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A 100-Day Journey to the North
Through the Inside Passage,
over the Chilkoot Trail by portage,
and down the Yukon River to the Bering Sea
Copyright © 1988 - 2024 Ray Jardine
Map (Open with google Earth or CalTopo)
Part 1: Anacortes to Prince Rupert
We drove our van to Anacortes Washington, and assembled our two-person foldable kayak in a motel room (Ship Harbor Inn). Linda met us there.
Rising at 3 am, we shuttled her car to the van storage parking. Then returning to the motel, we loaded our gear into our van, and lifted the kayak onto its roof. Driving to the waterfront at Green Point ["Sunset Beach Boat Launch"], we carried the boat and gear down to water's edge, and loaded it by flashlight.
Saying goodbye to Linda, who would drive our van back to it's storage shed, and thanking her for her help, we put the boat in the water and shoved off at 5 am.
Washington Park Boat Launch
Day 1
April 25 1988
The first leg of our journey began with a five mile crossing to Decatur Island, the nearest of the San Juan group. Dawn found Jenny and me paddling our clumsy craft as it romped over the waves, our paddles flashing amid bursts of cold spray. The occasional greenie rolled over the foredeck, barely losing momentum before reaching the open cockpit and Jenny's lap. Jenny commented about one wave missing her lap and going down inside her gum boot. We did not have our spray-cover fitted because we are carrying so much gear the cover won't fit.
The first passage proves to be a lively one, and the morning cold and foreboding. The chill numbed our feet and hands, adding to the feeling of awkward insecurity one inevitably experiences on day-1 of a trip of such magnitude.
Two hours later we closed Thatcher Island and reached calm water in the lee of Decatur Island. We landed for a short rest (Map), and found that we had been sitting in two inches of water sloshing around in the bilge. The boat was so full of gear that we had difficulty getting to the bilge to sponge it out.
Jenny removed one of her rubber gum boots and dumped a surprising amount of seawater onto the pebble beach with a conspicuous splash. Her earlier remark about the wave filling her boot wasn't an exaggeration!
The season is early and the chilliness of the gray day only adds to our feelings of insecurity. We had been planning this trip for months, but now the whole idea seems implausible. Even so, we are excited to have begun our journey to the north!
A Bald Eagle circled overhead, so closely that it brought to mind a Tlingit Spirit, welcoming us to the Northern Waters. This eagle was the first of thousands we will be seeing in the coming fifty days to Skagway.
The cold prevented our lingering, and a further consternation was the occasional power boat speeding past, sending wakes that made the kayak reel so wildly that they threatened swamp it.
The chill encourages our departure, so we shove off and make another long, open water crossing. After a lengthy stint of paddling we rounded the channel between Shaw and Orcas Islands. There, we hoisted the mains'l, which provided a welcome boost in speed and a welcome relief to our already tired arms.
As the day wore on, the clouds dissipated, the temperature rose, and we garnered a bit of warmth. The wind slacked, so we hoisted sails and bowled along in a perfect 10-knot southerly wind. Now this was living! The wind was directly astern, so we sailed wing-on-wing; the mainsail set to starboard, and the genoa to port and held out with my paddle shaft.
We passed by a solitary sea lion, saw a few more eagles and a wide variety of sea birds. Several ferries passed by, as did a number of small pleasure-craft. The islands are mostly steep-to and beautifully forested, with houses dotting them practically everywhere. Nearly every pebbled cove had been spoken for, dissuading our landing.
Nearing Spiden Island we were caught in a strong counter-current that tried to drag us around the south side of the island. We wanted to go around its north side, so we had to battle with that for several minutes.
We landed ashore, intent on taking a rest; but again the cold soon drove us back into the boat for another stint of metabolically induced warmth.
As we were paddling across an open stretch of sea, on the day's last leg, a small sailboat under full press of canvas passed us. We reached the wind zone, hoisted sail, and while paddle-sailing ("motor-sailing" as we whimsically called it) we easily overtook the sailboat. This surprised us, and assured us that our sails were working properly.
We were tired from lack of sleep last night while readying the boat, and from the long drive from Colorado. Our aching arms and shoulder muscles only added to the fatigue. The afternoon was late and beginning to chill as we paddled along Steward Island, searching for a place to camp - but finding nothing but steep-to, rocky terrain, and a house now and then.
Finally we landed in an unoccupied cove, which the chart depicted as Orca Cove. The cove was steep-to, so I climbed a hundred feet up the steep hillside in search of a suitable place to pitch the tent. The most likely place was near an old one room cabin. We lugged our gear, bag by waterproof bag, high up the slope, then then collapsed in the tent.
Day's mileage: 28!, 10.5 hours paddling
Day 2
April 26
Ours was a leisurely start. Jenny filtered water, collected overnight from a nearby small spring. Then while cooking breakfast grains she discovered that the non-stick coating on the bottom of the new cookpot was not such a good idea. As soon as the grains began to boil, the pot rumbled off the stove and landed head first, spilling its contents. Breakfast was aborted.
We lugged our gear back down the hill, loaded the boat a few inches from the waterline, stepped the mast and and affixed the rigging, and set off at 7:45 am into a beautiful Spring morning.
Our first task was to cross a shipping channel, three-and-half miles wide. We could see that the water far out in the channel was a bit rough, so this time we fitted the spray skirt. Near mid channel we observed a large freighter headed our way, and with the background-motion technique we determined the freighter would pass well in front of us. All looked well. We proceeded at half speed, when suddenly the freighter turned towards us. Now we could see a wall of white water at its bow. For a few frantic moments we paddled full speed ahead, surprised that the ship would change its heading. However, it continued turning onto a bearing which would allow it to pass behind us. The great ship was maneuvering on our behalf, and passed well astern.
On the far side of the channel we passed by a great deal of flotsam which included a few hefty chunks of wood. Now in Canadian waters we proceeded along the coast of Moresby Island; (Map) and crossed another equally wide channel.
The day was most pleasant and we both kept exclaiming about the wonderful weather and ideal conditions. The water was flat calm and the sky nearly cloudless. There was very little wind for sailing however, a condition which persisted throughout the day. Although we had full canvas hoisted it didn't help much. We passed by Beaver Point (Map) on Salt Spring Island, then headed into open water again, passed between two small islets mid channel, then coasted Prevost Island and near its northernmost promontory pulled in for a lunch break at 1:00 pm. It was our first stop ashore in 5 hours, 15 minutes.
Jenny whipped up a lunch of Linda's home-raised eggs. We rested briefly then set off again at 1:45 pm this time crossing Captain pass (Map), then making our way slowly and laboriously along the steep-to coastline of Salt Spring Island. The afternoon grew almost unbearably hot, our arms grew leaden, the muscles fatigued by the hours of straining at the paddles. But worse, our rear ends were raising serious objections to the overuse. We gave in to the ongoing temptation to stop paddling many times during the next few hours, but forced ourselves to keep plugging away just a little longer.
Finally we pulled in to shore, I got out of the boat and walked along the shoreline while Jenny sat on the high position of the aft back rest and paddled alongside. My aim was to find a spring, and I found that the walking was tremendously invigorating. My hind quarters felt bruised and Jenny later said the same about hers.
I found a nice spring and filled two gallon bottles, then we both paddled a short ways and beached on the southeastern promontory of Walker Hook at 4:30 pm. We carried boat and gear a short distance up the forested ridge, and there we made a most pleasant and scenic camp. We had wanted to continue on further but decided not to pass up this beautiful campsite.
It had been an arduous day, but we reveled in the fine weather and calm conditions. We felt we were in the best of both worlds: the ocean and the forest. At the evening camp we heard our first loon. Jenny photographed a sea lion.
Our lack of sailing and perhaps a bit of adverse current allowed for only 17 miles today, in spite of giving it our best efforts. Paddling time today was 7 hours, 45 minutes.
Day's mileage: 17, Total: 45
Day 3
April 27
We were up with the alarm at 4:30 am to make coffee. The sky was just beginning to get light and we could see it was smudged over with clouds, promising relief for our sun-burnt hides.
We paddled several miles, angling toward Wallace Island and away from the coast of Salt Spring Island. We raised the mainsail to a light following breeze, then later hoisted genoa and motorsailed wing on wing. But the wind was light, and whenever we stopped paddling for a minute's rest, we lost most of our speed.
The morning was spent mostly on the expanse of the immense, protected channel, and we made long passages between islands as if we were on a millpond. The water was flat with perhaps a few ripples from the breeze and the only swell comes from an occasional passing boat. As there seems to be no threat of a sudden blow, so we don't hesitate to paddle the long, open stretches.
We passed between Wallace and Secretary Islands then angled away toward Hall Island, and passing that, continued on to Reid Island, passing it to the east. From there we crossed the wide expanse of sheltered but open water, and closed the coast of Valdes island, then crossed the channel out to the DeCourey Group. Unaccustomed to the strain of paddling, the muscle in my right forearm is beginning to raise objections. So on the southeastern DeCourey we stopped for lunch after 6 hours on the water (Map).
We drug the boat sideways a few feet up the beach, careful to first remove and sharp rocks, barnacled covered stones, and clam shells. Then we toted our kitchen kit a short ways up to the usual log jam where we cooked lunch under the branches of a conifer, as it was raining gently. With our heavy exercise our appetites are already responding with a need for more calories, and we were ravenously hungry. To lighten the load we decided to consume a few canned goods, so made a thick soup from the contents of four tin cans.
After finishing lunch we set off again, and were soon approached by a small power boat. My guess was that it belonged to a neighbor of the property where we had lunched. Most of the land is owned, and there are little cabins all along the way. But when the two men stepped from the small cabin, their uniforms suggested otherwise. The officers questioned us as to what we were doing. I told them a brief synopsis of our story. They copied down the particulars of our driver's licenses and instructed us to check-in with Customs in Nanaimo. They also advised us to go north around Mudge Island, telling us that the south channel is subject to much worse tidal rapids.
They bid us farewell and sped off into the horizon, leaving us to our paddling labors, with thoughts that it had been a rather more pleasant encounter than it would have had we been in American waters.
Despite its proximity to civilization, the region is alive with birds and animals of many descriptions. While coasting the shore of N. DeCourey Island, we came to what appears to be a cluster of logs rafted together. We passed by, and noticed a hint of movement - a herd of sea lions basking on a slightly submerged rock a few hundred feet offshore. I turned hard to port, then made an S-turn, passing closer by - and they scurried into deeper water. But soon we had two dozen heads and sets of eyes peering at us, just above the water's surface, all around the kayak. Clearly, we were at the disadvantage.
The mood of these sea lions seems very different here. During my Baja travels, whenever I encountered a herd of sea lions, I would pass close by and chase them into the water, and they would begin frolicking about excitedly. It was obvious they were having a lot of fun showing off their swimming skills. But here, every set of eyes seems laced with fear. Absent is the fun. We took a few photos then resumed our heading to mitigate their anxieties. These poor creatures obviously knew the scourge of man the hunter. But then as we paddled away, the sea lions seemed to realize we meant no harm, and a few become curious and begun to follow us, some to one side, some to the other, and even some up ahead. And so our entourage escorted us close by for the next four miles, their numbers gradually dwindling the farther we went.
The face of a sea lion looks something like that of a dog. They act like dogs, somewhat, and one could imagine, were it not for their aquatic bent, they would make good pets. They are amicable and intelligent and obviously very curious. But the surface of the cold sea water is the great divider between the kayaker and the gregarious sea lion.
We passed through the Northumberland Channel False Narrows, although why it is called false I can't imagine; it was quite narrow. And we paddled against a two-knot counter current, sails down in light head winds, spray cover affixed, cagoules donned in a light rain. We carefully navigated as near the shore as possible, yet staying off the seabed rocks. This, while still being accompanied by one or two more determined sea lions.
With the transit of this channel, we have left the vast, open waterway between Vancouver Island and the offlying islands of Valdes and Galiano. Ahead now lies the open channel between Vancouver Island and British Columbia.
Now paddling the shore of Vancouver Island for the first time, and reasonably late in the afternoon we decided to stop for the day and make camp. The city of Nanaimo lies a few miles ahead where camping would undoubtedly be forbidden. We found a stretch of unoccupied land - a real rarity in these parts - which looked like it would make for good camping. Just before pulling into shore, we noticed an animal on a rock who studied us for several moments before lithely bounding into the sea. A sea otter! Once ashore we saw its tracks across the sand.
The primary reason for stopping here was a behemoth ocean going ship loaded high with an immense cargo of logs, floating just ahead of us - in front of a timber mill. Looking at the ship, logic suggested that the easiest way to unload this ship would be to somehow, mechanically, dump this load into the sea. And if my hunch proved to be correct, it would be Russian roulette to paddle around it.
We drew the kayak near the shore, unloaded it piece by piece, and carried it all in four or five trips up to a superb campsite. A well built trail passed through the area, and with the lack of cabins every few hundred feet along the shoreline, we can only surmise we have landed at some kind of a park.
