PR2PH 2009

British Columbia West Coast
Encarta World Atlas

A chance encounter with Chuck Curry in 2007 set our minds in motion and inspired this trip that we embark on in a few days. We were camped at the west end of Higgins Passage when Chuck stopped by to chat. A Puget Sound paddler, he was going solo from Port Hardy to Prince Rupert. He had crossed Milbanke Sound earlier that day in the same dense fog that Greg had unerringly led the 15.2 NM route from Milne Island to Higgins. After about 20 minutes Chuck paddled off towards the west. He still had some miles to make. We would meet up with him later in Seattle and learn that he had taken a route outside of Aristazabal, Trutch and Banks Islands. He had intended to go outside of Porcher, also, but ducked inside because he was running out of food. We were inspired to attempt his route, in reverse, and that is what we spent the past two years planning.

We will drive to Port Hardy on Thursday the 16th and board the Prince Rupert Ferry early Friday morning. Sailing time to Prince Rupert is about 15 hours. We hope to start paddling sometime Saturday the 18th. After that it’s hard to say where we will be at any particular time other than saying that we need to be in the vicinity of Seaforth Channel at the midpoint of our trip so that Greg can catch the PH ferry. He has just two weeks so won’t be able to make the full trip.

An extremely rough sketch of our intended route was to go through Edye Passage at the north end of Porcher Island and hang a left, keeping open ocean to our right until the time came to cross Queen Charlotte Strait for Port Hardy. We don’t have the expectation that conditions will allow that but it’s still the dream and will have wait another year or two. The BC Coast is not known for producing the perfect stretch of weather it would take to allow us to consider that a viable route with our current schedule so an Inside/Outside Route is what we expect to take.

We will travel south of Porcher through Ogden Channel then south down Petrel Channel between Pitt Island and McCauley or Principe Channel between Banks and Pitt. We have wanted to visit Campania Island for some time and this route will take us right to it. Weather and time lost expending “weather days” will determine which side of Aristazabal we see. The west coast of Aristazabal takes us into Kayak Bill territory. I would like to visit the camps along that shoreline as well as the camp just up the south end on Laredo Sound. That would mean that we would be visiting Higgins Passage and Pidwell again on the way to our resupply in Klemtu. If we go inside of Aristazabal, down Laredo Channel, we will take the shorter Meyers Passage route to Klemtu.

Prince Rupert to Caamano Sound

Encarta World Atlas

Dave has been on the outside of Athlone before and I think he would prefer to go through Gale Passage, instead. I’m fine with either and we do have familiarity the Gale route through the Bardswells. We don’t need to do Goose again so I see us working down the east side of Queens Sound and, weather willing, outside of Calvert. If weather doesn’t cooperate we can still work south seeking cover in passages between islands.

Caamano Sound to Cape Caution

Encarta World Atlas

Many points along this route require clear strategies and help from the weather. Since the trip will take about a month we’ll see both ends of the tidal spectrum. We will see some 23’+ tidal exchanges and big exchanges create big currents so several spots along the way will require timing to coordinate current and wind to allow safe passage.

Calvert Island to Port Hardy

Encarta World Atlas

For the benefit of family and friends we are carrying a Spot Satellite Messenger and our daily progress can be followed at Dave’s blog, http://hipadlyn.blogspot.com/. In my experience the device is less than 100% dependable so it is critical that nobody assumes the worst if our position doesn’t post regularly or if any message other than “I’m OK” shows up. Dave also offers a link to BC coastal weather that may provide you a clue as to what we are experiencing and why our position doesn’t change. I will be wearing an EPIRB in case we encounter an event that truly requires emergency assistance. We will use the “I Need Help” function on the Spot to communicate with our friend, Allen Burnhart, if we have a hopelessly broken boat or a non-life-threatening situation that doesn’t require immediate extraction. Allen has clear directions on what to do if he receives that signal.

This was all so much easier when this technology didn’t exist and we just went off and “disappeared” for a while.

See you in a month.

Bella Bella 2005

7/23, Saturday, Day 1
Clear


Traveling from Seattle to Bella Bella, British Columbia takes about 27 hours. Some of that time is spent waiting for ferries but you won’t get there much faster. Maybe you can take a later Tsawassen ferry and wait in a longer line. Your call. I hate being late, though. That’s my personal problem so 27 hours it is.

Dave and I left Shoreline at 2:30 AM on Saturday the 23rd of July. We stopped briefly at the rest stop short of Arlington to meet up with Larry and Keith who we would be paddling with. They are all veterans of numerous kayak trips, with Larry and Keith having visited the area at least four times in the past. Dave had been to the region once before. This was my first trip.

Dave explained to me how each of us had a particular role to play. Keith enjoyed cooking and had done all of the meal planning. He would prepare the meals and procure the food. Larry, having a pyromaniacal bent, would build and nurture the fires. Food prep done over an open fire was also his responsibility. Dave’s job, he claimed, was to clean the fish that our meal plan dictated we provide by hook or by crook (more on that later). My job was to clean up after the meals. I inherited the task from Dave who considered cleaning fish a career advancement.

Leaving the rest stop we caravanned to the international border where we were “greeted” by a singularly humorless Canadian border guard. Think of a young Randy Newman with a short Caucasian Afro receiving a failing grade at UC and you have a visual of this guy in his glass booth. We guessed that his demeanor was due to his disappointment in not being a part of the big drug bust on the BC-Bud-Smuggling-Tunnel under the border the week before. http://www.ctv.ca/servlet/ArticleNews/story/CTVNews/1121946128895_126/
Or maybe he had been a part of it yet now found himself back in his cold, dark guard shack reviewing passports of kayaking reprobates. A bitter pill to swallow. I should mention that one of us had been denied entry into Canada twice for a “crime” that had since been de-criminalized. I will say no more about it other than it wasn’t me. We didn’t know what the computer records told him and weren’t about to ask as he had the look of someone desperate to get even. He didn’t keep us long, though, as he was clearly too depressed to concentrate or have a meaningful conversation so we were off for our rendezvous with the 5:15 AM Tswawwassen ferry to Nanaimo.

That is a two hour crossing which gave us an opportunity to chat. Larry and Keith needed some time to size me up as we barely knew each other. I had met them both a year and a half before at a rolling class but hadn’t seen Keith since. I had paddled a time or two with Larry but Dave was the only trip partner that I knew well.

After driving two hours we entered the town of Campbell River . Keith, Larry and Dave bought fishing licenses and some miscellaneous fishing stuff. From Campbell River to Port Hardy was another two and a half hour drive. Port Hardy, itself, isn’t much to look at. Like most of these northern fishing towns it’s been rode hard and put away wet. Everything has a certain patina imparted by weather and hard work. Keith decided he needed a haircut and wandered into a “solon”, Dave departed to find a bank to exchange money and Larry and I headed for the waterfront to find a bar and get a beer. Keith showed up a bit later sporting a respectable look and reported that he had seen no sign of Dave. Dave showed up later with an interesting story.

He had been walking around looking for a bank when he noticed the smell of Marijuana. Standing on the corner, in plain sight, was a young fellow about 19 or so smoking dope. Dave was shocked and asked him if he was afraid of being busted for the public demonstration. The young fellow said, “No, the police don’t bother users and 50% of the public falls into that category”. At that point he offered some to Dave who passed with a “Thanks, but no thanks”. He did continue around town with him and asked him more about the dope scene in B.C. The young fellow claimed that B.C. Bud was the country’s largest export and supported a great deal of the B.C. economy. It couldn’t be legalized because the U.S. would get ticked so as long as you were a user and not a seller the police just looked the other way. He said that a couple of nights before he had been searched by police when the car he was riding in was stopped for a moving violation. His stash fell on the ground and when the officer was done frisking him he politely pointed out he had dropped “something” and walked away. He did say that while the local police treated you with respect and dignity the Mounties were just plain mean and looked for any opportunity to mess you up. Interesting perspective from a Canadian citizen.

With the ferry scheduled to sail at 9:30 PM we had some time to sample the “fine” cuisine that Port Hardy offers and then drove to the ferry terminal where we parked our cars. Our boats were loaded onto carts with kayak racks and our gear was locked into other carts that were pulled onto the ferry.

