What Could Possibly Go Wrong? Backpacking Catalina Island With Teens

The Trail, the Stingray, and the Porta-Potty

We boarded the morning ferry full of optimism, excitement, and far more confidence than our training hikes this year justified.

The morning boat ride took us to Avalon, where we stocked up on trail snacks — the same snacks we get tired of every trip, and yet somehow bring every single time.

My husband had his pack towering over him like he was once again hiking to Everest Base Camp, accompanied by the energy level of a sloth. A perfect match. Every time he sat down, he looked like he was about to fall asleep.

After hiking the Trans-Catalina Trail from Avalon to Two Harbors the year before, we had decided to return for a shorter version, focusing only on our favorite section: the beautiful stretch from the Airport in the Sky down to Little Harbor and Two Harbors, easy, mostly downhill the first day, and scenic.

View from Trans-Catalina Trail (photo by author)

What could possibly go wrong?

While waiting for the shuttle, we discovered our beloved donut shop had permanently closed. We had been talking about those donuts for nearly a year.

We had also been talking about using gear haul for nearly a year.

We decided against it at the last minute.

Note to self: mistake.

We had trained less than the previous year, our packs were just as heavy, and deep down we all knew exactly what was coming.

Not immediately, the pain never starts immediately. The pain starts somewhere around mid-afternoon, when you’re too far along the trail and your only option is forward.

Before boarding the shuttle, we bought three matching quick-dry shirts because apparently adding more weight to our packs seemed like a great idea.

The shuttle ride was… crowded, uncomfortable, nauseating.

The website said we could bring large backpacks, but what the website didn’t say was that those backpacks would spend the ride sitting on our laps or wedged between our knees, because there was no trunk space. We were crammed together like sardines as the vehicle twisted along Catalina’s winding roads.

By the time we reached the Airport in the Sky, we must have looked… green.

We bought lunch. Some of us ate. I spent my lunch break in the bathroom and packed mine for later.

Then we started down the trail.

Starting our adventure at the airport in the sky (photo by author’s husband)

And honestly? It was gorgeous: rolling hills, ocean views, bison, cacti.

Catalina was doing what Catalina does best. It was beautiful, painful, and humbling all at once.

The last time I had carried this much weight was on this exact same trail a year earlier.

My body remembered, every muscle cell remembered.

Near the end of the day, we let the boys run ahead. Yes, some of us were still capable of running.

My husband was still sleepwalking but somehow remained ahead of me.

That says… what it says.

Eventually we all reached Little Harbor.

I vaguely remember arriving, and crawling into the tent my husband had set up.

I vaguely remember sticking my head outside long enough to take a picture or two. The family roasted marshmallows.

I made a brief appearance at the porta-potty, brushed my teeth, and returned to bed.

I don’t think I’ve ever slept that well while camping.

My body had reached the point where sleep was no longer optional.

The next morning felt much better and we decided to… go on another hike, with only a light pack. We wandered up to an overlook above Shark Harbor, admired the scenery, and enjoyed a genuinely lovely morning.

Little Harbor and Shark Harbor on Catalina Island (photo by author)

Then my stomach started refusing the eternal trail food. My gut was unhappy. Very unhappy. I ended up making way too many trips to the camp porta-potties. I remember the days I used to run from them. That day, I was gratefully running towards them.

After lunch, the boys headed to Shark Harbor for a swim.

It lasted exactly fourteen seconds.

My younger son jumped into a wave, landed on a stingray, and immediately launched himself into his brother’s arms. His older brother carried him out of the water and offered him the only thing he had available to wipe the blood off his foot: his brand-new Catalina quick-dry souvenir shirt that I had bought the day before.

I couldn’t have been prouder.

The boys radioed us on their walkie-talkies to announce that May was apparently stingray mating season and asked us to bring the first aid kit. My younger one applied pressure on his wound, stayed calm, and together we made our way back to camp.

On the way, they told us that the foot needed to be soaked in hot water because, as they had learned during Junior Lifeguard training, stingray venom is a protein that denatures with heat. In other words, hot water would help decrease the pain.

So then began several hours of boiling water, soaking a foot, boiling more water, soaking a foot, boiling even more water, soaking said foot…

At one point we ran out of fuel.

A ranger came to our rescue with additional canisters.

So we boiled more water and soaked the foot some more.

Two hours later we boiled the last pot of water and played cards while the foot continued soaking.

As always, my younger son ended up being the Old Maid. This has become such a family tradition that if someone else loses, it doesn’t count. I no longer document alternative outcomes.

Eventually I decided it was time for a swim. I wore Crocs.

I wonder why I made that choice, because by then I had already secured a ride out with the rangers the next morning, and we did have extra fuel to make more hot water. Still, I wore the Crocs and only rinsed off quickly before running back to safety.

My husband and I returned to our tents and decided everyone needed a nap.

The squirrels had other plans.

While we slept, they launched a coordinated attack on our leftover food. Marshmallows were among the casualties. Our evening campfire treats were officially demolished.

Squirrel trying to eat my trail food (photo by author)

The next morning, the ranger gave us a ride. With an injured foot, heavy backpacks, and an 11:45 ferry to catch, hiking another five or six miles seemed less like adventure and more like poor judgment.

We skipped what is arguably the most beautiful section of the trail. We told ourselves we’d be back for it next year, and that the island would have more adventures ready for us.

When we got to Two Harbors, we ordered breakfast. The plates arrived and within ten seconds the boys scarfed down my food, fiercely protecting theirs while circling mine like vultures waiting for another opportunity to strike.

I returned to the counter and re-ordered the exact same breakfast, complaining about my teenage boys behaving as if I hadn’t fed them anything but trail food for the last three days.

By the time we boarded the ferry home, all four of us had reached my husband’s contagious sloth energy level.

We all fell asleep across the table between us. To anyone walking by, we probably looked like survivors of a major wilderness expedition.

In reality, we had completed about nine miles of hiking, one stingray rescue, way too many bathroom visits, and a surprisingly large amount of foot soaking.

Catalina Round Three may not have gone according to plan, but it was memorable. We’ll be back, with some new trail food options and hopefully gear haul next time.