Jenny was frying buckwheat pancakes and I was sampling her cookery, when we heard a loud, thundering roar. Sure enough - a couple of thousand big logs went sliding off the deck of the great ship. We had made the correct decision.
All in all, it was another fantastic day with a marvelous campsite.
During the day to avoid injuring my sore right arm, I paddled canoe style to port. Jenny did the same to rest a sore elbow. We paddled 8 hours today.
Day's mileage: 23, Total: 68
Day 4
April 28
We were up at 4:30 am with coffee, loaded the tub, and started off just after dawn at 6:15 am. We paddled past the large timber mill, scurrying out of the way of an approaching tug towing pulp. We glided past a big bull sea lion who eyed us with a combination of mistrust and curiously, without considering us much of a threat. Considering its size and mass we were the ones who should have been mistrustful; but these creatures seem to be mild mannered in the extreme.
The wind freshened from the south and we hoisted mainsl and sped around the spit. The bay fronting Nanaimo was somewhat choppy and we sped across it with spray a flying. We were half way across then the wind piped p, so we reefed the main and sailed on at a good clip, and then we reached the city's water front. We tied to a slip in a marina and Jenny inquired at the office and was granted permission remain tied up, and also to use their washing machine and dryer.
We proceeded to the Customs house where the officer threatened to impounded our kayak. It seems that we had broking the rules by camping on two islands in Canadian waters before checking in. We tell him that we had checked in, two days previously, with officers aboard a Customs boat. Nonetheless, the fellow declared our boat subject to seizure. After belaboring his point for some 20 minutes, he finally relented, saying "I'm going to let you go this time" and handed us our clearance.<-- so much for our friendly neighbor to the north-->
Feeling somewhat shaken, we called in at a street side café for a hearty and consoling breakfast. Except for that one official, everyone we met seemed affable and easy going. So much so, that my initial impression is that we have encountered the first real people in the years since returning the U.S.
We returned to the marina, collected our laundry, and found the kayak gone. In such a situation the mind puts it where it should be, even though the visual perception is not getting through to the brain. A few moments later I spotted it berthed elsewhere. Someone had moved it, no doubt for good reason, as we found our mooring lines tied in a web of knots.
We boarded our miniature sea going vessel, stowed a fistful of candy bars and set off into a still-boisterous channel. But first we checked the sky carefully for any seaplanes about to land in front of us.
We departed Departure Bay under full sail, running before the wind wing-on-wing with following seas rolling beneath us. With a favorable tide we made excellent progress along the coast of Vancouver Island. Once we were hit by a strong gust which prompted us to go through a disorganized Chinese fire drill as we dropped sails on top of us and got tangled in lines. This is when we discovered that when running before a strong wind, the genoa is far more mild tempered. So we ran with this the remainder of the morning.
Several hours further on we pulled in behind Blunder Island to rest and organize our strategy. The seas seemed too rough to make the open water crossing of Nannoos Bay, but the shore we landed on was too rough, with sharp cockles and barnacles to let the boat so much as touch it. There was nothing for us there so we decided to make the crossing. We stowed the sails, climbed aboard, and paddled out into the occasional white caps. The wind was quite strong but dead behind us, and in making the crossing successfully we gained another notch of confidence.
We proceeded on at a respectable rate of speed, and in another mile and a half we pulled into a marina for a proper rest. (Map) We moored temporarily athwartships, tying the bow line to one dock, and the stern line to other.
A friendly chap filled us in on the hazards of cruising the northern waters. We then moseyed into the Schooner Cove Yacht Club's restaurant for lunch. Looking out the window across the bay, which was by now sporting genuine white caps, and checking the time: 4:00 pm, we decided to take a room at the Yacht Club Hotel.
Our room was spacious, warm and dry. All our gear was wet, because of the rain. We hauled the boat out of the water and lashed it onto the dock, and retired into the welcome confines of the hotel.
Day's mileage: 20 m in 7 hours, Total: 88
Day 5
April 29
We were up at 4:30 and made coffee in the hotel room. We carried our belongings out onto the boat dock, lifted the boat into the water, loaded it, and set off at 6:00 am. The wind was light, southerly, the sky cloudy with intermittent rain, but the sea was calm. We hoisted mainsl right away; the wind was sporadic, variable in strength and direction.
We motor-sailed for two hours, then took a short break on shore. Jenny walked for half an hour while I paddled. Then we paddled and sailed another hour.
We entered the French Creek marina Map and once inside found it to be jammed with boats rafted to other boats - mostly fishing boats. We asked one fellow if there was a coffee shop - he said there was, and that we could tie alongside his neighbor.
We made the little kayak fast and climbed the steep gangway - steep because the tide was low. There was a large sign that said that all skippers arriving or departing must report to the marina office. So I stuck my head in the office doorway and told the dock master we had just arrived by kayak, and would be here just a few minutes to get a few refreshments. He said he saw us paddling in, and asked quite a few questions about our trip; and presumably in the interests of the novelty of our vessel, he kindly waived any mooring fees.
The clerk at the French Creek Harbour Store acted like we were a couple of bilge rats that just crawled out of the sewer. I realized we must have looked disheveled, so I explained our situation. Her countenance changed from night to day. Suddenly she was full of questions about our journey and even helped us look through various maps and information about the region ahead. When a fisherman walked into the store, she told him we were traveling the coast in a kayak, and he started asking us questions too.
The response we are getting is practically universal wherever we go. Doing what we're doing is uncommon and it seems to strike people with the possibility of someone doing something they had never thought of. The people have been encouraging, they wished us good luck, and in turn, perhaps we have provided them with something interesting to talk about with their friends. But also perhaps it is the Canadian mindset; these folks are simply more friendly.
We paddled out of French Creek marina half-an-hour after we had paddled in. On the way out a fellow hollered that he had seen me coming up the coast, quite a ways south of here, and he wanted to know where I got the "first mate". I replied that when he saw me, she was walking on the beach. He thought that was funny, as apparently the fishermen don't normally walk along the beach during their travels along the coast.
We resumed our journey along the coast paddling and sailing, and carried on for the remainder of the afternoon. There was always something interesting to hold our attention.
Sea lions were common, and usually eyed us curiously, ducking under the surface when we got too close, only to reappear a minute later somewhere else.
The sea birds were most interesting and we could have used a reference book on the subject, because we were unfamiliar with most species. Often we would encounter them sitting on the water's surface and at our approach they would take to wing. One species of underwater swimming bird found it an arduous task to build up enough speed to take off, and even more so when the sea was a bit choppy. They would begin by flapping their wings rapidly while running across the water's surface. The running with the webbed feet created a small wake behind them which resembled the wake of a small motor boat. Eventually after rocketing far enough away in this manner, they would gain a few inches elevation above the water, and fly away at that same elevation.
We saw a couple of young ones of this species, who had not yet acquired enough strength and endurance. As we drew near they went jet-boating away like their parents, only to be thwarted by an oncoming swell into which they crashed, stopping dead in their tracks. But it was no harm done, and they would try again in a few moments after regaining composure. After three or four rounds of this, they would either be quite sufficiently removed from the danger, or they would resort to Plan B: dive beneath the surface and disappear altogether.
The water was remarkably clear. Looking down through six feet of water to the bottom, we could see star fish, sand dollars, clam shells, oysters, mussels, sea weeds and kelp, and barnacled rocks.
Occasionally we would draw near shore, and one of us would walk for a ways, as this was an excellent method of regaining circulation in the bum. Once while Jenny was ashore, we traveled into an area of the coast where I was unable to draw back near the shoreline to retrieve her, so she had to walk quite a distance, this over large, slippery stones. then while drawing near shore, the oncoming sell hampered my controlling the boat, and I found myself bouncing around the rocks. Jenny shoved the boat out of harm's way but was unable to climb aboard, and so had to walk another mile until we reached a manmade pull-out which offered enough protection to allow me to come in. That episode quelled her desire for any further walking that afternoon. She suggested that we should begin walking only when we could see ahead a good place to land the boat.
Then began the afternoon epic. The wind piped up, an ominous thundercloud rolled past, obscuring visibility and dumping tons of rain on sea, and land, and on us. We secured ourselves against the onslaught of rain and wind, and in a driving torrent we strained against the paddles to gain a pittance of headway, against strong headwinds. After fifteen minutes of going virtually nowhere with great effort, the rain slackened, the wind eased, and we were on our way again. Eventually the wind veered just enough to allow us to hoist sails, and off we sped at a good clip.
At times we sailed at break-neck speeds, at other times we paddled with the sails hanging slack. All the while the seas increased from the starboard quarter. The coastline offered little protection with the swells from the southeast, and so we had no further opportunities to pull out for a rest, for the remainder of the afternoon. By 5:00 pm we were looking for a place to pull out, without success, and the seas were increasing, necessitating our holding close to shore which meant having to look carefully for any submerged off-lying rocks. Once we missed a big rock by only inches; this was our only close call.
We were looking for the Mapleguard Hook, a large promontory on the coast, behind which we knew we'd find shelter. But every point of land we went around revealed only more coastline, until finally we came to a place where we could see boat masts, and by this we knew we had reached Mapleguard. However, the sea had one final expression for the day. As we rounded the poin,t the wind-against-current created quite an area of white caps. We took one greenie over the decks, and some brine found its way into our laps.
We pulled around the spit and found flat water and stiff head winds - which made our paddling toward the lee shoreline an all-out effort. We crossed the bay, by-passing the marina this time and landed ashore, thankful for reaching the conclusion of an exhausting day. However as I stepped into the thick forest looking for a campsite, I was disappointed to find swampy ground. Jenny paddled alongside while I walked the shoreline, and search as I did I couldn't find a suitable campsite. And thus we went for about a mile. The swamp became so intense that sometimes I found myself in quick sand. Things were not looking good. Jenny drew near, I climbed aboard, and we paddled a ways further then landed ashore again at a hopeful spot. Here we found a good campsite at last. We had paddled for 12 hours.
Day's mileage: 25 , Total: 113
Day 6
April 30
Last night it was unanimously decided to sleep in; and to ignore the morning's alarm in hopes of mitigating the exhaustion which had taken a firm grip during our rough passage yesterday.
We awoke at 8:30 am, gained enough strength to actually get up at 9:00, and found that the seashore was missing. In its place, a vast tidal flat stretches before us. We wander around the flat, and find that it was littered everywhere with oysters. One could make a full meal of them within any given twenty foot radius. But the area is termed a "lease," meaning that only the lessee can collect them. Anyway, the tide is receding rapidly, and the distance to water's edge is increasing by the minute. Returning to camp we carry the boat 200 yards to the water's edge. And by the time we make four or five more trips with our gear, the tide has receded another 50 yards. We move the boat again to the new water's edge. And finally, with boat, gear and water all in one place, we set the boat into the water and load it - while moving it slowly seaward with the still-receding tide.
As we were loading the boat we noticed a fellow a ways down the beach collecting oysters, and I can only imagine there was a minimum size limit, as he seemed to be collecting only very few. Or maybe he was collecting something else.
The sea was flat, and the sky clouded over again. Setting off into a gentle breeze on the starboard beam, we hoisted main and genoa and soon were roaring along at break-neck hull speed.
While sailing at hull speed I must balance the trim very carefully, as we have no ballast. I do this by gripping the main sheet in one hand and the genoa sheet in the other, while steering with my foot-operated rudder peddles. As we go, I am constantly easing or sheeting in. We made our sails ourselves, they resemble those of an ordinary sloop-rigged sailboat. But they are relatively small - about 27 square feet each - so the sheets do not require blocks or winches. And because the boat is so heavily loaded it does not require leeboards.
After a lengthy and exhilarating ride, and near the far side of the bay the wind became capricious so we dropped the main. In stiff winds abaft the beam, the mainsail is not so easy to control. We continued on under genoa and paddles.
We rounded Buckley Point in a downpour with headwinds, paddling bare masted against a substantial counter current. We were thankful that the sea was flat. But at the moment I lacked enthusiasm - perhaps it was due to the effects of yesterday afternoon's struggles combined with improper diet.
As we rounded the point we saw the ferry terminal and a few buildings along the busy highway. So we headed for shore and pulled out on a boat ramp at the ferry terminal. Jenny walked up and asked the toll-takers if there might be a restaurant nearby, and came back with the good news that there was. So we moored the boat bow-and-stern to the side wall of the concrete boat ramp, which was well protected from any surge. And with that we walked a short ways to a restaurant. There is nothing quite so reviving as a good hot meal and a few cups of coffee. And we even managed to dry our clothes somewhat.
Our spray cover is not working too well and has the same old problem of water pooling on it, then leaking down onto the zipper; and also water running down our cagoules where the spray skirt cannot keep it out, even though it is pressed against the cagoules. In addition to ourselves getting wet, we find a considerable amount of water in the bilge after each rainstorm. And this we must sponge out.
While on the subject of gear we find that one of our most useful items is our fishermen's boots. They are heavy rubber with thick soles and eighteen-inch uppers. We bought them a few years back in Australia, where they are called gum boots.