We walked on carrying only our sleeping bags, sleeping pads and toiletries and hastily made our way to the solarium where we hoped to claim a sleeping spot for the evening’s voyage. Keith preferred the comfort of the heated cabin with its reclining chairs and quickly staked his claim. Once our gear was set out we convened on the deck to meet and greet other passengers.

Sleeping Arrangements in the Solarium
Dave Resler


It was on the deck where we met Don Wahl and his paddling partner from Seattle. Their plan was to paddle from McLoughlin Bay back to Port Hardy. Both experienced paddlers and familiar with the area. Still, their plan seemed ambitious to us. We had mapped out a route of just over 100 NM and two weeks to accomplish it. We didn’t have to be anywhere at any particular time and could stay in protected waters if we chose. Their route, on the other hand, was around 130 NM and they had one week to pull it off. They were not going to have the luxury of discretionary protection and would be exposed to the full force of the Pacific for much of their trip.
Nice guys. Experienced, smart and strong. They would be fine.

At 9:30 PM the Discovery Coast ferry, “The Spirit of Chilliwack”, left Port Hardy bound for the Central Coast.

Port Hardy, Time to Sail
Dave Resler

7/24, Sunday, Day 2
Morning low clouds then clearing


I awoke around 5:00 AM and went out on the deck. It was a beautiful morning. The ferry was making its way up Fitz Hugh Sound and the sun was trying to peek under the low morning clouds.

Morning on Fitz Hugh Sound
Jon Dawkins


We ate breakfast on the ferry and watched the wild shoreline pass by. I could see why there weren’t many campsites shown on the map as the inter-tidal zone was comprised of steep, fissured and broken granite rock, topped with a thick growth of trees. Not a beach in sight. There were very few places that would have made getting out of a boat more than an unpleasant experience. As our 7:30 arrival at McLoughlin Bay grew near we gawked from the deck. Soon, our destination came in sight. It wasn’t much to look at. Just a dock and a few buildings but this is where we would start paddling.

McLoughlin Bay in Sight
Jon Dawkins


Our gear was off-loaded and we carried down to the rocky shoreline. The rocks were sharp, slippery and potentially damaging to our hulls and ankles which made loading the boats go slowly. Keith brought very little personal gear but a ton of community gear and his boat would not hold it all. We split up the excess between the three of us. I took the 10 pounds of potatoes between my knees and the 5 pounds of onions and garlic at my feet.

Dave and I had originally planned on going light on extra water as he had marked numerous water sources on his GPS. We planned on filtering water but Keith and Larry felt that a ready water supply was a priority. Larry had stocked his boat with 10 gallons while Keith had clearly stashed a 55 gallon drum somewhere in his boat ;<). Keith is a good northwesterner and a serious coffee drinker. He had planned to bring enough coffee for 40 pots and didn’t want a lack of water to create a decision between having a caffeine crisis or actually rehydrating. I had three 10 liter Dromedary bags of fine Seattle water in my boat and was barely above question. Dave was guilt tripped into filling his two clear 2 1/2 gallon water bags at the ferry dock’s faucet and when the first bag came out “WHITE” with floating things in it he was about to take his chances drinking salt water. After letting the water run for a while it became “clear” enough that I would have washed my salt encrusted paddling jacket with it, but little else. It was good enough for Dave. Water crisis averted, we were ready to shove off. At 9:00 AM the four of us, all sealed tightly in our boats, headed south down Lama Passage on a raising tide. Within ten minutes it felt as though we had left civilization behind.

At 10:00 AM Larry drew our attention to some large splashes far to the south of us. We figured that it must have been Orcas breaching but they were too far away for us to tell for sure. We took this as a good sign and the water remained flat and the winds calm. It warmed to 70 degrees and was an absolutely stellar morning. Bearing right into Hunter Channel we took our time exploring the shoreline and paddling up a stream that entered the channel. The BC Coastal Rec Map indicated that there was a campsite on the lake at the head of the creek, but clearly, that campsite could only be accessed at high tide. Better leave that one to some other party. The mouth of the stream was wild with sea urchins, starfish and minnows, so we spent some time just poking around and marveling at the abundant life.

Our destination for the day was the fine campsite on an island near Soulsby Point, sometimes referred to as Shell Beach. As we pulled within a mile or so we saw that Don and his partner had passed us on the far side of Hunter Channel and were crossing towards Shell Beach. They arrived just ahead of us. We slid in to a muddy, low tide flat covered with clam shells set beneath a blindingly white beach and after a relaxing 12.2 miles called it a day.

Any paddler can tell you of the joy of pulling back that spray skirt and basking in the scent of a mildewed bilge sponge, decaying organic matter and stinky neoprene booties as hours of being locked in an airtight hull with no circulation will make those air molecules emerge bearing smells that even a dog wouldn’t roll in. Never the less, I was not prepared for what happened next as I was nearly knocked out of my boat by the smell of those onions. It completely caught me off guard and in spite of the immediate tears they brought to my eyes I wasn’t unhappy about the deodorizing effect they had on my booties.

Larry and Keith built a fire for lunch while Don and his partner snacked and studied their maps. Their destination for the day was Triquet Island which meant several more hours of paddling before they were off the water. A long day for them. A short day for us. Keith soon had a chili and cornbread lunch prepared in the Dutch oven. We ate a welcome meal while the other guys continued on. A cup of coffee sounded good so Keith looked through his boat for the drybag holding the coffee. No sign of it so it must be in Dave or Larry’s boat. No big deal. “We’ll have coffee later”.

Shell Beach is a beautiful campsite noted on the BC Coastal Rec Map. Larry and Keith had stayed here before and looked forward to another night. Like many beaches in this area its character completely changed between low tide and high tide. When we arrived the beach and campsite seemed spacious and luxurious but as the tide rose it became very compact and intimate with the beach disappearing altogether.

Shell Beach Campsite

Larry Longrie

There are four tent sites that I noted, three back in the woods and one right above the beach. We had to pull our boats up into the bushes above the beach to keep them above the high tide line.

Keith and Larry fished while Dave and I went exploring. We found more of interest than they found fish which turned out to be OK because Larry surprised us with some huge frozen steaks. Keith gathered a batch of clams from the beach to go with them. That meat cooked over the open fire was the very best tasting steak I ever eaten in my life. Seriously! The clams dipped in melted butter added a very nice touch. I suppose we got lucky with the clams. Nothing toxic. We all slept very well.

7/25, Monday, Day 3
Light fog in the morning. Clear and warm


Today’s plan was to travel south across Hunter Channel then SSE down Sans Peur Passage to Cultus Bay and a campsite that Dave, Larry and Keith had stayed at two years previously. A very short 8.4 mile paddle. By stopping there we could stay at a world class beach next to some fine fishing. Cultus Sound offers great exploration and is mostly protected unless it really blows.

The day greeted us with fog that restricted horizontal vision yet promised the warmth of a sunny day by allowing occasional peeks of the blue sky above. There was no wind and the water was absolutely flat. Keith made pancakes and eggs for breakfast and we looked through Dave’s boat for the coffee. No sign of it. No big deal, it’ll show up. I only had a slight headache from caffeine withdrawal. Keith wasn’t commenting on how his head felt but he seemed a bit edgy.

Morning Fog
Dave Resler


We struck out into the magic of the grey morning following the course dictated by Dave’s GPS. We couldn’t see squat. Horizontally, everything beyond 50 yards faded into a grey haze and what you could see was muted and dull yet the grey clouds above were only thick enough to color the sky to mottled bright blue/grey. As the fog thinned and allowed occasion bursts of sunlight to penetrate, the water turned from a slick steel grey to a brilliant blue and we erupted in color. Fabulous!

At the entrance to Sans Peur Passage we deviated from plan and followed Dave’s lead through a twisted and narrow tidal channel that led west behind Latta Island. Why not? “We are on vacation!” His GPS was leading us down an opening that would show us a campsite that was marked on the map and might come in handy on the way back. Surprising current and eddylines greeted us but no sign of a campsite. I had read a trip report about what a nice site it was yet we could find no visual confirmation of its existence.

