or the Hermit. But those who looked for him said they heard footsteps up there in the hills, like someone was near, but always behind them. 

Nowadays, the odd thing still goes missing here and there. An axe here, a lamp there, some grilling steaks, a pack of cola. But people just let it be. They know the Hermit’s off living in some corner of the woods, and nobody wants to find him. They know what happens when they do. He’ll often come down to camp on clear nights where he can see by the light of the stars and moon, when the moon is only half full is the perfect time, not too bright and not too dark. 

Say, it’s awfully clear tonight, and I think the moon is about half full…