After a reviving lunch we returned to the boat and set off feeling much better spirited and energetic. After an hour's motor-sailing I decided to pull in, so that I could get out and walk for a ways. The tide was well out and the walk was over gnarly barnacle and algae covered rocks, clam shells, oysters, mussels and what have you. Jenny wasn't finding the going easy either, paddling solo, close to shore; and its always such a relief for her when I get back into the boat.
We motor-sailed on into the afternoon beset with sporadic gentle rain and a few moments sunshine thrown in for encouragement. Progress was enhanced by a favorable current.
Dark and ominous thunderclouds rolled past, each one generating its own winds so that we would have headwinds for awhile which would later veer off, allowing us to reset the mains'l. The day was quite chilly, and with the clearing of each miniature storm we could see that a little more snow had been deposited on the nearby mountains of Vancouver Island.
For the first time we could see across the strait to the British Columbia mainland, which is surprisingly mountainous. Today the strait, at least what we can see of it, is flat calm - a condition which really takes the bite out of sea kayaking. As we gazed across toward the mainland I caught sight of an extraordinary spectacle. A bright, burning object was falling out of the sky, leaving a trail of smoke. It was moving far too slowly to have been a meteorite.
As we approached Comox harbor the decision was made for us to find a campsite fast, as the entire northwestern sky had blackened with a particularly immense thunderstorm. We dare not cross the bay, as the storm dump from this one could pose a serious threat to mariners in small boats such as ourselves. However, all along the coast were houses at thirty-yard intervals, but we found one house-less stretch at a small river. We followed the river upstream a ways and found a meager campsite about five feet above the high tide mark.
We unloaded the boat just as the wind piped up and the first raindrops began to fall. Soon a fierce wind whipped across the bay, covering it in white caps and assuring us that the decision to stop had been the correct one. Hours paddled today: 6
Day's mileage: 14, Total: 127
Day 7
May 1
We were up at 4:30 am with coffee. Outside, frost covered everything. The tide was too high to permit loading the boat where we had taken it out so we carried boat and gear in five cycles fifty yards to the beach where we loaded the boat in the water. The sky was mostly clear and the wind calm. We set off and paddled the mile and a half across Comox Bay with the mainsl catching a slight breeze. A few fishing boats were headed out early that morning and we watched them pass before us and head out into Georgia Strait.
Once across the bay we traveled 100 yards off the shore and proceeded northwest. The Comox airport was just over the hill and we could see the control tower. The soaring club had commenced their Sunday morning practice session. The tow plane was kept busy; as soon as it had one glider high enough it would drop out of the sky and land, only to take off again towing another glider.
We stopped at a boat ramp and Jenny headed up with the empty water bottles to replenish our supply while I made sure the small waves didn't grind the boat onto the rocks. She returned with bottles full, having found a campground within walking distance of the ramp.
Four hours into our morning's paddling we closed the shore and I did a stint of walking along the cobblestone beach before returning to the oars. The sky had long since clouded over. The wind was very light out of the southeast but we could see across the strait to the paper mill smoke stack at Powell River on the mainland, and the smoke leaning over at an acute angle told of a strong southeast wind which would find us sooner or later.
The sea birds were out in full force today. At one point the water's surface far ahead was covered in thousands of birds. We're not sure of the species. They are black with a thin white ring around the neck and t thin pin-tail. As drew near they began taking off, but not all at once of course. They were too spread out for that. When these birds take to wing they make a characteristic high-pitched whining noise; rapid beating of their wings creating the high speed air flow over them. so we were surrounded by birds taking off for a good 15 minutes and the nose was incessant all the while.
Sea lions were quite common, typically eyeing us curiously and ducking beneath the surface when we come too close. Often we encountered seabirds resting on the water's surface, and at our approach they took to flight. One species of underwater swimming bird found it difficult to build enough speed to get themselves airborne, and even more so when the seas were choppy. They began by flapping their wings vigorously and running pell-mell across the water's surface. The web-footed running leaves a wake behind them that resembles the wake of a small motor boat. This amuses us to no end.
The young ones of this particular species have not yet acquired the strength and endurance needed for such arduous launchings. At our approach they go jet-boating away like their parents, only to crash headlong into some wave. But no harm done, and the soon they try again. Three or four times and they usually resort to Escape Plan B: dive beneath the surface.
Late in the morning we were feeling the effects of the morning's paddling exertions. Lassitude was beginning to set in. Jenny did a stint of walking but the wind piped up and I sped off full tilt under main and genoa and soon had to jibe in for the rocky shoreline to pick up my first mate who was by then far behind. The wind had picked up so fast that we regretted having left a second campground we had passed just half a mile back. With the rapidly building white caps it was impractical to return to it. As there was no camping ashore where we were we decided to press on and make a quick dash for the next point, one mile away. We figured we could pull in there safely should the seas rise. The seas rose. And we paddled hard for 20 minutes.
Reaching the point we found a good pull in behind it. The wind was strong and even in the small by behind the pull in the wavelets were steep. The tide was out exposing the wide tidal flat, and when we pulled in to shore we were about a quarter mile from the high tide line. The tidal variation is about 10 feet right now.
The task before us was to carry boat and gear across the rocky expanse of slippery tide pools, sand, and quicksand. By the time we had our gear on the upper beach out of harm's way we were feeling pallid in spirit and withering in stature. Then began the search for a decent campsite. From the high tide mark the forest rose steeply and level ground was nearly nil. We searched in both directions as far as we could conceive of carrying our gear and at the southern conceivable limit I found a passable site.
Five more carry cycles across the loose cobblestones brought us at last to camp. It was only 2:00 pm but the seas were whipped to a frenzy and we weren't going anywhere in those conditions. But what a pleasant situation it is to be able to go ashore and make camp when the seas get rough. In a larger sailboat this is of course not possible.
Today marks the end of our first week. We paddled only 6 hours today.
Day's mileage: 15, Total: 142
Day 8
May 2
The strong wind persisted throughout the night and the sound of crashing surf during those hours of darkness told us the seas remained rough. Awaking in the morning we knew it would be a forced layover day. So we slept in until 10:00 am, then Jenny whipped up a batch of buckwheat pancakes.
The tent's incline of the previous night was only tolerable considering our state of fatigue. With the likelihood of spending another night here, we would have to level the ground under the. So we moved the tent away, and using sticks we scraped away the forest litter - humus and dank earth - to make a level platform. We hate to scar the earth just for a single night's sleep, but we would put it all back before leaving.
During the morning the tide receded to expose the broad tidal flat. Just out beyond the low tide line a number of seals lay on several barely exposed rocks, attempting to eke out what little rest they afforded them. With the rough seas, the breakers were battering those rocks, and the poor creatures had to arch themselves to keep head and tail as high as possible, and they obviously didn't revel in their being trammeled with each oncoming wave. It struck me that they were enduring a most unpleasant morning. Presumably the seals must rest upon rocks which provide immediate access to the sea, to escape any danger. This might explain why they can't take shelter ashore. We understand these creatures are migrating northward this time of year, so hopefully this situation is only temporary. Their lives seem synchronized not to the rising and falling of the sun, but to the rising and falling of the tide. At high tide they will be found in the water foraging, no matter how rough the sea.
Nearly out of drinking water we set out with jugs in hand, intent on reaching the campground we had paddled passed a few miles back. Jenny found a trail leading up the hill to a road, so we followed that. The road angled inland and after an hour's walking it turned directly inland, so we gave it up and followed a less traveled dirt road which angled back toward the ocean. At the end of this road were several beach-side houses. We didn't want to cut through someone's property so we bushwhacked through dense foliage and eventually found ourselves in someone's yard. As walked by the house I saw a lady seated behind her big picture window. I waved and she waved back, so we approached her house with hopes of getting water here.
The lady greeted us pleasantly and after we explained our situation she let us fill our jugs from her hose. Her water supply was spring fed and she was very proud of the quality of water. She wondered why we hadn't filled our jugs from similar springs everywhere along the coast. I replied that with the houses on the hillsides above the springs, the water sometimes smells polluted.
I asked about the weather forecast and the lady rang up the local weather report - a recorded message. It said the wind was 35 knots and the general inclement weather was to persist for another day. We thanked her for her help then walked back to our camp along the shoreline. The seas were quite rough and I couldn't imagine paddling our frail kayak out there.
Day 9
May 3
The sea calmed considerably during the night, as indicated by the lack of loud roaring at our doorstep. At first light I went down to inspect the conditions at close hand. There were a few white caps out there, and just enough surf to make launching the fabric hulled boat an iffy proposition. We packed camp and eventually made the decision to go, knowing it was going to be a rough day.
We carried boat and gear south along the shore to a place where the surf was less than elsewhere, then setting the boat into the water I held it in position while Jenny loaded it quickly. We jumped in and set off without mishap - at 7:00 am. We knew our time out here was limited so we paddled hard throughout the morning, hoping to reach the town of Campbell River, fifteen miles further on.
The rain fell hard, and near the small town of Miracle Beach (its a miracle if you see the beach - there is none that we saw) there came a fantastic rainbow directly ahead of us. It was a small one, as the sun was low in the sky, and through its prismatic arches was our passageway to Alaska.
The further we progressed, the rougher the seas. Just past Oyster Bay, a strong easterly tempest whipped across the water in a fury of menacing white caps. The surf was rendering shore inaccessible, so we paddled the rough water for one-and-half hours, feeling more than vulnerable and taking the worse, as we went around various rocky points. At some of coastal promontories, offlying rocks extended far out. We cautiously threaded our way among the menacing shoals, because the seas were far rougher out there. Given a choice, I try to navigate rough water as close to shore as possible so that, in the event of a capsize, we might swim to safety.
By the time we approached the vicinity of Cape Mudge, the seas were large and breaking; and the kayak took a number of greenies over its deck. Reading the driven spume lines on the water, I judged the wind was in excess of thirty-five knots. Of course this would be nothing for a vessel of greater size, but it seemed harrowing enough to us, as we paddled full power throughout the ordeal.
The boat's deck leaked pitifully, and a great deal of the splash found its way into the kayak's bilge. This not only made the boat heavier, slowing its speed, but the sensation of sitting in cold sea water was anything but pleasant. Frequently we were obliged to stop and sponge out the brine, at which times the lack of paddling compromised our stability. And the cold water numbed our hands. How we wished for a bilge pump.
Nearing the town of Campbell River we reached a cove that had a rock barrier protecting the shoreline from the impending surf. Inside the cove the water was calm. Eyeing the chance to land ashore, I asked Jenny if she wanted to stop. She said "no, lets keep going." I knew, once again, I had the best paddling mate.
The kelp fronds indicated the current was behind us, but the closer we neared to Campbell River, the current switched and we moved along the shoreline in slow motion, despite our best efforts.
And then the strangest thing happened: Incredibly, ahead we could see the sea flattening. We crossed a magic line, which no doubt was the effect of the current issuing from Discovery Passage. Within minutes we had gone from a sea in turmoil to a sea of benign tranquility. And at the same time, the wind stopped and the sun came out. It was the most amazing transition on the ocean I have ever seen.
During the rough paddling I had promised Jenny that if we made it to Campbell River we would take a motel room. And we did just that. We pulled into a small, enclosed breakwater called McCallum Park, landed on a small boat ramp, pulled the boat out the water, and checked into a motel just across the street. Then we returned to the park and carried the boat and gear to the room. The sun was blazing so we dried the kayak, then stuffed it in the room and walked one mile south to the laundromat. The washing machine's water was too hot and destroyed two synthetic-fabric shirts. Then on the way back Jenny suddenly realized she had dropped her cagoule; so she spent a frantic twenty minutes searching for it, asking everyone in the vicinity, and going into the shops to inquire if anyone had seen it. Finally, at pet shop, the clerk handed her the missing cag. Someone had found it outside the shop's door, and brought it in. We were grateful for getting it back, saving Jenny from buying a new one.
On our return we watched a spectacular air show as Canada's "Snowbirds," ace pilots in nine jets, put on a precision flying demonstration - purportedly to help promote the upcoming Salmon Festival.
Reaching the motel, we then headed north along the road to try to find a store to buy another shirt. We walked two miles to the Fisherman's wharf, but the day was late and the stores were closed. So we enjoyed a fish and chips dinner before heading back. This street is the scene of an unbelievable traffic jam when the local timber mill disgorges its rush hour workers.
We made another attempt at sealing some of the holes in the kayak's deck, using caulking and stitching. We had only paddled five hours today, but it was a tiring five hours, and with our additional long walks around town, we were bushed.
Day's mileage: 15, Total: 157
Day 10
May 4
Our motel room was of course dry and therefore indescribably luxurious, after having camped many days in the rain. But the next morning the Sirens resume their singing in a way that we find hard to resist. We rose at 4:30 am and visited the mini-mart next door for coffee. Then we carried our loads across the street to the boat ramp, and loaded up.