The channel continued to become more restricted with boulders and kelp and the ragged rocks just below the surface hungered for a taste of our hulls. Soon we were at an impasse after “prying” our way forward using our paddles to leverage progress against the heads of floating Bull Kelp. We all started in verbally abusing Dave about being such a fine route finder until he consulted the tide charts in his GPS and calmly announced that we would have clearance to pass within 15 minutes. With that he opened his deck bag, and paying no more attention to us, dug out an energy bar and ate it. I looked over my shoulder at Larry who was nonplussed. Keith’s shot back “Nice work, Dave”. So, we had a snack (cheese stick, Balance Bar and water) and within 10 minutes the tide had filled just enough for us to make progress again.

McNaughton Group
Larry Longrie


We were traveling south through the McNaughton Group. The low, wooded islands with rocky inter-tidal zones seemed to characterize this area. Our channel now averaged about ¼ mile in width but varied from ½ mile to as little as 40 feet. Current varied accordingly. This channel filled from the south but eddies along the shore and behind islands could be used to our advantage as we worked against the flooding tide. Breaking out into Cultus Sound we could see our destination about ¾ miles away. The light sand beach in the distance seemed brilliant in contrast to the rocky shores with its dark green vegetation and as we started across the Sound the first hint of Pacific swell passed beneath us from the west.

Entering the small bay, with its rocky islet, we approached the sandy beach stretching 200 yards between ragged borders. A great destination. We landed and started unloading our gear and setting up camp. Soon enough the boys were ready to head outside the Sound to a favorite fishing spot and catch some dinner.

Approaching Cultus Beach
Jon Dawkins


The southern end of the mouth of Cultus Sound is marked by a rocky headland that tumbles vertically into deep water. The Pacific swells topped by wind waves find this cliff a nice surface to reflect off of so it can get interesting here. Salmon seem to like this spot, though. I escorted the guys as they trolled through the area and it seemed a bit un-nerving to me to think of attempting to land a fish in those choppy waters but I really enjoyed bouncing around in it. Keith ended up catching a salmon while Larry snagged a rockfish. The rockfish went back in the water and the salmon went into our stomachs for dinner. Nice job Keith!

It was while Larry was splitting firewood prior to dinner that the only injury of the trip occurred. A large piece of wood bounced off of the log he was using as a base and hit him in the mouth. It was an impact that would have totally taken me out. We all saw it happen and were shocked that he didn’t go down. He just grabbed his mouth to do a damage assessment and was surprised to find all of his teeth intact. None were even loose and his nose didn’t seem to be broken but a fairly significant piece of skin was missing from the area between his upper lip and his nostrils. He was bleeding but he was fine and went back to splitting wood. His face would exhibit some swelling and a bit of bruising but he ignored it.

Sometime during the night Larry or Keith suggested that maybe we should plan on staying another night at our deluxe beach. I mean, it was sweet. Good visuals, great fishing and no place we had to be tomorrow. Why not? Stuffed with fresh salmon we crawled into our tents knowing that we didn’t face a forced march in the morning. Life was good!

7/26, Tuesday, Day 4
Clear and warm


We got up at around 6:30 AM (seemed like a luxury to me) and went fishing. When I say “we went fishing” I want you to interpret that as Larry, Dave and Keith went fishing and I just sort of paddled around in their general vicinity. We went to the usual spot just outside of Cultus Sound and the water was pretty mellow. I poked around by Superstition Point, which is just south of Cultus, and scouted out the narrow passage behind it. There is a shelf off of Superstition Point and the combination of its topographical prominence, the sharp upslope of an underwater shelf and tidal currents earns an official warning on the map as a place to pay attention to. Since our route south would pass this spot I was interested to see whether we could sneak behind it if conditions warranted or be forced to address it’s “personality” head-on. On this morning, at this particular tide, I couldn’t pick my way through that passage. There were too many rocks poking up and the swells would sweep through it in a disturbing fashion. The only way to go south at that moment was to go around the point. Right then, it would have been a walk in the park and good information that I filed away.

Morning at Superstition Point
Jon Dawkins


Keith, Larry and Dave all provided. Each brought back a salmon and a few others were caught and released. In fact, some really nice fish were returned to the sea. Since we didn’t have any way to freeze fish, anything beyond what we would eat in the next 12 hours or so would have been wasted. Once our next meal (or two) was in the boat the rest of the catch was for sport. Paddling back to camp we saw a pair of kayakers heading west. Dave approached them and chatted briefly. They were a Canadian couple traveling by sailboat and anchored somewhere nearby.

Back at camp Larry and Dave cleaned and filleted the fish. Keith got potatoes and onions going on the stove and built a fire for the salmon. We had a great breakfast and the local ravens cleaned up the fish guts. About this time we found that Dave’s water containers had emptied themselves into his boat. He was going to need to replenish that water or face the humiliation that Larry and Keith dealt him for losing it.

Dave had read an account on the internet of a reversing tidal rapid off of Cultus Sound that accessed a lagoon. A lake drained into the lagoon providing a source of fresh water. Since we had our fill of fish and a day to burn we decided to go find it. Dave had the coordinates in his GPS so off we went. After 1 ½ miles of following the GPS, we entered an area of islets close to the primary shoreline. At one point we could hear water running but could not see it. We entered a fairly narrow, rock lined inlet topped with trees and since there was a bit of current here we figured that we were close, and pressed on.

Dave & Jon at Lagoon Entrance
Larry Longrie


In a deep, shadowed pool we found ourselves atop a slight drop into a large lagoon. We couldn’t see the drop. Only the top and the lagoon below filtered by the mist of the rapid. Spooky. Not sure of what lay below, nobody was jumping up and down for first crack. We couldn’t get close enough to scout it without being swept over the top.

At some point Keith just decided to go for it and over he went. The stern of his boat looked pretty cool sticking up in the air after the rest of it had gone over the edge. He pulled out below the current and fumbled for the radio strapped to his deck. Larry took off immediately and joined Keith. Dave went next and I followed.

It wasn’t a huge deal (2’ drop, whoop-dee-do) in the big scheme of paddling but it was a pretty cool first for all of us in sea kayaks, though I was really surprised to see an enormous rock just below the surface at the bottom of the drop that had to be avoided. That’s why Keith was fumbling for his radio. Larry didn’t have a radio, Dave had one but didn’t have it on and mine was such a major pain that I had turned it off so Keith was warning only himself and anybody else who happened to be monitoring that channel. We all got the same rude surprise.

Invigorated by the new experience we played in the current and found the source of the “sound” we had heard before entering the rock lined inlet.

Noisy Rapid
Larry Longrie


A rocky rapid ran down to meet us and joined the current of the drop we had just experienced. Realizing we would be here a while as the tide filled our lagoon we set off in search of a fresh water source that Dave had also programmed into his GPS. It led us right to the boulder strewn mouth of the creek where we gently pulled our boats up above the rising lagoon and started up the creek bed. After only 50 yards of scrambling uphill we were there.

Keith at Water Source
Jon Dawkins


It was a beautiful spot with ground cushioned by thick moss but the water was the color of weak tea. Dave had to get these guys off his back, though, and had to endure their taunts while he pumped away with his filter. He tightly secured the lids on his water bags and, with good-natured barbs still flying, we started back to the boats. If this unappetizing brown water served only as ballast for the rest of trip it would be good enough for Dave.

We paddled back to the inlets that accessed the lagoon and tried to paddle up the drops but it wasn’t going to happen yet. We were going to have to wait for the tide to fill the lagoon more and equalize the height between the two bodies of water. Not being sure how long that would take, we spent an hour just poking around in this peaceful, isolated lagoon.

Jon, Larry & Keith in Lagoon Lounging
Dave Resler


We really wanted get out into the open Sound again so we went back to the rapids and tried to figure a way out. The drops had lessened but not equalized, for sure. The “noisy” way was too rocky and swift. We eddied up to the steepest part and there was going to be no escaping that way. The way we entered was showing more promise with the rising tide but still presented a pretty significant obstacle. Getting out of the boats and “lining” them up either drop didn’t look like a reasonable option, so we took turns working up along the edge of the flow and probing the drop for weakness.

After a long period of testing Keith pushed his bow into the cascade and started paddling furiously up the watery slope. His stroke and cadence is short and fast on flat water yet here he was furiously pounding his way uphill. We were cheering him on and laughing at the same time. If he lost his fight he would be coming down backwards or sideways and certainly out of control. A swim was the likely outcome. Fighting his way to the top he paused ever so slightly and losing forward progress began pounding away, more furiously than before, making very slow progress past what we had assumed was a safe area. Using his rudder to nudge himself out of the strongest current he won his battle and continued out of harm’s way.

Larry went next. He is a powerful paddler and, rudder down, he made the first part of the climb look almost easy. At the top, however, he began to waver and progress against the current creased. He increased his cadence, exceeding Keith’s effort, yet still hung on the brink. We cheered, yelled encouragements and laughed as he fought against the current. His paddling continued and still he hung there, not going forward yet resisting going backwards. His strokes began to look a bit ragged and Dave and I both began to lose hope. Finally, he eased himself just a bit to the right, as Keith had done and into a current that could be defeated. Ever so slowly, he progressed away from the drop.

Clearly the strongest current was not where it was steepest, as we assumed, but just above that point and the trick was to get into that area bordering the tongue of water that fed the drop. Keith and Larry had been able use their rudders to slide over but I didn’t have a rudder so I couldn’t count on that technique. I eddied up to the drop and pushed my nose into the descending flow. I held that position by paddling consistently while feeling the current’s effect and moving ever so slightly from left to right to left again. Once I found what felt like a sweet spot I increased my cadence and moved forward slowly against the current. Climbing at a very slight angle towards the “safe spot” to the right of the stream I gained the top and was surprised at how the current now increased. Having the benefit of watching Keith and Larry I picked it up and moved cautiously to the right then forward to join them.

Without hesitation, Dave began his escape. He moved steadily up the drop, and gaining the top broke into a huge grin and seemed to relax, not realizing that he had just entered the strongest current. I shouted “Paddle Dude! You aren’t done yet!” and he got back to the business of escape. Smiling again, he joined us and after reliving each others experiences we set out for camp.

Keith prepared a dinner of potatoes, onions and fresh salmon tacos.

7/27, Wednesday, Day 5
Overcast and cool morning, warming with clearing in the afternoon
Light winds


We planned on working our way south towards Calvert Island. We didn’t have a particular destination, just a general direction and a vague route. There are a couple of hot fishing areas that Dave was interested in and we figured that we would pass through both of them and fish, choosing a campsite in their general vicinity. The “fabulous” BC Coastal Rec Map marked a campsite in the Serpent Group and another on the west side of Stirling Island, both within a few miles of The Gap which is noted as one of the top salmon producing spots in the vicinity of Hakai Passage.

Keith prepared a breakfast of potatoes, onions and salmon. We all ate huge portions as there was plenty of fish and we didn’t want it to go to waste. Leaving our beach we set off for Superstition Point. The tide was too low to sneak behind it so we passed around the outside in small swell with wind chop. Approaching Spider Channel we saw several small sport fishing boats crossing our route into and out of Spitfire Channel. It was odd to see so much traffic.

We were choosing a path that offered protection from Queen Charlotte Sound so it led us towards a gap between Manley Island and some unnamed islets that comprised the Kittyhawk Group. From our boats we couldn’t see an opening, just the rocky shore exposed by the low tide. Dave’s GPS insisted that there was a passage, though, so we continued on cautiously. Without that GPS I wouldn’t have even considered paddling that way as there was no visible hint that it went through, but Dave was leading and so we followed. Eventually it became so narrow that we couldn’t turn around and so twisted that backing out would have been a grim task. Dave disappeared around a corner while Keith, Larry and I hesitated. I shouted to Dave, asking if it was clear. He shouted back that it wasn’t exactly clear but that he was feeling some current so it must go through. With some reservation we continued on. The way became even narrower and more twisted yet the current was pulling us along. We just had to avoid the rocks and suddenly we were out in the open again. What an interesting short cut.

Now we were out in Queen Charlotte Sound so we made for the lee of the Serpent Group. This is where the BC Coastal Rec Map really earned the caveat printed on it, “Not for navigational purposes”. It places the campsite between the two large, westernmost islands of the Group. I had read several accounts by kayakers who could not find campsites marked on this map and this campsite in particular. The passage between the islands was clearly visible from over a mile away but it looked as though swells were crashing right through and the sides of both islands were very steep. I was making for that passage but Dave insisted that the campsite was further to the southeast, nowhere near my passage. Again, he had programmed the coordinates into his GPS and it didn’t come close to agreeing with my map.

We followed Dave along the rocky lee of the group and around one point after another. I couldn’t imagine how a decent campsite could exist here as the shoreline was all near-vertical rock topped with wind tortured trees. We reached the end of a nameless point and Dave announced that it was right around the corner but as soon as we rounded that corner he said that we had passed it. We backtracked about 30 feet and looked for a campsite. There was no place to even get out of a boat except maybe a little patch of sand back against the rocks. We paddled towards it and as we got closer that little patch began to unveil itself. It was larger than we had thought but this was close to low tide and there was no visible place to camp that would be dry at high tide. Oh well, might as well pull up and rest on the beach. Have a bite to eat.

Serpent Beach
Jon Dawkins

Exiting our boats we could see that it extended back at least 75 yards bordered by steep rock. Nice place to take a break.

Serpent Beach
Larry Longrie


Walking back into the gap between the rocks we discovered that this became a shallow passage at high tide and could hear surf crashing beyond.

Empty Serpent Lagoon
Dave Resler


Suddenly the passage stepped back on the right side to reveal a beautiful little beach that faced the rock wall on the left. Seaweed on the beach showed the most recent high tide mark and told us that there would be adequate dry space for us to camp. After some discussion we decided that after only 9.7 miles this (Hole in the Wall) would be our campsite for the night.

Hole in the Wall Campsite
Jon Dawkins


As we set up camp a beautiful orange throated hummingbird approached and hovered at arm’s length. It zipped between us, pausing, curious, sizing each of us up. After we had been thoroughly introduced it shifted it’s interest to the red trim on Larry’s Marmot tent. Then, as quickly as it had approached it disappeared.

It was really interesting watching the tide cover our landing beach and creep towards our tents. The area in front of camp became a lagoon that pulsed with swells that broke against the western end of the gap.

What a strange and beautiful place.

7/28, Thursday, Day 6
Overcast and cool morning, warming with clearing in the afternoon
Light winds


We left Hole in the Wall destined for Choked Passage at the extreme northwest corner of Calvert Island. It would be just over 10 miles. Our route would take us past The Gap and across Hakai Passage where tidal currents can reach 4 knots. A strong ebb flowing west against a west wind can really stack the seas up here and make for a bad 2 ½ mile crossing. Today we had a weak ebb and light winds. We were hoping for the best.

Seas were pleasant with 1.5 meter swell and the travel from the Serpent Group to The Gap was relaxing and beautiful. Anticipating the ebb we edged easterly up Hakai Passage and, making one last assessment before committing to the crossing, slipped in behind the Breaker Group. No scary rips, breaking waves or whitecaps so off we went.

Establishing a slight ferry angle to counter the current Larry and I pulled ahead. Eventually Larry reached for that other gear that only he has and opened up his lead showing us the way to Choked Passage. This crossing was one of the most stimulating bits of paddling I can remember. The swell grew to 2 meter plus topped with wind waves and our boats, laden with gear, rode through it all like luxury cars on the freeway. I know that I was grinning from ear to ear just soaking in the smell of the sea, the wind in my face, the salt spray and the view of my buddies bobbing in and out of sight on the pulsating swell. Fantastic! I was really kind of sad when we left the influence of the Pacific swell for the protection of Donald Island.