We set off at 6 am and made good progress to the fishing pier with a favorable current. Hungry though we were, we decided not to stop at a café for breakfast, because we didn't want to waste the favorable tide. We pressed on, but near the northern outskirts of town we spied a waterside fast food joint, so Jenny went in and picked up some breakfast for us. Meanwhile I got to talking to a few workers, one of whom was familiar with the tides. He said that the tide's surge moves inward from both ends of Vancouver Island and meets just south of Campbell River. So from here, to the far end of the strait, we will have a following current with an ebbing tide.
We paddled into Discovery Passage, noticing several strange effects of current: tide rips, boils, and lateral surges. The wind was against us, and the wind-against-tide effect set up a good chop, making the going sometimes bumpy and wet.
We pulled out at Race Point, as we had noticed a huge tide race streaming around the corner - it looked like a big river. I climbed the hill to the lighthouse. One look out across the bay ahead suggested that we should stay put and wait for slack water before proceeding. The bay was laced with awesome current effects, against which our paddling would doubtless be ineffective.
However, I decided we could paddle through the initial rips, as they weren't too heavy, then we could stay close to the cliff-bound shoreline, and paddle the strong counter-current. This proved successful, and we paddled across the bay to Wilfred Point, at the southwest of the entrance to Seymour Narrows. Approaching the far shore, the scenery began to slide away with such fantastic speed that it almost gave us vertigo. These are ocean waters, but they act like those of some great, turbulent river. The effect is caused by the ebbing and flooding tide wrapping around Vancouver Island and squeezing through this narrow channel. We ferry-glided into a small bight, paddling full tilt. Here the water was remarkably clear and the shoreline underwater was lined with large, bright red urchins, with a few bright crimson starfish thrown in for good measure.
We landed ashore and while Jenny held the boat of the rocks, I set off on foot to gain a vista of the Narrows. I hiked quite a ways around the corner, then climbed to a high vantage where the entire length of Seymour Narrows was visible. If there is any place with a reputation in the entire Inside Passage, this is it. The tide table indicates today's current would be twelve knots, and it can go as high as sixteen. If ever there is a place with a foreboding reputation along the Inside Passage, this is it.
Even from up here the "river" sounds like a waterfall, with rips, races, white water and even whirlpools. Slack water was not due to occur for a couple of hours, so I pick out a line that appeared safe, one that circumvented the worst of the turmoil. What I failed to realize is the scale. From my perch several hundred feet above the water, the action appeared nowhere nearly as large as it was.
I decided we could negotiate the Narrows safely by following my carefully studied route through the turmoil. I returned to the boat, Jenny donned her wetsuit, we both put on life jackets, and un-stepped and stowed the mast. We got in and secured the spray cover. One thing was for sure: it was going to be a wild run. I advised Jenny to listen carefully to my paddling instructions and carry them out quickly.
Paddling around the corner, we enter an area of counter-current so strong that we are barely able to pull through it. Then the current began sucking us into the Narrows, so we pulled ashore so that I could go have another look. Things had changed since my first inspection. For one thing, the river seemed not to be flowing quite so fast. All looked well, so we got in and set off again.
The current accelerated us wildly into the Narrows. The cliffs were flying past at dizzying speeds, with the water furiously boiling all around us. It took all our energy and attention to control the boat, but soon we were being buffeted and tossed about with such intensity that we seemed to have little control.
We crossed an unavoidable sheer between two opposing eddies, then a whirlpool formed fifteen feet off our starboard beam. Within seconds it grows into a seething, sucking monster. In all my kayaking and sailing experience I have never seen anything nearly as awesome as this whirlpool. It was making terrifying, sucking sounds, but curiously was not drawing us to it. Had it done so, perhaps three-quarters of our 18 foot craft would have disappeared into the hole, before being swallowed altogether. We paddled hard to port in a frenzy of action, not in panic - the situation was far too dangerous for that - but with a controlled and determined urgency.
Eight feet ahead, another whirlpool forms. This one is much smaller but prevented us from fleeing from the monster behind us. We swung the boat to starboard and paddled full tilt out of the sheer zone, still being buffeted and tossed about like an insignificant piece of flotsam in a channel of raging water.
As we proceeded further things began calming down somewhat, and we knew we had made it through.
Jenny's remark was she had never in her life experienced such an adrenalin rush. My feelings were that all went according to plan except the monster whirlpool, which left me questioning my judgment.
We transit the rest of Johnstone Strait, maneuvering among overfalls, surges, fierce boils, and other effects of the intense underwater turbulence. We travel close to shore for the protection from the winds, and also to avoid the steep and dangerous chop farther out, created by the headwinds-against-current. Close to shore there is a counter-current that exerted a pull on us back toward where we had come.
The rain is remarkably persistent; but it only makes us appreciate the occasional burst of sunshine that much more. For the next one-and-half hours we strained at the blades, paddling with all our strength while making very little distance along the shore.
The tides switched from ebb to flood, but for us there was no slack water, such was the effect of the turbulence. Instead of an ebbing counter current, we had a flooding current - flowing, of course, in the direction opposite to that we were traveling.
We continued on, battling current and headwinds, making our way around rocky points and promontories where the adverse conditions were at their worse, then paddling into small bays where the going was a little easier. It was hard work, but the glorious sunshine made the wild water and headwinds bearable. And the surrounding countryside was fantastic. The fiord-like rocky promontories plummeted into the sea. Where there were no rock there was dense forest. Eagles flew overhead, small waterfalls of all descriptions melodically splashed into the sea just to port, and often the water was clear and we could see to a depth of perhaps fifteen feet.
We took a few breaks, then pulled into a nice cove and made camp beneath a grove of stately cedars, fairly close to the high tide line. We had paddled for 8 hours.
Day's mileage: 18, Total: 175
Day 11
May 5
We awoke this morning to hear a few raindrops on the tent, and then the alarm sounded at 4:30 am. We broke camp and loaded the boat in a light sprinkle and shoved off at 6:15 am. The rain increased soon after, and persisted in varying intensities throughout the morning. We didn't really mind the rain as we were snug and warm and generally dry inside the kayak. Again we were plagued with headwinds which also lasted through the morning.
The tide turned at 7:00 am so that we had a strong following current until 2 pm. However, the headwinds acting against the current created a steep chop, making us hold close to the rocky shoreline wherein lay a counter current, further slowing our progress. In spite of the drudgery, mental and physical, there was always something interesting to see. For a while we gazed out into the strait watching a whale blowing a column of spray with each exhale before sounding for several minutes. The big Bald Eagles frequented the trees of the shoreline, As usual. Most flew away at our approach.
We went around Chatham Point and began our westward transit of Johnstone Strait. For awhile the going was miserable with stiff headwind, overfalls, surges, and boils - and a liberal dose of counter current close to the shore where we were forced to travel. All the while, larger boats passed well out in the channel, and the strong current carried them quickly out of sight.
At noon the weather took a change for the better. The headwinds ceased, the sun came out, and the water flattened. It looked like better paddling on the far shore of the strait so we headed across, leaving Vancouver Island and arriving at West Thurlow Island half-an-hour later.
In another hour the current went slack, then switched to an easterly flow. But we found that it didn't slow our progress. In fact, the contrary current actually aided us, because again we were close to shore, paddling in the counter current. In this case two negatives made a positive.
We rounded the western tip of the island and crossed Chancellor channel to reach Hardwicke Island. The afternoon's paddle was a joy, as the scenery was unsurpassed, the going easier, and the weather ideal. We saw a river otter, and the dorsal fin of an unknown big fish - perhaps an orca. The shore was cliff and we practically strained necks scanning the vertical scenery above. The water was crystal clear and we could see these same cliffs plunge into the depths.
At 4:30 pm we reached a bight adjacent Current Passage Island, thus concluding our day's paddling. Behind the usual wall of nearly impenetrable forest, we found a large open area ideally suited for camping. And right in the middle of our very own private campground, a pile of fresh bear scat.
Day's mileage: 25, Total: 200, Hours paddled: 10
Day 12
May 6
Early this morning I spooked an unknown, hoofed animal of great mass that went charging off into the bushes. We were on our way by 6:00 am. The morning air was chilly with a layer of alto stratus. Wind was light and variable as we paddled along the southern coast of Hardwicke Island, past a few rustic houses.
Reaching the western tip of the island we crossed diagonally the three-mile wide Sunderland channel.
Each day we see at least fifteen or twenty boats plying the channel; runabout speed boats used primarily for fishing, fishing trollers, and tugs towing a wide variety of barges. Today we saw a tug pulling an immense flotilla of logs.
We pressed on for several hours, now with light headwinds. We rounded the cape to the north and entered the Port Harvey Channel between West and East Craycroft islands. Two miles into the channel, where the chart showed a thin arterial channel-way branching to the northwest, we found nothing but dry ground. The tide was low, and the so-called channel, even at the highest spring tide, wouldn't be more than two feet wide. Now it lay high and dry. I followed it afoot for half a mile, thinking of perhaps making a portage, and reached open water where paddling would again be possible. But I decided against carrying boat and all our gear that far. There was nothing for it but to paddle the two miles back out, in a stiff headwind. This required a full-out effort.
We hoped to reach the store at Minstrel island where we would provision for the jaunt to New Bella Bella. This meant we had to paddle east and around, then through Chatham Channel. It was perhaps seven miles out of our way, and we were disappointed that our Canadian chart had misrepresented the narrow channel (but maybe that part of the land was rising). And as Jenny remarked, "we'll have to chalk that one up to exploration."
We made our way around East Cracroft Island, now under mainsl, and one mile up Chatham Channel the current against us became strong. Our arms and will power weakened. We were nearly out of water, and hadn't been able to find any all afternoon; but decided to make camp anyway. We had been paddling for eleven hours and were ready for a night's rest.
Day's mileage: 30, including 4 exploring, Total: 230
Day 13
May 7
Since we were out of drinking water, we used the early morning coffee-making time instead for a few more minutes of extra sleep. We packed up quickly and were off by 6:00 am. The air was still and pervaded by fog. A strong current was running against us, necessitating our holding closely to the shoreline. We paddled hard, and moved ahead at only half speed, scanning the water ahead for rocks. We pulled around the occasional downed tree, where the current would grip the boat more strongly. I could tell when we have entered stronger adverse current, as the paddles suddenly slide through the water effortlessly. The boat speed through the water increases, but one look ashore dispels the notion of better forward speed. It feels good, but it isn't. Entering a current produces the opposite effect. The paddles in the water become sluggish, leaden-like. It feels bad, but it's good.
Fog obscured the opposite side of the channel, making us feel as if we were paddling up some river. An hour into our morning the fog dissipated, revealing a glorious, sunny day and cloudless sky.
We reached the fishing and hunting resort at Minstrel Island at 7:30 am. A few power boats were tied to the docks, so we tied the kayak and wandered up to the small store. There was no one around but an old dog that barked half-heartedly. The sign on the door read: Open at 9:00 AM. We sauntered back to the dock, filled a few water bottles from the hose, then made coffee there on the dock next to the kayak.
An hour later we went back up and sat on the steps of the store and soon a woman appeared saying, "Hi. Are you the two in the kayak?" She was in her late thirties, attractive, and friendly. She looked fresh from the city, which made us feel like we're becoming attuned to our wilderness way of life. Whenever one lives in the bush for a time, city slickers begin taking on an increasingly odd appearance; the way they make themselves up.
The usual managers were away on holiday, and this lady was running the place all by herself, which was quite a remarkable feat considering the fuel docks - aviation and marine - that needed tending, besides running the store, showers and laundry facilities. She invited us into the store and we found the door had been unlocked all the time. No one around here to lock out, it seems. The good news was that we had found the store and had found the store open. The bad news was the prices of the commodities. The way to provision in a place like this is to select what is needed without looking at the prices, then to pay the final bill. Our small pile came to over $40.00.
We took showers then chatted with the lady for awhile. I asked about a small animal we had seen; she said it was a mink. She escorted us down to the kayak to take a look at it. We said our fond farewells and headed off.
We paddled into Knight Inlet which is almost as big as Johnstone Strait. The wind was light astern and the water flat, so we headed out into deep water for the next five miles to take advantage of the slight current out there. We closed the coast of Gilford Island at its southernmost point, and then commenced working our way around its irregular coastline.
The tide switched and each going around the next point became more difficult. Once we stopped ashore and poked around the intertidal zone where we found a most interesting array of sea life. There was at least one small eel, three to four inches in length, beneath each rock we overturned. We found one very interesting one-inch crab quite unlike the others; it looked like it had armor plating on it.
The views to the southeast were nothing short of spectacular, with dramatic, snow capped peaks. We caught a westerly sea breeze, hoisted the main and sailed north through Retreat Pass. But when the wind piped up, we had to douse the sail which was by then well reefed, and paddle to windward over to Bonwick Island. At its northeastern end we entered a large cove and found a campsite perched over the bay on a knoll of turf, under cedars and firs. We had paddled for 8 and a half hours today.
Unloading the boat was a bit of a challenge as we landed at the rocks which were festooned in razor-sharp barnacles. In such cases we unloaded the boat while it was still in the water.
Day's mileage: 22, Total: 252
Day 14
May 8
We set off at 6:00 am. The morning's wind was calm and seas flat, but the visibility was down to a few hundred feet, at best. We paddle out into the grey nothingness in search of the next island, steering by compass while groping ahead almost by feel. And so goes the entire morning, padding from one island to the next, making a few longer passages of several miles, and each time finding our objective looming as a darker grey splotch directly ahead. With each success we gained a little more confidence in our navigation, and our little Boy Scout compass, and its ability to show us the way. (Later on we would set off into the pea soup as a matter of course, knowing the little Boy Scout compass would show the way.)
We traversed the channel westward on the north shore of mars Island, then passed Eden Island to starboard. Only once did we unknowingly enter on of Eden's many large bays, and had to paddle back out. Otherwise our map reading forewarned us of the bays.
We crossed Fife Sound with 100-foot visibility and reached Broughton island. Encountering a big rock chock-a-block with magnum-size sea lions, we approached quietly, but when the bull on watch noticed us he began roaring like a lion. The others awoke and several of the large bulls joined in the daunting chorus. These creatures were so big and sounded so ferocious that we didn't dare approach. They were obviously enjoying their rock and were in no mood to be chased into the water. We gave them a wide berth and pressed on, navigating for a ways further by the sound of all the grumpy roaring astern.
We plied the coast of the next island, cutting across two large bays, and at 11:00 am the sun burnt through the fog to reveal a blue sky. It had been quite chilly all morning and the sun's warmth was welcome indeed, as at last we could take off mittens and hats.
We stepped ashore for a 10 minute break, poking around the inter-tidal zone where we found a fascinating assortment of mollusks, starfish, small blennie-like rock hoppers, and even the remains of an octopus, whose fate we couldn't guess.
We pressed on, passing by numerous Bald Eagles perched in the trees overhead, and as we were traversing Wells Passage, the wind piped up so we hoisted main and sailed for perhaps fifteen minutes before a mild squall came through and forced us to douse the sail. We paddled across to the mainland full tilt.
We headed along the coast and found a river indicated on the chart. This was our objective and we were glad to find it flowing as we had been unable to find any water since Minstrel Island. I went upstream to fill the jugs while Jenny watched the boat, and at the high tide line I found a canoe and make-shift camp. I approached and hollered, "hello the camp" and apparently awoke the camper, who said he hadn't heard my boat approaching. I explained I was in a kayak. He was about the grubbiest, scraggliest-looking character I have ever seen. In his presence I felt like a genuine city slicker. He said he had started from just north of Vancouver ten months previously, and was headed to Bella Coola. He expounded at length on the dangers of grizzly bears and said that he always kept his big rifle at his side.
I filled my jugs at the creek, said goodbye, and headed back down tho the kayak, feeling somewhat uneasy about this character who was obviously destitute and armed. More than likely he was perfectly harmless, but I didn't want to stick around to find out.
We paddled around a major point and were smacked right in the face by a gnarly chop and fresh winds out of the northwest. We fought them for awhile, then pulled in behind a rock to unstep and ship the mast to reduce our windage, and then battled for another half hour before deciding to find camp. We poked into many bays where I explored the hinterland without success. The forest was so dense we couldn't find a suitable campsite. Eventually we worked our way around a whale jaw-shaped peninsula and found the seas to be five feet and the wind twenty to twenty-five knots. These we battled for a few minutes until it was obvious we weren't advancing any further, so we turned tail and headed back to the only acceptable camping place I had found. This campsite was atop a heather brush of about a foot deep.
Day's mileage: 22, Total: 274 Hours paddled: 9,
Day 15
May 9
The wind died sometime during the night. We rose at 4:30 am. We hadn't seen a sand beach in a couple hundred miles so we are loading the boat in water while stumbling over the slippery stones carrying gear from higher ground. As such, one of our most valuable pieces of gear is our fisherman's boots. We set off at 5:45.
The seas had flattened during the night, and once we rounded the point that had thwarted us the day before, we found a different world out there. It's amazing how the wind rules the face of the water, and the movements of us kayakers. After an hour's going we caught a gentle offshore breeze and hoisted mainsl and genoa.
Thus we continued for the next four hours as the wind gradually picked up and swung to the southeast and the seas grew in size. The wind was astern, but the seas were on the port quarter, so we knew something was brewing out in Queen Charlotte Strait. All along the way, the coastline was rocky but indented with one small cove after the next so we had our choice of about a hundred pull-outs. However the foliage ashore was so dense as to be nearly impenetrable. So the campsites were few and far in between.
The last three miles to Shelter Bay we paddled in a strong wind in fairly heavy seas. Our route was a choice of compromise. We had to stay close enough to shore so that we might swim to it should we capsize in rough seas, but that close to shore was the zone of rebounding waves (clapotis), and so our ride was a riot.
We had been paddling about as hard as we could, for several hours trying to make the most of our limited time on the sea. We were both feeling quite lacking of muscle power by the time we reached the protection of Shelter Bay. We rounded a few satellite, rocky islands where the rough seas gave us a final trouncing. As we sped through the final channel our windage, plus our paddling, plus a strong following current, had us feeling like we were zooming like a bob sledder. And in this we had to be cautious, as large bulbous heads of kelp and their floating stalks were lying about everywhere. Should we run into one and catch it over the bow, the result could be calamitous. It was a time of high adrenaline.
Once inside, we paddled across the bay looking for a good landing, and entered a pocket harbor; long and narrow and flanked with rocky cliffs. The setting was reminiscent of The Return of the Jedi, with its almost unreal scenery. For once we found a nice, sandy beach; but the tide was well out, exposing a field of rocks in front of it. We landed, and Jenny held the boat against the surge, fending it from the barnacle infested rocks, while I searched the area for some suitable camping.
I couldn't find any camping, but I did find a spring and that was a good find in itself. So we unloaded the boat, bag by bag, and hauled the kayak onto drier ground. Again I searched at length for a campsite. There was a small sandy area just above high tide line, but as for the surrounding terrain, every square millimeter had been spoken for by the tenacious forest. We felt shut out. Jenny said the forest was foreboding; for the first time she felt the forest was not friendly or inviting. I found it dispiriting.
Nevertheless, I forged my way into it, following a burrowing tunnel made by some animal. I made it about forty feet without seeing any change, so I gave up. So we added to our list of things we should have brought: machete, double-bitted (broad) ax, whipsaw, and and possibly some dynamite.
The place had an eerie feeling about it, and we talked about how nice it would be if we had a big rifle. We felt vulnerable against the possibility of meeting a grizzly. We talked about what kind of gun we should have, and somehow that made us feel a little better. But we couldn't dispel the persistent urge to get out of there. So after Jenny whipped up a fine batch of flapjacks, and filtered some spring water, which was even browner than yesterday's river water, we loaded up and paddled out into the open water.
It wasn't long after we left the shelter of the bay that we found the boat leaping around wildly in the chop, once again. The wind was from astern, still, and I wished for the umpteenth time for a spitfire jib. But running before the wind bare-poled was probably enough, as we find that with no leaden keel for stability, the capsize worry factor grows with the size of the waves when under sail. Without sail, we seem far more stable in the water, and when it's rough we prefer to paddle.
We made it to a protected bay amongst several small islands hugging the coast, where we found calm water and three small tugs moored alongside a large raft of timber. We drew alongside and asked one of the skippers if he'd heard a weather forecast. He said there was a southeast gale warning out for the next 24 hours. We thanked him for the information and headed on, working our way around the corner of the convex coastline. Before us was a large bay to cross - perhaps three miles wide. We knew the seas would be rough out there, so we held to the coastline and worked our way into a bay full of small islands. On one of these we found a level spot covered in thick heather, moss, and duff: the perfect mattress for our bed. It was just high enough above high water.
Day's mileage: 25 Total: 299 Hours paddled: 10.5,
Day 16
May 10
For the first time the morning was a wee bit light when the alarm went off at 4:30. We set off at 5:30 am across the channel to Branham Island, three miles distant, and as we left the protection of our coves, the sea grew moderately rough. The wind was southeast at ten to fifteen. To the east the sky was lit-up with a dramatic orange glow, heralding coming wind.
From the northwest coast of the island we crossed Slingsby Channel. As the morning wore on, the wind intensified, and our paddling became more of a drama. We pulled into a small bay on the mainland for a quick break. The wind was blowing directly onshore, and hefty surge made landing difficult. In these conditions it is a full-on battle to leave, because of the wind driving us back onto the rocky shore, aided by the surge. We vaguely considered staying, but the prospects of unloading the boat over the rocks were daunting. So instead we high-tailed it back out onto the open ocean.
We paddled a few more miles around the point, then pulled in behind the protection of a rocky bluff to consider our plight. Before us stretched three miles of sandy beach, onto which a hefty surf was breaking. As the surf rolled in, the strong wind would catch each comber and fling its crest seaward in a dash of spray. There were no more pull-outs visible ahead and the prospects of getting ourselves into a good epic out there were fairly good. We decided to pull into this last little cove and land ashore.
The far inner corner of the beach was without surf, so we glided in on a swell and stepped out onto soft sand and proceeded to unload. We went searching for a campsite nearby and found a semi-flat spot just big enough for the tent at the forest's edge.
Then we went for a long walk along the beach. We came to a small stream and a taste proved it to be fresh water. It had the same repulsive brown color as all the springs and creeks in our recent experience. We followed the stream inland as it meandered through the forest, until we came to a small cabin. There were no signs of anyone's presence. We looked in the window and inside it looked as if somebody was living there at the time. A few clothes hung on one wall, and a coffee cup sat on the table. We didn't open the door or go inside, but turned around and followed the creek back to the beach. We continued walking north along the beach quite a ways, enjoying some beach combing before returning to the kayak.
During an interlude of light rain (the first we've had in four or five days), we set up a makeshift kitchen on a large beach log, and Jenny cooked-up some pancakes and cups of steaming coffee. We were both tired, physically and mentally, and I could see out in the bay the water was very rough indeed. So we decided to remain here for the day. After breakfast I promptly fell asleep on a nearby log.
I went to the flat spot and carved out a niche in wilderness, making ready our tent site while Jenny took a short nap on the same log I had.
After pitching the tent we turned the boat over, washed the bottom with brown water from a nearby seep, dried the hull with a rag, and applied a few patches. The shoreline nearly everywhere in these parts is lined in large, razor-sharp barnacles. We are trying hard not to touch them when landing and launching, and patching where we have failed.
To illustrate the voracity of plant life in this region, there is a large rock near camp which sits in the inter tidal zone, but extends above it. It is roughly spherical in shape, and perhaps twenty-five feet in diameter. The rock sits away from the wall of compact forest which cannot intrude into the tidal area. On the top of the rock thrives a miniature forest which extends down its walls as far as friction will allow. The miniature forest is perhaps six feet deep, and consists of the identical stuff growing ashore. There are even a few large trees growing on it. Soil is not a prerequisite. The ecology here makes its own soil. The prime requisite is real estate.
Hours paddled: 3,
Day's mileage: 9, Total: 308
Day 17
May 11
We were up at 4:30 and off at 5:45 am. The sky looked awful, but the wind was calm and the seas flat. We paddled quite hard, fearing that the good weather wouldn't be with us much longer. In two hours we reached the light beacon marking Cape Caution. To our west lay the wide Pacific Ocean, and we were in an open gap in the otherwise protected Inside Passage. A four or five foot swell rolled gently beneath us and crashed into the rocky coastline. The seething, reverberating surf prompted us to keep well away from shore.
For most of the day we remain miles from any land, crossing large bays and broad channels. The occasional patch of kelp showed us we had a contrary current. Fortunately it wasn't much as our forward speed is only three mph.
The wind was light and variable, coming from practically all points of the compass, blowing for perhaps half an hour, dropping to a calm, and then blowing from a different direction. We tried sailing a few times, but each time was short lived because I felt uneasy about compromising the boat's stability so far from shore, and a shore that was unreachable through the heavy surf. Also we find that in light airs, the sail hinders our paddling; on just about any sheeting angle, the boom is in somebody's way. So unless the wind is blowing at least seven or eight knots, sailing doesn't do us that much good, other than the psychological boost. But it does keep us moving, somewhat, when we stop paddling.
Of course the heavy swell really limits the landing places, but we still found plenty of pull-outs. We always look at them in case we would need to come back, should a sudden strong headwind develop.
A few miles north of Cape Caution we embarked across the five-mile wide Smith Inlet. Then after paddling around Kelp Head we found a nice pull-out and landed ashore on a beautiful, white sandy beach, in a one-foot surge. We unloaded most of the boat, then carried it to higher ground. We had been out for seven hours and had covered 20 miles.
Jenny made coffee in her usual manner: boiling two cups of water in a pot, adding two spoons of coffee grounds and waiting until they sink, then taping the side of the pot to encourage the last floaters to sink. Coffee served, she then made pancakes. We enjoyed a well-deserved two-hour break - until the ebbing tide suddenly revealed several nasty, barnacle covered rocks at our landing site. So we packed up hastily and set off, barely managing to get back out.