Entering Adams Harbor was a bit of a shock as we hadn’t seen any other boats since Spitfire Channel. Here, though, was a floating dock with seaplanes coming and going with fishing guests of the Hakai Beach Resort. A few large pleasure boats were anchored nearby. The folks at the float asked if we needed any water. What they didn’t know is that when you travel with Larry and Keith you had better not need any. Just ask Dave. We thanked them and continued south down the passage where we passed one gorgeous beach after another. We chose a white sandy swath that was over 1/4 mile wide, littered with driftwood and about a mile past the float.

Dave at Wolf Beach
Jon Dawkins


It offered a fabulous view past the protective islands out into the wild Pacific.

Wolf Beach
Larry Longrie

We quickly set up camp and gathered wood for a fire. Keith whipped up something in the Dutch oven for lunch.

Wolf Beach Campsite
Jon Dawkins

Keith Hard at Work Preparing Lunch
Dave Resler


After lunch we all napped for a bit and did some exploring. We noted the tracks of two Wolves that had patrolled the high tide line and made several passes through our camp prior to our arrival. It was interesting to follow them and see where they had chased something or dug in the sand. At times their tracks reflected focused intent and at other times, distracted play. The tracks entered and exited the beach in the forest behind camp. We named this Wolf Beach. Turns out, that is the name of the beach.

We went fishing late afternoon at nearby Odlum Point. No salmon were caught so the guys jigged for bottom fish and we had white meat for dinner.

The sunset was spectacular but the weather radio talked of high winds and rain that threatened to descend on us soon. It sounded like we might be in for a bad stretch of weather.

Choked Passage Sunset
Dave Resler

7/29, Friday, Day 7
Overcast and cool morning, Occasional showers, heavy at times
Light winds


The wolves had visited the beach before we got up. High tide had been at 5:00 AM and they had foraged the detritus that marked the maximum height of the flood and had passed just behind our tents while running their morning errands.

The weather reports continued to be pretty grim. They were calling for gale force winds and rain. It wasn’t windy yet but rain was a definite possibility. With that forecast we would have been more comfortable on the north side of Hakai Passage. On the north side we could work our way through protected waters to our rendezvous with the ferry. Down here we were faced with a crossing that required consideration in good conditions and offered the prospect of 35 to 50 mph winds with driving rain. We had a great campsite with lots of fire wood. We decided to stay put for the day and fish if weather allowed.

It wasn’t a terrible day. It did rain and it got breezy in the afternoon but not too bad. During the rainy periods we sat around under Larry’s MSR Parawing, replenished our water supply by catching the runoff and kept a fire going all day. We all napped at some point, read books or walked the beach.

Larry brought four paperbacks to read and was into his second. Whenever he wasn’t building a fire, helping Dave clean fish, Keith cook or me wash dishes he was reading. The scab below his nose was getting loose around the edges and he wouldn’t feel bad saying “Goodbye” to it. Dave had brought several Sea Kayaker magazines and had immediately donated them to the kindling supply in the yellow drybag but he and Keith read and reread them until, page by page, they were sacrificed to start a fire. I brought an old friend along. Thomas Berger’s “Little Big Man”, always a favorite, and I hadn’t read it for several years. I wanted something that I didn’t have to pay too much attention to, could randomly crack it open, read any paragraph and be entertained. I had obtained this copy at a yard sale in the 70’s and it showed it. As I read and turned a page it would fall loose from the binding. I kept the stack of loose pages together with a rubber band. I wasn’t willing to commit them to kindling.

Sitting Out a Shower
Keith Blumhagen

Dave Pretending to Read (Sound Asleep)
Larry Longrie


Late in the day the clouds started to clear up a bit so we fished. We went out to the north end of Choked Passage where some islands partially blocked the wind. Once again, fishing wasn’t good and Odlum Point did not live up to its world-class reputation.

Keith Returning From Odlum Point
Jon Dawkins


The guys provided a couple of bottom fish that Keith prepared with potatoes and onions. These fish weren’t anyone’s favorites. Over dinner we decided that we would get up early, eat a Power Bar breakfast and, weather permitting, make a break for the north side of Hakai Passage.

In spite of the unsettled weather the day held some pretty good visuals.

Wolf Beach Early Evening
Jon Dawkins

Choked Passage Early Evening
Jon Dawkins

Choked Passage Sunset
Jon Dawkins

7/30, Saturday, Day 8
Cloudy and cool - Rain, heavy at times
Calm to breezy


We dismantled our camp and packed the boats. We weren’t sure where we would end up, we just wanted to get across Hakai Passage before it got nasty. My map showed the location of several possible campsites that would provide protection and allow progress in a storm. Dave had more programmed into his GPS. We each scarfed down a couple of energy bars and a packet of GU, topped it with water and we were off after the most unsatisfying breakfast ever. This was not going to be a good day. In our haste to depart we barely registered the calling cards that the wolves had left during their morning ritual.

It was just starting to drizzle a bit but the wind wasn’t a problem as we started across Hakai Passage. The plan was to make a bee-line for Edward Channel on the east side of Stirling Island. We anticipated some current issues but were confident that we could deal with them.

Hakai Passage
Larry Longrie


We passed east of the Breaker Group and continued pulling until we were safely within the arms of the Planet Group. Those rocky, sorry looking excuses for islands did little more than shelter us from the building chop and swell. I guess that was worth something but about that time the rain began in earnest. We all felt that a cozy warm fire out of the rain would be nice now that we were safely across Hakai so we followed Dave’s GPS to a campsite not marked on the “unquestionably accurate” BC Coastal Rec Map. We took a left into Nalau Passage and left again into an unmarked, narrow bay. Paddling south now, we came upon a wet beach with a wooden ladder and rope leading up a steep bank into the woods. Under other circumstances this might have been a welcome stop but we wanted a fire and a spot large enough to set up the Parawing. This wasn’t it so we continued on to campsite #2 which was another GPS site off the internet and just across Nalau Passage. It proved to be very dismal. It would have been a sodden, mosquito infested bog on a nice day but the rain had already turned all life forms capable of flight into pedestrians. Mosquitoes were grounded. No thanks.

Heading west in a downpour out of Nalau Passage towards Queen Charlotte Sound we passed the “Union Jack”, a luxury commercial tugboat with its 4 sport fishing boats trailing behind, as it headed east seeking a place to ride out the storm. (http://www.tugboatcruise.com/index.html) The guys had met up with the Union Jack’s sister ship the “Parry” two years before and had shared a meal and good times in Cultus Sound. Now, the weather radio warned of the winds arriving at any time so we weren’t in the happy way being out here and we wondered if they had a better idea.

Two years before Keith, Larry and Dave had been pinned down on Goose Island in similar weather. They had waited 5 nights in the wind and rain for a chance to get back to the protection of the passages. They had a ferry to catch in Shearwater so when the weather first began to break they made a run for it. It was a harrowing 5-plus NM crossing that Keith referred to as the “Ghastly Crossing”. They were all changed by the experience.

As we sat there and considered our options it was only Dave who was advocating a direct six mile run for Triquet. He reasoned that we would pass the Spider Group in two miles (40 minutes) and could hole up there or continue on. If it stayed flat we could be setting up camp in two hours. I was strongly against being out in the open at all. I thought that it limited our options. We were being hammered by the rain and I was feeling very dispirited and somewhat intimidated. The rain wasn’t only hammering us, it was also beating the water into submission. The swell, which would normally approach us wearing a wind ruffled attitude and pass with the sneering, “Who’s your Daddy?”, was reduced to a slick, grey, apologetic mass covered with clear, roiling ball bearings and an “Uh, excuse me, please”. It creeped me out. Wasn’t right at all. If that wind was behind this rain the water would quickly regain its confidence and we would be in trouble so I argued for going north across Leckie Bay to a campsite noted in the “stupendously dependable” BC Coastal Rec Map. We went north.

The rain was relentless. We entertained ourselves by watching how the drops of fresh water bounced and then beaded up on surface of the salt water, rolling around before mixing. Dave and I had some comfort in our drysuits but I could see by the way that Keith’s well-worn anorak and Larry’s paddling jacket clung to their arms that they were getting wet. Keith and Larry are so stoic, though, that they just soldiered on without complaint. The “campsite” turned out to be one of those places where you could get out of your boat but you really didn’t want to. It smelled of decaying life forms and the streams that ran out of the forest colored the sea water to a dark brown. That place was yucky. It might have looked nice on a sunny day but today it was just plain nasty.