We struck out across five-mile wide River's Inlet with light headwinds most of the way. We paddled past Penrose Island and now feeling rather peaked, we pulled around the corner of the island, searching for a landing and a campsite. But we found the region unaccommodating. We entered one bay and I managed to crawl ashore onto a rock, while Jenny held the boat steady in the surge. A hasty check of the area showed there to be no camping, so I returned aboard and we reluctantly paddled a couple of miles across Darby channel to the mainland.
We entered a cove and landed on a rocky shore, and found a small but nice campsite with the usual spongy bedding. We unloaded the boat quickly in a one-and-half foot surge. Just outside our back door was our reward for the day's toil: a delicate Calypso Orchid. We had been really blessed today with good weather for crossing the notorious stretch around the exposed Cape Caution. We had paddled for 10.5 hours.
Day's mileage: 30, Total: 338
Day 18
May 12
We were up at 4:30 am, and off by 5:45. The wind was calm, the sea flat, the sky horrid: a greasy scud. We paddled across the bay five miles with mild headwinds. The morning began to warm up, but the sky never cleared. We paddled half-heartedly, because of the fatigue from yesterday's extended efforts, and so our speed wasn't quite up to par. We also took a few breaks.
Four hours into the morning we pulled into a nice beach. In a light rain Jenny made hot coffees while I followed the shoreline as it led deep into an inlet. There I found a nice creek flowing into the sea. We filtered the water then set off, and paddled into the afternoon.
Paddling fifty yards from shore, we were startled by a loud whoosh of air in the water nearby, and small rockets of steam. A couple of huge dorsal fins surfaced between us and the shore. Killer whales feeding, and a Bald Eagle diving on the scraps. Just then another pair of whales surfaced nearby. They were working southward along the cliffs, and didn't seem to take notice of us.
We continued on with quickened pulses.
Four miles south of Namu we came to a large creek flowing into the sea. We paddled up the creek as far as the swift flowing current would allow, then while I maintained our position by paddling, Jenny leaned over and filled the water jugs with fresh water. Then we turned around and glided back out to sea. It was by far our easiest jug replenishment yet.
We pulled into the Namu fish cannery, and found it closed for the off-season, although there were a few people about. Shortly, a sailboat pulled up, and a woman threw us her dock lines. We exchanged particulars with the man and wife. They were cruising Victoria to Glacier Bay for three months.
We paddled around to the main wharf, and Jenny went ashore to determine what services were available. A woman opened the store for her, and Jenny returned with a large sack of goodies.
The owners of the sailboat invited us to sleep aboard, just to get out of the rain, and would hardly take no, thank you, for an answer. But we had been out too long without bathing and laundering, so we thanked them again for their most generous offer. I explained we would find a nice beach to stop and make our camp.
We paddled on through the increasing rain, and half and hour later, as we were poking around various coves looking for a campsite, the wind began to blow from the south. We landed with the intention of checking out a potential camping area. At that moment a squall came through with heavy rain and high winds that kicked up a nasty sea. Jenny bravely held the boat off the barnacled beach, while taking the brunt of wind and chop in her face. I went to inspect the hinterland and found a couple of possible sites, and more importantly, a dry, sheltered spot out of wind and rain. When I returned, Jenny was really taking a walloping in the chop and wind-driven rain. We quickly carried our things up to the sheltered spot, and with great relief, hauled the boat out of the water: the boat's tormentor at the moment.
A fishing boat came around the corner and anchored on the sheltered side of our cove - showing much better seamanship than we had, which in this case is termed "local knowledge". We had seen the man and boy in Namu, and it wasn't long before they were sauntering over to our little disaster area to see how we were getting on. We talked for half an hour. He had anchored here because it was low tide and this was one of his favorite clam digging areas. He said the weather report was 70 to 80 knot winds in Queen Charlotte Sound. We shuddered to think what the waves must be like out there. The fisherman said, "You ought to see it up at the Aleutians where we crab!"
We asked him if he would show us their clam digging methods. The beach was not made of sand, but fragmented clam shells by the zillions. With a small, stout-blade pitch fork his son took a quick thrust into the beach, and pulled out half a dozen clams. In fifteen seconds we had more clams than we could eat. They were mostly shortnecks, and a few horse clams, he said. We thanked them for the lesson, then lugged our buckets of clams and the boat up the hill to make camp.
It was still raining fairly hard so we set up a tarp to stow gear and to cook beneath. We and our gear had gotten really soaked that day.
We steamed the clams then made a tomato-rice-clam dish.
Hours paddled: 10,
Day's mileage: 26, Total: 364
Day 19
May 13
It was a layover day on our self-named "Mink Island," waiting for bad weather to pass. We spent most of the day sleeping, but did a bit of exploring on this small island.
Day 20
May 14
We woke at 4:30 am in a light drizzle, packed up in a light rain, and set off in a downpour. The seas were reasonably manageable, so we crossed Burke Channel, and with the current going our way, we crossed Fisher Channel to Hunter Island. The south wind was at our backs and whipping up a short, gnarly chop. The sound was strewed with white caps, and the rain poured down by the bucket-fulls. Every hour we had to stop and bail an inch of water from the bilge. Presumably most of it is rain water leaking in through the kayak's multi-part gunnels.
We rounded the corner into Lama Passage, noticing a lighthouse station with a couple of buildings perched on a rock; and from there we fought a strong adverse current. We took a ten-minute stop but there was not much point in standing around in the rain, so we set off again, trying not to lose our metabolic heat.
Boats of all types plied the channel including large tugs pulling barges caring their enormous loads. The amount of cargo on one of these rigs was phenomenal; and as they rumbled slowly past, they reminded us of the immense intergalactic starships featured in the Star Wars movies.
We round the broad corner of Denny Island, and soon reach the town of New Bella Bella. This is an Indian town, primarily, and also a fisherman's stop. The Indians live in reasonably nice houses, and we find the people friendly. Not once did our greetings get ignored. The plagues here are the same ones that infect virtually every U.S. city, mainly those of alcohol, drugs and TV. After eight-and-half hours of paddling hard in the rain, we rented a hotel room so that we could dry out. The place was a bit run-down, but it did have a large storage room for the kayak. We strung lines across the room and hung our wet gear on them. I tested the shower and only cold water came out. I inquired, and was told that "the hot water heater will be fixed tomorrow." This sounded strange without the Mexican accent. Jenny did our laundry in the bathtub, and the maid let us use her electric clothes dryer. Then we bathed; one body part at a time in the frigid water. We drifted off to sleep with the sounds of heavy rain.
Day's mileage: 25, Total: 389
Day 21
May 15
We woke at 4:30 am, packed up, then went downstairs and woke-up the night watchman with the request to please unlock the storage room door so that we might retrieve the kayak. The door was unlocked. Outside it was raining lightly so we shuttled gear from room to porch, then carried everything to the pier. The tide was low, so we placed our outfit underneath the pier.
A woman hollers out, "Hey! What are you doing?" Curiosity piqued she ambles over and asks if we are hippies. Josephine, an elderly native woman, wears a thick wool sweater, a skirt, gum boots, and holds the perpetual cigarette in her hand. She is out scrounging around the low tide zone at 5:30 am, waiting for the café to open for a cup of coffee. She tells us she used to bake bread for the hippies and fishermen. She says she wishes she had known we were here, she would have baked some for us. She begins softly yodeling. I ask where she learned to do that; she says she was in surgery once because of an accident, and woke up yodeling, and has been doing it ever since. She tells us to be careful on our trip, and wanders off.
We shoved off at 6:00 am and paddled around the corner into Seaforth Channel, where we found a favorable current and light wind abeam - to which we hoisted main. Adjacent the west side of Spiller Channel we crossed Seaforth Channel as the wind piped up and backed to broad on the starboard bow. It was a wild ride, paddling hard to get out of the busy traffic lanes, while romping over and through the oncoming chop. The wind veered to east so we changed main for genoa and eased along the north edge of the channel, eventually reaching a lighthouse on Ivory Island. Map
Lighthouses around here are not trivial affairs. They might consist of such things as homes, out-buildings, boat cranes, and heli-pads, and resident keepers. I often wished that some light-house keeper would spot us, and come down to water's edge to offer coffee and a chance to learn something about life as a light-house keeper. Well, one finally did. The guy came bounding down the hill, waving his arms as though having an urgent storm warning for us. So of course we drew as close to the rocky shore as we dared. This was in Millbank Sound, and the open sea to the southwest was sending big swells that bashed implacably against the rocks and lathering them in a foam of white fury. Cupping his hands to his mouth, the fellow hollers, "Where - did - you - start?"
We yelled back and forth exchanging particulars, trying to hear each other over the roar of surf. He invited us up for coffee but did not mention how that would be possible in such rough conditions, short of being craned out of the water. Besides, we felt pressed for time. We were negotiating the section of the route exposed to the sea, and the paddling would be best during the morning hours. So reluctantly we turned and continued on our way, thanking the fellow, who was obviously interested in our trip and eager for a bit of company. I couldn't imagine he had many visitors in such a wild and remote setting.
We crossed a two-mile wide channel to Lady Dougles Island in fairly rough conditions, bare-poled with wind fine on the starboard bow, paddles cranking full power.
We entered an area of shallows, with barely submerged off-lying rocks. The swell working through the shoals made the situation rather dicey. The water was relatively calm, but every so often a breaking wave would hit a submerged rock and explode furiously out of nowhere, hurling spray and spume in all directions. Moments later the water would be calm again. So we had to watch far ahead for such eruptions, and memorize their locations in order to steer well clear of them. It felt rather like paddling through a mine field.
Rounding a major point on the un-named island, we ran smack through a field of overfalls, created by wind against tide. For fifteen minutes we struggled through the oncoming turmoil, taking frequent greenies over the bow; each one pouring a little more water into our leaky boat. The idea here was to get through the overfalls before the bilge flooded; and I'm glad to report that we made it. Jenny, sitting in front, served as natural spray dodger, taking the brunt of the spray in her face, and leaving me largely unaffected. I felt very sorry for her, but there was nothing I could do.
Typically I study the topography of the hillsides ahead, and interpolate the drainage systems to make educated guesses as to where the bays and coves are located. So reading the land, I assure Jenny we might have a nice bay just ahead which will offer protection.
At 1:00 pm we found a good pull-out, and landed on a smooth-stoned beach. We had been paddling hard for seven hours and had come 21 miles. While Jenny's coffee was brewing, I searched for a campsite, but without results. The tide turned and the sea calmed somewhat, so after lunch we set off.
It wasn't long before we found ourselves in rough water and stiff headwinds. Making the one-mile crossing to a group of small islands off the southwest corner of Dowager Island, we found another nice cove, this time with a sandy beach. There we pulled in for the day.
We try to camp on islands because we feel safer from the bears. However, the bear skull we found in the forest near the tent-site did little to inspire our confidence in this theory.
This particular island is an interesting one; there are many decaying, fallen trees, and on some of them we find large moon snail shells, which apparently some small animal (likely a mink) has left as a vestige of his meal. On the beach are many moon snail shells, larger than one's fist. And of course the beach is not really of sand, but instead made of tiny shell fragments.
Hours paddled: 8.5,
Day's mileage: 24, Total: 413
Day 22
May 16
The second half of the night brought heavy rain, and the rain was still heavy when we awoke at 4:30 am. Everyone knows it's no fun to get up at daylight when it's raining hard. And this is supposed to be a fun trip. We waited one hour before arising. All the gear we had left under the protection of the tree got soaked.
The tide tables predicted a minus three foot tide today, and the shoreline had already gone WAY out. We carried our gear to the water's edge. Jenny called to me, and I saw a mink scampering past her, five feet away. It then sniffed around our gear before wandering off to check-out the low tide rocks. We found two live moon snails, and a good sized crab.
The tide receded so low that our bay contained only an inch of water. We loaded the boat and walked it out gingerly. Had we waited another fifteen minutes, the bay would have been so many acres of big seaweed-covered rocks. Looking up at the high water line, we pictured ourselves twenty feet under water.
We reached open water, and paddled to the west tip of Dowager Island - in the rain with light winds abeam, then struck out across the main channel and paddled hard for four miles of open water, until closing Swindle Island.
While snacking on crackers, cheese, and cookies, I joked that I was a passenger on a cruise ship, albeit one of somewhat limited amenities and comforts. I encouraged Jenny to keep paddling so I could enjoy my cruise aboard the "HMS Royal Tub". Luncheon was served in the View Lounge, and consisted of Ritz Crackers, Imported Mozzarella Cheese, and Coated Biscuits. Passengers were reminded to keep the coated side (waterproof) of the chocolate-covered biscuits skyward, to prevent them from becoming soggy in the liquid sunshine.
We frequently refer to the kayak as the "Sea Tub," or more simply as the "Tub." Such inglorious nomenclature has evolved from the way we must constantly bale to stay afloat.
The rain was heavy throughout the morning, as we worked our way along the coast several more miles. Then we entered the narrow Klemtu Passage behind the long, narrow Cone island. The rain let up, and the sea went flat, being protected as it was. We picked up a light wind astern, so hoisted genoa. With a bit of a current behind us, life began looking up. Half way through the narrow channel - one-hundred yards wide - we came unexpectedly upon a small town called Klemtu. It looked like a cannery. We waved to a few people who were watching us, but we didn't stop regardless of a sign advertising a café. We didn't want to forgo the favorable conditions, especially the favorable tide.
The morning's entertainment came in the form of an seaplane that suddenly banked around a corner in front of us, on its final approach. We heard it coming and had moved out of the middle of the channel, thank goodness. It roared past and landed in front of the town. Soon, a second plane followed.
The sun came out for short periods between bursts of drizzle. The glorious sunshine was well appreciated after those few days of rain. We continued into Tolmie Channel when suddenly the tide switched from flood to ebb. There was no slack water. We were running with it, when ahead we could see a line of disturbed water. When we crossed the line, the boat slued to starboard and we found ourselves in an adverse current. The hydrodynamics of that phenomena can only be explained by the tremendous depth of the channel.
We struggled on another half hour before landing on a small rocky beach, thus concluding eight hours of paddling. In this neck of the woods, the forest is so voracious that there are few places where it does not thrive. Under the rocky beach was a stream. the rocks were protruding above the flowing water. This was our lunch site.
One hundred feet away, four small waterfalls plummeted down the hillside. Across the channel stood a few snow covered peaks. The sun was shining so we unloaded the boat and spread things out to dry. Our fuel supply was running short, so I built a small fire on which we put a pan full of sliced potatoes and zucchini, with a tin of corned beef. It was one of the day's few moments of relaxing and really enjoying the surroundings.
We pressed on for another two hours, searching for some sort of campsite. Finally at 6 pm we pulled into a small bay and decreed that we would camp here if we had to MAKE a campsite. Which was what we had to do.
After searching everywhere, we pitch the tent on three logs that are lying against each-other and covering the usual high tangle of underbrush. The logs are some two feet in diameter, and have deep gaps between them. I lay on one log, and Jenny lays on another. This was not one of our better night's rest, but we were too tired to care - at least very much.
Hours paddled: 10,
Day's mileage: 28, Total: 441
Day 23
May 17
The morning after "three-log" is another wet one. It rained hard most of the night, and as usual we are soaked. Generally we are more into adventure than comfort, but this is getting to be ridiculous! We rose at 4:30 am, packed up in the rain, and carried gear over slippery, moss-covered fallen trees, sticks and rocks - to the beach.
A chop was working its way into our bay which made our loading chaotic. I held the boat to the pounding of the waves while Jenny loaded the bags into their places. but in doing so, a wave half-filled her boots with cold water. The boat's motion was so violent I finally had her quickly throw everything into the cockpit. We both jumped in and shoved off, then out in the bay I kept the bow into the seas while Jenny finished stowing the bags. It was going to be one of those mornings, we could tell.
Once out of the bay and around the corner, the kayak romped along the rugged coastline, bouncing to and fro in the following chop. It was fairly rough, but at least the wind and seas were behind us, we reasoned. The current was contrary with an ebbing tide so I had to hold close to the shore in a zone of rougher water where the waves were rebounding off the escarpment.
We pressed on for two hours, enduring a heavy and cold rain, rough seas, and a boisterous wind. Jenny began to feel ill. She is never one to complain, but it became increasingly apparent that the morning's life on the seas was not suiting her. Cold, wet feet began a general decline in her body temperature, and with nausea and headache. She was not paddling hard enough to stay warm, as I was.
We landed ashore and it became immediately apparent that Jenny was in the initial stages of hypothermia. We unloaded partially, removing enough weight from the boat so we could lift it free of the water. After a few minutes searching I found a small rock cave beneath a tree. Its rock floor was reasonably dry, so we climbed in, bringing the stove and "fixin's" for hot coffee. Jenny's hands were so cold she couldn't flick the Bic, so I got the stove going. I scrounged a bit of dry tinder and struck a small fire. A medium sized cedar had fallen and crashed onto the rocks, splintering into small pieces - perfect for our little fire. (Cedars flake apart like shingles to make for easy splintering, and also the aroma as it burns is pleasant. And, it burns well.)
The heat of the blaze dried Jenny's socks and boots, but in the process - we later discovered greatly to our dismay - it had also melted some of the rubber, although the boots didn't seem to leak afterwards. While we were sitting there, a squall passed by and a small surf began pounding our exit point. We wondered if we'd be able to get back out. But soon it passed and the surf diminished.
With Jenny felling much better, we set off across the main channel. With the change in tide, the current was now behind us. Yet the weather was in an uncooperative mood, capricious at best. One after the other, about half an hour apart, squalls came marching in from astern, dumping rain in sheets and dashing the face of the sea into a calamity of white caps, each one sending the Tub gyrating wildly in the chop. And then the squall would move ahead, leaving us bobbing around in glorious sunshine for a few precious minutes. A glance aft, though, would confirm our predictions that the next squall was not far behind and headed our way.
The channel we are paddling through is surrounded on both sides by steep-to cliffs and mountains, snow-capped on their upper reaches. With all the precipitation - rain down here, snow up there - there are waterfalls, big and small, everywhere. A few days ago we were admiring each waterfall and each boisterous gusher plunging into the sea, as we paddled past. But now we have seen so many that the novelty has worn thin. In contrast to a week ago, drinking water now abundant. We are thankful for that, although we are not so terribly enamored with the rainfall which is so heavy it's almost obscene.
we noticed a small porpoise surfacing thirty yards abeam. We had seen the same kind a few times before. This one was apparently feeding and not interested in us. Also we saw an otter who strained its neck to get for a better look, before diving. And as we passed by, it climbed out of the water and scurried into the forest.
We paddled hard through the squalls for three hours, until the seas grew so rough that it seemed prudent to find a landing.
As we approached the Canoona River, we passed through a field of overfalls caused by the river's outflow working against the channel current's inflow. Beyond the mouth of the river we found a reasonably level area which suggested a possible campsite. The time was only 2:30 pm, but the tide was due to change in half-an-hour, and we had learned that wind against tide would create a nasty sea. And because campsites were extremely limited, we best begin searching well before quitting time. We decided to pull in and check it out.
With all the heavy rain, the ground everywhere was squishy like a saturated sponge, except for a great deal of it which was actually running water. After much searching we came upon a beautiful campsite.
Our usual camp making procedure is to set up the tent, then the tarp to shelter our gear. Today we tried to build a campfire. This took time. We are in a genuine rain forest, with moss covering everything that doesn't move. And the firewood is saturated. After several rounds of blowing on the weak flames to keep them going, and trying every different type of wood in the vicinity, I placed a few pieces of driftwood on it. The flames leapt triumphantly and we had a real campfire. After collecting more driftwood we spent a couple of hours drying clothes.
For supper we were going to open a few tins of this and that, and place them near the fire. Unfortunately, we couldn't find the pocket knife. We figure we must have left it at the previous camp. It was a strange feeling, knowing we couldn't open our caned food. We dine on sandwiches. Later, I found my pocket knife ...in my pocket, of all places.
The general feeling when on shore is one of vulnerability. Next time we would bring a gun.
Hours paddled: 5.5,
Day's mileage: 18, Total: 459
Day 24
May 18
During the night I awakened to hear something scratching around, and discover three of us in the tent: Jenny, myself, and a little mouse. Odd, because mice are usually encountered only where people camp regularly, as it takes time to camp-train a mouse. I shine the flashlight on it, and It dashes out the doorway. I flip out the empty cookie wrapper, and fall back to sleep with the sounds of it scratching with the wrapper.
The alarm sounded at the usual 4:30, and we found water inside the tent, pooling at our feet. The rain had continued all night, and some had leaked inside where we left the fly unzipped. Easily sponged out. Outside, the trees were dripping heavily. We got up and were on our way by 5:45 am. The sea was calm, but the tide was ebbing and the channel current was contrary to our desired direction of travel.
The nearby tumultuous river smashed into the sea, and making an abrupt left turn, it sped past our camp. I had been worrying about how we would get through it, because its current looked stronger than our paddling speed at full power. As usual, my worries were for naught. We boarded the Tub, secured the spray cover, and with paddles blazing we charged through the river's current with no problem whatsoever.
The wind was light and variable, so it was a pleasure paddling in the calm water. We held close to the irregular shoreline to take advantage of any counter currents. As the morning wore on, the wind piped up from astern, and it wasn't long before we found ourselves bouncing around in the chop.
It rained lightly throughout the day, and we are beginning to come to terms with British Columbia's liquid sunshine; however not necessarily on good terms. It was another steel-grey day with leaden skies. Our spirits seem to be in sync with our gear. When all of our stuff is sodden, so is our enthusiasm. Today, virtually everything we own is soaked. So we hoped to find some sunshine this afternoon.
We rounded the dogleg in Princess Royal Channel and paddled past the ramshackle cannery town of Butedale. We had been told there was a hot springs near here, but we weren't in much of a mood to get more wet.
The next ten miles of coastline were incredibly steep-to, on both sides of the channel, with virtually no possibility of landing. We felt as though we were making a ten-mile passage across open water. We paddled hard for hours, with the wind building all the while and the seas lashing from astern. At one point, an ill-tempered wave climbed onto the spray skirt and gave us us a cold wallop. Jenny casually remarked, "I don't know about this cruise aboard the Royal Tub. The ride is not very comfortable."
So we were adapting to the rough conditions. The bow was constantly awash and I had to bail every ten or fifteen minutes.
A half mile from the end of the stretch, we came to an unexpected pull-out. We had been in the boat seven-and-half hours, and needed no excuse for a brief shore break. However, the indentation's rocky shoreline was covered everywhere in over-sized barnacles, making a landing unfeasible. So one person held the kayak steady while the other walked around for a few moments.
My body had been cold all morning, so Jenny dug out a sweater for me. My main problem was my hands. They get cold paddling in the rain, same as Jenny; but my main problem was bailing with the sponge. My rubber gloves are continually wet inside. I wear them, but they don't offer much protection. Our fleece mittens become soggy quickly, even with the overmitts, and they take a long time to dry. How we long for pogies.
We set off again and paddled briskly to the end of Fraser Reach. Rounding the corner to the southwest, we found a nice landing on a gently inclined rocky shoreline, where the forest was not so terribly dense. We unloaded and carried our things to the shelter of a tree, then carried the boat above high water. We enjoyed a lengthy shore break and a hot meal. We hung the tent and sleeping bags out to dry, and almost succeeded with improving their condition, when a drizzle set in, and re-wetted what little hard-won un-wetting we had achieved.
Whenever possible, I take advantage of our time ashore by scouting the area. I usually find something of interest. Call it the explorer's curiosity, which most children are born with.
As we are packing to leave, an otter swims along shore, eyeing us distrustfully. We embarked on our afternoon's "gravy run." Our daily goal is twenty miles, which we had achieved. After that, any extra miles is gravy on the biscuit. We have a bank account which automatically deducts twenty miles a day. So we must put in twenty miles a day, in order to keep a zero balance. We have covered 481 miles in 24 days, so we have 1 mile of credit in the bank.
We paddled onwards a few miles, cutting across a large bay. In the back the bay we could see a recent clear cut and a dirt road. Suddenly I caught sight of what appeared to be a mobile home trailer. It looked abandoned, and was probably left behind by the logging operations. I told Jenny, "I bet that trailer is up for grabs." So we made a hard left turn, and paddled into the bay to check it out. We landed ashore and while Jenny held the boat off the rocks, I walked up the dirt road to the trailer. There were no foot prints anywhere, nor signs of anyone's presence. I grasped the door handle, twisted it, and pushed the door open.
Inside, I found the place was furnished and vacant. The magnitude of this windfall was indescribable. I could hardly believe my eyes. Tonight we would sleep dry. The thought of trespassing crossed my mind, but not really. The doors of many cabins in the far-outback are left unlocked for the benefit of the occasional traveler in need. We definitely qualified - all our gear was soaked. And we would take good care of the place.
I returned to the boat and relayed the good news. We unloaded and carried our things to the trailer. The trailer equaled any motel, by our reckoning. It was large, with carpeted floor, several rooms, couch, beds, the works. It even had a bathtub in a bathroom. Of course it lacked heat or water, but the opportunity to spend a dry night was all we needed.
We strung lines across the rooms and hung all our soggy worldly belongings. On the table we found a note written by a previous visitor. The fellow wrote that he was waylaid with engine trouble, and was waiting for a lift. He says he was very bored.
The master bedroom had a picture window overlooking the sound. The view was magnificent. Writing our journal while laying in bed, we still had not gotten over our good luck. What a blessing!
Hours paddled: 9,
Day's mileage: 22, Total: 481
Day 25
May 19
We awoke at 4:30 as usual, and began packing. The rain was falling hard, and it suddenly occurred to me that we might benefit more by remaining here today. I suggested a layover, and Jenny had no objections.