We now knew that we were headed for Triquet which was further than any of us wanted to go on such a day. It was another 6 miles as the Raven flies but we would be adding more miles to that total as we weaved our way through numerous groups of islands. We took another Power Bar break to steel ourselves for the final push and it was at that time that Keith drew our attention to his hands. While unwrapping his “lunch” he was shocked at how wrinkled his hands had become. Larry and Dave both looked at their own hands and held them up in surprise. My God! Six cadaver hands! I pulled my blue paddling gloves off to reveal a shocking pair of BLUE cadaver hands. Oh. Man! We were wet! I noticed that Larry’s scab had been washed away by the deluge leaving a bright pink blemish in its place. Depressed, we scarfed down the nutrition and paddled on towards our GPS shortcut behind Manley Island, and still it rained.

Triquet Island did hold some promise for us as we knew that it had real beaches. It was always referred to as a favorite camping site in paddling accounts and was well marked on the “Lying SOB” BC Coastal Rec Map. After so much shock and awe we were ready for some good news. At the risk of over sharing here I do have to admit that I was looking forward to using the “pit toilet” and the well developed campsites that are mentioned on the map. My knees are not good and they were killing me after eight days of squatting over a sandy hole in the beach and clinging to a shovel handle for balance. How undignified is that? If nothing else I envisioned the roof of the toilet providing a welcome relief from the rain and said as much. Larry asked me, “What will you do if it doesn’t have a roof”. I said that “I would be delighted to simply sit there and shit like a man”, but inside I didn’t even want to consider that possibility.

Eventually we approached Triquet which was just another grey blob in a sea of grey blobs. This was going to be our salvation, though. Developed campsites and a pit toilet. At this point in time we would have welcomed a crowded KOA Campground. We would have been happy to have seen a line of Winnebaggos and family camping tents, hot showers and a Laundromat. Instead we slid up onto a very modest tree lined beach in a shallow bay at the northeast corner of the island.

We stepped out and sunk into soggy sand over our ankles. It continued to pour rain. As we pulled our feet out of the sand and walked forward our vacated footprints quickly filled with water. We silently walked the campsite and checked out each open area in the woods. The beach held no promise as a place to set up tents and the “established” tent sites in the forest offered absolutely no protection from the rain. Another campsite was shown to be on the north shore which was right around a point that helped define the bay we were rejecting. Another 15 minutes of paddling revealed a beach with more promise. After 24 miles of paddling on Power Bars and GU we were ready to claim it.

Soggy Triquet Beach / Submissive Sea
Jon Dawkins


This is one of those beaches that sees way too many visitors and it was littered with beer cans and food wrappers. No less than six blackened and charred fire “pits” scarred this site. Just above the beach sat a dilapidated wooden shack measuring about six feet wide by 10 feet long. No time to be picky, though, we needed a fire and we needed it now. Wood was gathered and Larry sorted through it looking for chunks of cedar to split for kindling. It was mostly all wet, however, and if it wasn’t already wet it got that way in the downpour. Larry attempted to produce fire but, further sabotaging our efforts, the pit filled with water. Dave and I held a tarp over the pit while Larry and Keith worked furiously at what proved to be a futile effort. After 45 minutes of hard work we declared our patient D.O.A. There would be no comforting fire this day.

Larry and Dave scrambled to set up their tents in the forest and Keith and I went to the shack. The shack had openings for windows and a place for a door. The door and windows were empty like eye sockets on a skull.

Overused Triquet Camp
Dave Resler


The shack had seen better days (www.washburnemarine.com/CABINS1.pdf )
and the inside roof profile was lined with clear visqueen that was green with some sort of vegetation that prospered in the wet environment. There was a gaping hole in the roof where a flue had once allowed a stove to exhale that now served as a point of entry for the falling rain. On the floor was a wet green Astroturf carpet. It smelled pretty ripe. A large white square of plastic flotsam leaned against the shack’s largest window opening to temper the wind and rain. A mouse-eaten and rain swollen paperback copy of Mark Twain’s, “Roughing It” balanced tenderly on the window sill. One end of the structure held a bunk of sorts.

Keith Snoozing
Jon Dawkins


The top bunk was stuffed up into the visqueen but was dry as was the lower bunk that was broken and missing critical parts. The lower bunk was only four feet long and sloped down to the corner of the shelter at a 20 degree angle. Keith threw his gear on top, claiming it as his own and I glommed on to the lower shelf, accepting its shortcomings over the strengths of my tent.

Jon’s Bunk
Keith Blumhagen


We were all hungry and it wasn’t long before someone asked Keith what he planned on fixing for dinner. When he replied that that he wasn’t cooking we all accepted that. Instead we sat in the shack and ate a dinner of Gorp and mixed nuts which we washed down with lots of bourbon. When Dave and Larry left for their tents they didn’t know what they would find. Would their gear be wet or dry? I assumed the fetal position inside my bag (the only thing the short bunk would allow) and held on to the edge in hopes that I could keep from sliding downhill. I may as well have hoped for clear skies.

7/31, Sunday, Day 9
Cloudy and cool - Rain, heavy at times
Calm to breezy


Welcome to the Hotel Triquet.

’relax”, said the night man,

We are programmed to receive.

You can checkout any time you like,

But you can never leave!


I awoke to a sound that I couldn’t identify. The pounding rain on the roof registered but this was something else. A flapping noise? Sitting up now the flapping sound was suddenly in my face. A bat had come in through the window and was surprised to find me there. Somehow he never touched me but it really took some effort on his part as he squealed and fought to stay airborne in the close quarters. I shouted some expletive that woke Keith up. The bat returned the sentiment and flew out the door. Keith just laughed and said that he had been visited during the night by what he took to be a mouse. Triquet wildlife, I guess.

It was raining lightly while Keith set up the kitchen and prepared a breakfast of potatoes, onions and garlic. It beat the hell out of what we ate the day before. We needed fish but there would be no getting out today. The parawing provided shelter from the showers that continued throughout the day and we passed the morning by sitting beneath it and talking or reading. As the morning passed to afternoon Dave and Larry both retired to their tents to nap, Keith and I to our bunks in the shack.

Hotel Triquet
Jon Dawkins


Sometime between naps and “Little Big Man” the rain let up and I stepped outside to explore. Up the hill from the shack were the remains of a wooden platform. Had it been the floor of a structure? I got to thinking that if a dwelling had been here then maybe this would be the site of the infamous “pit toilet”. I searched the wet forest for an outhouse but found nothing. This preoccupation with the toilet got me to agonizing about how my remaining supply of toilet paper wasn’t proportional to the days remaining on the trip. What I was facing was a serious budget deficit. Maybe the illusive “pit toilet” had a ready supply. I just had to find it.

With that as my motivation I increased the radius of the search. The good news was that the strategy paid off and I found it just above the far edge of our beach. The bad news was that it lived up to Larry’s prediction and had no roof. What was worse, was that it consisted of a sodden wooden box with a couple of loose pieces of driftwood laid across the top to sit on. The final insult was the number of “no-seeums” that joyously swarmed up out of the pit to greet my arrival. They exhibited their delight in having a brief window of “flying weather plus fresh meat delivered to their doorstep. I realized then that this was our KOA from Hell. This was the “Pseudo-Bogus-to-the-Max” BC Coastal Rec Map’s idea of a “developed campsite” and a “pit toilet”. This was Hotel Triquet.

I knew what I had to do. I resolutely walked back to the shack and picked up the Mark Twain paperback that still sat on the window ledge. Ripping out the 50 or 60 pages that the mice had been chewing on and placing them in the drybag of kindling, I slipped the remainder into my pack of personal gear. “Roughing It” had just taken on a new meaning and, just like that, the budget was balanced.

During the afternoon two kayakers approached from the north. It was the couple from the interior that Dave had talked to at Cultus Sound. They had sailed south and had sought the relative protection of the islands to ride out the storm. Finding a brief break in the weather they had jumped in their kayaks to circumnavigate Triquet. They sat at our beach and chatted until the rain started again and then set out to accomplish their goal.

Dinner consisted of the same thing we had for breakfast. We had plenty of potatoes and onions left. Yummmmm. We all retired early to the shack as it was the only place that was reasonably dry where we could all sit and talk. Unlike the night before, our mood was buoyed by nutrition and we enjoyed the evening joking, laughing and listening to the weather report every 20 minutes or so. Sitting around hoping for a new story but hearing only more of the same.

Happy Hour at the Hotel Triquet
Jon Dawkins

8/1, Monday, Day 10
Clearing in the morning then showers heavy at times, clearing again in the evening
Winds 5 to 15 mph


We awoke to some surprising patches of blue sky. No time to waste as providing meat was the priority. We scrambled for our boats and were soon winding our way out through the rock gardens and Bull Kelp into the wild Pacific swell.

Clear in the Morning
Dave Resler


The water was unsettled as though it, too, had been awaiting a respite from the rain and didn’t quite know what to do with itself. I felt like I had to pay attention but enjoyed the escape, nonetheless. Keith went out quite a ways and soon landed the largest salmon of the trip. It was a really nice fish.

Keith Provides
Dave Resler


Dave and I had gone in closer to the rocks when I heard a loud exhalation of breath, saw a plume of spray and an arching back as some large mammal dove beneath the waves about 100 feet away. I shouted to Dave that I had seen a whale and he yelled to Keith and Larry that there was a whale nearby. It surfaced again, exhaled and disappeared but this time we saw that it was brown, not black and didn’t have a blowhole. It did have a really big mouth with large white teeth. Dave and I both recognized it as a Stellar Sea Lion which range up to 2800 pounds and are quite territorial. It’s best to avoid them. We got the heck out of there.

Back at camp Dave cleaned Keith’s fish while Keith got potatoes and onions going. It was wonderful to have meat again and we had enough left over for lunch and dinner. After breakfast the nasty weather returned with more wind than before. Luckily, we were on the lee of a point that offered protection from the wind but not the rain. We napped, read, relaxed.

By afternoon the rain had slackened but the wind continued. Dave and I decided to go paddling. I wanted to see what the area was like over by Edna Islands. We set out into a stiff breeze that spit occasional passing showers. Entering the Edna Group we spotted a couple of boats at anchor. One was the tug “Union Jack” sans its fishing boats. We approached it to say “Hi”. The skipper’s name was also “Dave” and he greeted us and asked us if we needed water. We thanked him and told him that we had plenty of water. “How about food? Do you have enough to eat?”
Again, we thanked him and told him that we had enough for the time being. Larry and Keith had gone off to gather some clams and I told him as much. He asked us to wait a minute and disappeared into a hatch in the rear deck. Appearing from the chest up he asked, “Could you use a couple of halibut steaks?”

Wow! Those were tough to turn down. Two large halibut steaks frozen and sealed. “Yes. Thank you very much!” What else can you say to an offer like that?

Next he asked, “What else can I get you?”

“Uh, nothing. Thanks, this is too much already.”

“No” he countered, ”You need something to go with that”.

Disappearing again and reemerging this time with two bottles of wine he commanded, “Here. Take these, too”.

What was I to say. Dave and I were simply dumbstruck. We had gone over to say “Hi” and suddenly we were flush with food and wine.

“You must need something else. What is it?”

Feeling awkward in the face of such generosity yet seeing an opportunity I told him that we had lost our coffee and if they could spare a few grounds we would really be grateful.

With that he dropped below once again and returned with a week’s worth of coffee for us. What incredible generosity he displayed to a couple of guys they had never met before. Thanking him profusely we took our leave and paddled off towards the other boat at anchor. It was 30-ish foot sailboat with two kayaks tied to its stern. We recognized the kayaks as belonging to the couple who had dropped by camp yesterday. They saw us coming and came topside to chat. They said that they had completed their tour of Triquet the previous day but had endured rain, wind and 12 foot seas on the outside. Pretty exciting stuff. Lynn and Steve Ama are from the BC Interior where she is an artist. http://fireweedart.ca/. They were spending a few months aboard the sailboat, “Erika” with kayaks in tow. Steve told us of a cabin that they had happened upon near Joassa Channel, which was in the general direction that we were headed. They described it as clean and dry with a wood stove. It wasn’t shown on any of our maps so Steve showed Dave exactly where it was on his GPS and he programmed it in for future reference. With every stitch of clothing we had being damp, someplace dry and warm sounded like a welcome change.

Dave and I were headed back to camp when we got to thinking about playing a trick on Keith and Larry. They all used a single lure hung below a flasher. The lure is called a “Hootchie” and it looks like a plastic, colored squid type thing. A few trips back, Dave had bought a little book about how to find success fishing with a Hootchie. Now, whoever catches the largest fish gets the “Hootchie Book” as a trophy. Dave decided that we would make up a story about catching a large halibut while we were out paddling and would tell Keith he had better get ready to give him the Hootchie Book. It seemed like a more dignified description of how we came by the steaks then telling them that “Jon begged them from the Union Jack”. It would be good for a laugh.

When we found them they were deep in mud digging clams on a messy flat that was protected by sharp, barnacled rocks. We carefully picked our way in closer then Dave started in on them. He maintained that he had “the giant fish in his hatch”. It had been too large to land so he had paddled to a beach and dragged it up onto the rocks. They weren’t in a good mood and weren’t buying it but it was fun anyway. What was really fun was the look on their faces when the steaks were produced along with wine to wash them down. When we gave Keith the coffee he wasted no time firing up the stove and brewing a pot. He and I had missed our caffeine.

Larry Grills Halibut
Keith Blumhagen


The evening turned out to be beautifully clear and cool. Larry did the halibut over a grill on the first fire we had had since we landed on this wet, forsaken beach. Keith mixed the salmon in with potatoes and onions. We feasted!

Clear Evening on Triquet
Dave Resler


The weather radio indicated that we could expect clearing and light winds for a couple of days. That was all the encouragement we needed to vacate this place so we made plans to leave in the morning for our safe haven in Cultus Sound. It would be a short 9 mile paddle and if the conditions were nice we would go the outside route.

Dave & Larry
Keith Blumhagen


We ate, drank wine and talked around an open fire. It seemed like such a treat after being cooped up in the shack. Keith and I stayed up late and watched the stars.

Sometime during the night I heard a rustling sound coming from the floor of the shack. I grabbed my headlamp and illuminated the smallest mouse I have ever seen. It looked to be about the size of my thumb. It was trying to jump up on top of a large open bag of trail mix. The little guy would leap and make it nearly to the top only to slide back down the side. I thought these guys could jump but this one hadn’t figured out how to yet. That trail mix was the one I had brought and it had yogurt covered things in it. Not my favorite. I turned off the light and left him to his problem thinking that I had to remember not to eat any more out of that bag.

8/2, Tuesday, Day 11
Clear
Winds 0 - 10 mph


I awoke to the sound of, of, uh, is that Dave chopping wood? Keith and Larry have a practiced cadence to their efforts. It’s neither one of them. Dave’s chopping isn’t as confident as theirs and mine is terrible. Hummm. No rhythm to it at all. Sounds more like me than Dave, but I’m here in the shack, so who the heck is that?

I crawled out of “bed” and went down to the beach. The sun was just peeking over Edna Islands with the promise of a spectacular day.

Triquet Sunrise
Jon Dawkins


The beach was deserted yet there was this chopping sound. My God, was this island haunted, too? Rain, rats, bats and disembodied wood choppers? I have got to get out of here! And then I saw the source of the sound. The beach was lined with tall conifers and the one that towered directly over the parawing was shedding it’s seed cones. They were falling from that single tall tree and when they struck the parawing they made a loud sound like someone chopping wood. I couldn’t believe it. I don’t know if it was the rain or the temperature or the alignment of the planets but something told that tree to let loose of it’s cones and it was following orders. I stood there and watched those cones fall for about 30 minutes before anyone else came to the beach. By that time the beach was littered with cones and the tree was done for the morning. What a great experience to be there and watch that natural window open and close.