We sipped our coffees in bed, watching the sunrise - minus the sun. I am not a bed sleeper, but this bed was firm and felt almost heavenly. But then, we were tired; and laying on the ground would feel almost equally heavenly. With Jenny busy in the kitchen making pancakes, I went on an exploratory hike and found, among other things, a nearly full can of WD-40 (We didn't take anything from the place).
Jenny called me from an open window to look at two dogs on the beach. I looked, and saw they were not dogs, but timber wolves. One was the usual gray with a few black markings; the other was black. I whistled softly and they looked at us for awhile before moseying off into the forest. So we called this place "Wolf Bay." And to us, the trailer will always be the "Wolf Bay Chalet."
After breakfast we decided we could use a bath. We thought we could smell the sulfur of a hot springs, so began a search of the area. Our search proved futile, but since we were about, we decided to go on a longer hike along the logging road leading back into one of the glacier-cut valleys. We saw a couple of deer, one of which just stood there watching us go by. It was still there, lying down, when we returned. The forest had been desecrated by the clear cut, but we had to admit the openness provided a welcome relief to the senses, after spending so much time in the impenetrable forest.
Back at the trailer I scrounged a cut-in-half fifty-five gallon drum, and in this we built a fire. With the recent logging, there was no shortage of firewood. And with all the rain, there was no danger of starting a forest fire. I laid a piece of grating across the top of the drum, then we washed a few large rocks and put them on the grate. While these were heating we made several trips to a nearby creek, collecting water and filling the trailer's bath tub.
Once the rocks were hot, we carried them to the tub - one at a time in an old pot, and placed them gingerly into the water with hissing and a great cloud of steam. The steam filled the bathroom so thickly we could hardly see. And it wasn't long before the bath water became too hot. We had to add cold water before stepping in. We enjoyed a luxurious, steamy hot bath - scrubbing some of the wilderness off us. It was our first hot wash in a couple of weeks, and felt wonderful.
We spent the rest of the day napping, scouting, cooking, eating, and doing the odd repair jobs - all the time getting a good rest. We enjoyed our time here immensely.
Day 26
May 20
The coffee was on at 4:00 am. As usual, it was raining, but it stopped just long enough for us to load up (which was nice). Loading and unloading in the rain is when we get our gear the wettest. Once inside the boat it is mostly protected by the deck and spray cover.
Leaving this place feels almost like leaving home. The trailer had been the perfect shelter and a huge blessing. The door had been left unlocked, no doubt so that any passers-by could use the place. And as a token of our gratitude, we cleaned the place stem to stern. Some day someone might purchase the property and build on the site. If it wasn't for the overly abundant rainfall, I would consider it myself.
We loaded the Tub and set off at 5:30 in a drizzle. The sea was a bit choppy, which for that time of day was not an auspicious sign, especially as we had a couple of long, open crossings directly ahead of us. We paddled three miles along the coast in increasingly rough conditions. The seas grew calmer so we crossed the McKay Reach to Gribbell Island, and then made a five mile open water crossing of Wright Sound, to the mainland at the mouth of Grenville Channel. The clouds had descended to sea level, hampering visibility; and the wind picked up from the north. It was a wild crossing, both of us paddling as hard as we could against a contrary current for almost two hours.
We closed the coast and landed ashore, just as the rain ceased and the sun actually came out, a bit. So we rested and made reviving cups of coffee before setting off again. Once inside Grenville Channel the sea flattened almost like a mirror, and our paddling, combined with a two-knot current, sped us along our merry way. The afternoon was somewhat warm, at times, and the scenery superb. The channel is narrow, one third of a mile wide in places, and the encompassing snow clad peaks rise to 2,500 feet.
For some reason we encountered more marine traffic than usual. The previous several days we had seen only three or four vessels per day. But in the channel today we saw a couple dozen. There were several barges, a few fishing trollers, a small ferry and a big ferry, a couple of tuna seiners, a few big cargo ships, a gigantic cruise ship, and a couple of power boat yachts. In the narrow channel we were close to the traffic, so received several waves and toots of horns.
Progress was good in the afternoon current, and the prospects for camping numerous; so we stayed with it all afternoon. For the first time on the trip, Jenny cooked supper in the cockpit, between her legs, and we dined at sea.
We pulled in at 5:30 after paddling eleven hours and made a quick camp on the gravel, just above high tide line.
Day's mileage: 31, Total: 512
Day 27
May 21
The rain fell hard all night, and hadn't let up when the alarm sounded. The drumming on the tent encouraged us to delay half-an-hour before rising. For once we were camped close to shore; so it was a simple matter to carry the Tub to the water, and load-up during a brief slackening of the seemingly incessant precipitation.
The sea was not calm, and we began paddling in a mild counter-current. This necessitated our holding close to the shoreline, where we had to watch for shoal rocks which might damage the hull from below, and overhead tree branches that might snag the mast from above.
The wind began blowing southeast, so we paddled to the other side of the channel, hoping to find less counter-current along that shore. What we found instead was much stronger wind and rougher seas. The channel began widening, so adjacent Kxngeal Inlet we re-crossed the channel in hopes of finding calmer waters. This was an all-out effort in rough water, amid a sea of white caps. The wind and seas were abeam and the crossing was about one-and-half miles.
The rain fell constant and hard, requiring us to bail our Leaky Tiki often. I tendered the somewhat sarcastic notion that the boat company might do well to supply little rubber duckies with the purchase, as these might distract the paddlers from the infernal curse of a constantly flooding bilge, and alow them to play with the little duckies, as if sitting in a bathtub.
We paddled several miles in increasingly rough conditions, holding to the ragged shoreline a hundred feet abeam. At Baker Inlet we pulled in for a shore break. We unloaded and carried the gear up to the shelter of the trees. But they were dripping as hard underneath the branches as it was raining out in the open. There was nowhere to camp nearby, as I discovered after thoroughly scouting the area. Jenny fired up a hot brew, which did much to push back the un-pleasantries of being continually exposed to this wretched weather. She also made a quick pot of spaghetti and placed it into our plastic container, to be eaten later.
One of our most valuable pieces of gear, as mentioned, is our rubber fishermen boots. What would we ever have done without them, as we are continually stepping in water, be it in the leaking boat's bilge, the shallow waters while loading and unloading, and on land which is largely composed of rain water covering spongy humus. But the boots are not much help when one accidentally steps into the cold sea deeper than the hight of one's boots - as Jenny discovered while unloading. Chalk it up to the slippery, bladder-pod kelp.
We carried the boat back to the water's edge, and stowed each bag in its rightful place.
Unfortunately the sea had grown even more stormy. The seas were roaring and some of the oncoming waves were over our heads and white-capped. It didn't take much tossing about unmercifully for us to loose enthusiasm for pressing on. We paddled to the next feasible pull-out and landed. And while Jenny held the boat at a safe distance from the ever-present razor-sharp barnacles, I searched afield for a campsite. I found a suitable place, so we unloaded and pitched the tent.
A short distance into the woods we found the remains of a wolf: silver fur spread around with several bones chewed up into small pieces. One needs no imagination to conjecture what could crunch bones of that size.
Once inside the tent we were free of the cold and wet, and mighty thankful for the tent's shelter, and for the warmth of our large synthetic-fill sleeping bags. In lieu of cooking dinner, we dined on left-over spaghetti, cold quick oats, raw carrots, and an instant pudding.
Hours paddled: 6.5, Total: 529
Day's mileage: 17, which we considered excellent considering the stormy seas and wretched conditions
Day 28
May 22
We woke to the alarm and another rainy morning. The rain had been incessant during the night - and as usual everything in the tent had become dripping wet from condensation: tent floor and walls, sleeping bags, etc. Should we open the tent fly to provide the needed ventilation, the rain came in. My paddling suit was wet on the inside from yesterday's exertions, and I had to put it back on, wet.
We loaded the boat in a down-pour and set off into what seemed like a world of tormenting wetness. It rained throughout the morning and frankly I was getting fed up with it. My mind had become saturated with this watery pervasion, and I couldn't think of anything better than to reach Prince Rupert and take a motel room. We were close now; the city was in reach with just a few more days paddling.
Paddling against an adverse current, we struck out across the channel to the small Marrick island, and found the current so fierce we could barely paddle against it. We finally reached the island's tail end, then paddled upstream closely following its shore, where the current was less. We were plying the Skeena River delta, and the shallow and murky water - and no doubt the adverse current - was due to the river's outflow. We hammered our way across another gap to the south shore of Kennedy Island, where on its western was far less counter current. The seas were fairly calm and the rain slackened and then stopped altogether. So we decided to take advantage of the dirge's brief lull, and landed ashore intent on cooking a batch of flapjacks.
Building a fire when the woods are soaked is usually a chore without the right tools, and I resolved to buy a hatchet and a folding saw at the next opportunity. With these, I might be able to make my own dry wood. Lacking those, I could only rely on a pocketknife and candle. After half-an-hour of work, I had produced a small, feeble glow somewhere down in the wet kindling. Meanwhile Jenny cooked breakfast on the stove.
The rain stopped so we declared a longer shore break, and hung things dry: tent, sleeping bags, rain jackets and clothing. The sun refrained from making an appearance, but even so, after an hour of airing out, things dried pretty well.
We packed-up and set off toward the north corner of the island. We experienced strong headwinds for awhile, so we un-stepped and stowed the mast. And then later the wind died and the seas went flat. We crossed the four-mile wide strait to Smith Island upon glassy seas under a rainless but cloudy sky. Still in the delta, the water was murky and quite shallow in places with a sandy bottom. We saw a couple of small porpoise and the usual goofy-faced sea lions who usually stare at us curiously. We closed the shore of Smith island, and paddled around its western rocky shore for one mile, searching for a campsite.
We finally found a suitable place on the rocks just below high tide line. High tide tonight would not be very high. Within minutes of landing - wonder of wonder - a patch of blue sky moved in, and the sun popped out. So we made another drying session, hanging clotheslines and spreading out virtually everything we owned.
Hours paddled: 10,
Day's mileage: 25, Total: 554
Day 29
May 23
After yet another night of rain, we rose at 4:30 and loaded the boat - made somewhat difficult by a chop working into our small bay. We set off at 5:30 am into fairly rough seas. Paddling around the west side of Smith Island, crossed the two-and-half mile channel to Ridley Island. We were hit by a heavy squall from astern which sped us along our way in four to five foot seas.
We rounded the corner of the Prince Rupert coal loading terminal and pulled into calm water for a rest. At that point the town was only four miles away, but with the stormy conditions we were not completely sure we would be able to make it. However, the wind and sea began to calm, so that when we reached the channel behind Digby Island we had good conditions. So we pressed on and reached the outskirts of Prince Rupert at 9:00 am.
We paddled to the northeast end of town and pulled into the Prince Rupert Rowing and Yacht Club, and were greeted by the proprietor, Tim. His first words were, "You guys are early! We don't usually get you crazies in here until late June or July."
Tim was an affable Canadian who was interested in practically everyone's travel experiences. He told us about the three other long distance paddlers he had seen. One was the couple rowing a canoe-sized wooden replica of a Viking ship - the same people we had heard about back at Minstrel Island. They had passed through a year ago, rowing from Washington to Skagway. Another was two fellows rowing a dory, and the third was a solo kayaker on a two-week trip in the area.
Tim gave us a couple of plastic cards with which we could unlock the gate to get in and out of the docks. And he allowed us a place on a work-float to store the kayak for as long as we liked. Then he directed us the Pioneer Rooms nearby, where we could find inexpensive accommodations. He also informed us that today was a Canadian holiday: the Queen's Birthday, or Victoria Day. Meaning almost all the stores were closed.
We carried our gear up to the Pioneer and checked into a $20 room, then walked to the other end of town to the laundromat. While Jenny did the wash, I chatted with a Vietnamese fellow who had immigrated to Canada seven years ago. He pronounced is name, "Dak." His wife was doing their laundry. She was Filipino and spoke no Vietnamese. They communicated with each other in halting English.
Dak had made a pact with a friend, and left Vietnam and came to Canada. In Vietnam, he said, a man is not allowed the freedom to choose his own vocation. He wanted to build better life for himself. He worked hard as a fisherman, and sends money to his parents back home. They were farmers, growing rice, potatoes, and tomatoes. He said that the people of Vietnam are heavily subsidized by the U.S. government, so that practically whatever the Americans have, the Vietnamese also have. The government does not permit him to return to live, but he may return to visit with organized groups.
From the laundromat we window-shopped around town, then returned to the Pioneer for a much-needed shower - our first hot shower in 20 days, except for the bath in the trailer.
Wearing clean clothes and feeling almost civil, we went to Smile's Cafe for a fish and chips. There, we met the yachties we had met back in Namu. They invited us aboard their boat "Katzenjammer," and we enjoyed a pleasant few hour's conversation with our new friends Lee and John, before returning to our room.
Hours paddled: 4,
Day's mileage: 15, Total: 569. We had traveled nearly a month to this point.