We were all hot to leave Triquet and move north. We had to be moving back towards Bella Bella as we wanted to make it Shearwater sometime Thursday. We were all tired of being cooped up on this beach and looked forward to some time in the saddle. As grim a face as Triquet had shown us over the past few days it put on an awesome display of beauty in our last few hours there. While Keith prepared breakfast I wandered around and got a sense of why this place was so highly thought of.

Triquet Tree
Jon Dawkins

Morning Light
Jon Dawkins & Dave Resler

After pancakes, halibut and coffee we cleaned up, broke camp, packed the boats and quietly slipped into the welcoming morning sea. Passing the sheltering rock gardens on the outskirts of Triquet we sampled the outside. If it looked good we would stay out there all the way to Cultus Sound, otherwise we could slide back into the protection of Edna Islands and Spider Channel. If we stayed on the outside it would be a little over 9 miles to our next camp. If we went inside it would be a little longer but either way it was a short day and we weren’t in a hurry.

What a morning to be on the water. The temperature was around 60 degrees and the wind was calm. Just right. The swell approached 1 ½ meters and we just cruised along off of Typhoon Island at a very relaxed pace. We had all day to cover a short distance and we wanted to enjoy the experience.

Larry Outside Typhoon
Jon Dawkins


Approaching the south end of Spider Island the guys decided that they might as well fish. Yeah! Their trolling speed would drop us back about a knot. Get a little more relaxed? Sure, why not? Catch some fish now rather than later? Heck, yes. They popped their spray skirts, let their Hootchies out about 20 pulls and dropped the speed a bit.

The swell increased to 2 meters as we neared Spider’s western face. That stretch of shoreline runs straight for about ½ mile then stops abruptly at Breadner Point. The inter-tidal zone is characteristically steep, much like the entrance to Cultus Sound. The swells reflect off of those rocks and add texture to the surface of the ocean. It was along this stretch coastline that Dave first spotted the Orcas.

He alerted us to a single, tall, slightly bent dorsal fin that appeared about 100 yards ahead. It was moving our way and looked as though it would pass a bit outside of us. I was stunned. This was my first encounter with Orcas and I didn’t want to miss anything. Larry then shouted that there were others closer to shore. The guys quickly reeled in their lines and we sat and watched as the small pod materialized around us.

We were going north and they were headed south. “Bent Fin” looked as though he was on a collision course with Keith. We watched as the big mammal passed 30 feet from his boat. In towards the sharp, rocky shore two adults accompanied two young ones as they cruised along the surface.
Jon and Orcas
Dave Resler


In all, I could count seven at any one time but none of us really knew for sure how many there were. We sat and watched as they moved south for 100 yards and then back north to the point. Back and forth they swam for about 25 minutes with us in the middle. “Bent Fin” always swam alone on the outside as though riding shotgun with us between him and the shore.

Larry and “Bent Fin”
Dave Resler


All of the others stayed inside of us. We never felt any concern for our wellbeing. In fact, if you want to feel really, really well sometime I would suggest doing whatever you have to do to get in the water with these beautiful animals. OK, I know that people do stuff like this all the time but it was a first for me and I came away feeling very happy and at peace with the world.

“Bent Fin”
Keith Blumhagen


Eventually the pod continued south and we continued north. The guys went back to fishing. Rounding Breadner Point we were greeted with a swarm of sport fishing boats all trolling around in a tight circle. I’m thinking that there were eight or nine boats in a very small area and while Larry and Keith and I continued on Dave slid right into the circle and joined them. I paused to watch. All of these fishermen were maneuvering their boats in this small area and there was a clear formation and pattern. It didn’t seem to matter to them that Dave didn't have an engine. As long as he could maintain the formation and speed he was welcome. Everyone just continued to fish and talked across boats. It was interesting to watch as people were catching salmon left and right and conversations between boats never missed a beat. There was no conflict at all. Dave, being the relentlessly friendly social butterfly that he is, fit right in and would probably have been content to stay and fish with all of his new friends if Larry and Keith hadn’t kept heading north.

The thing that stuck me as so odd about the situation was that we had hardly seen another boat since leaving Choked Passage on the 30th. We saw the Union Jack twice and the Erika once but we had felt pretty isolated and now paddling up this lonely coast we suddenly find ourselves in the middle of this swarm of friendly fishing boats. Very strange.

Two miles in the distance we could see Superstition Point and standing behind it, the headland that marked the entrance to Cultus Sound. Before we would reach it Keith and Dave would each have a salmon in their boat and Larry would catch and release one. As we drew closer, though, the combination of the swell, tidal current and the shelf extending out from Superstition Point showed why it had earned the warning on the map. This was a very mellow day with light winds yet waves crested and broke far out from the point. If the narrow passage behind the point was closed we would either have to pick our way through the boomers or detour far out into deeper water. The texture increased as we came closer with waves reflecting off of the steep rock walls and we found the passage was wide open. Rounding the headland we entered Cultus Sound bound for our deluxe beach.

The rains had beaten this beach up, too. Lots of water had flowed out of the forest and cut small streambeds into the sand that were now dry. We each claimed our old tent sites and set about drying our gear. While the temperature in the shadows was cool it was warm and toasty in the sun. We set our tents up and moved them to where they would dry more quickly. Four sleeping bags were hung wherever we could find a sunny spot. Long underwear, shirts, socks, jackets were laid out to dry. Our gear was spread from one end of the beach to the other. Anyone approaching from the water would have thought they had wandered into Appalachia. I took the Campsuds down to the water for a bath. My first in 10 days. Dave and Larry were soon taking brisk soapy swims. Keith had cleaned up at Hole in the Wall and didn’t feel so inclined.

We were just settling in for an afternoon of relaxation when the “Union Jack” came around the corner and pulled into our little bay. We were delighted to see them and hoped that it meant they were planning a beach party for their guests. The boys had been present for a similar event hosted by the “Parry” a couple of years before. A good time had been had by all. I jumped in my boat and paddled out to greet them.

Dave was just dropping anchor as I pulled up.

“Hey Jon! You guys camped here tonight?”

“That would be a fact, Dave.”

“Well, I have some good news and some bad news, then. What do you want first?”

“Give me the bad news first”

“OK. We are staying here, too.”

“That’s not bad news. That’s very good news”.

“Well, since this is our last night out we have to run the generator. I’m sorry if we disturb you.”

“No problem. We’re delighted to see you again. What’s the good news?”

“Well, I’ve got a problem that I’m hoping you can help me with. We have a hold full of beers from all over the world and none of the guests will drink the Molson Ice. I don’t know what to do about it”.

“Dave, It’s my professional opinion that you need to get it off the boat somehow. What role can I play in bringing this crisis to a peaceful conclusion?”

“I was hoping that you could dispose of it for me.”

I agreed to help my Canadian brother in that dire time of need as it was a safe assumption that there were Americans on his guest list. That made this an international problem and neither Dave nor I wanted to see Canadian-American relationships damaged over some skunky tasting, green-bottled Canadian beer. He dropped below the deck to return with a cold case of 24. Three were missing. He handed it down to me and just like that, an international crisis was averted. When his guests returned to the tug they would find that offensive beer was gone and life would return to normal.

After many thanks, I returned to camp with my prize. This life as a diplomat was growing on me. It was tough, but someone had to do it. While it’s true that Molson Ice isn’t, nor should it be anyone’s first choice when selecting a cold beer it tasted just fine relaxing in the sun there on Cultus Sound. It also tasted just fine with Keith’s cuisine which was (what else?) salmon. Seems like maybe we had salmon tacos or salmon burritos or salmon something-or-other. Guaranteed, though, it was another great meal accompanied by potatoes, onion and garlic.

Keith’s Cultus Kitchen
Jon Dawkins


After dinner we decided that, come morning, we would make for the cabin that Lynn and Steve Ama had told us about near Joassa Channel. If we spent the night there it would make our last day of paddling to Shearwater about 16 miles. We had wanted to pass north through Gale Passage which is one pass to the west of Joassa and features tidal rapids but it would have added considerably to the length of our last day. The thought of staying in a clean, dry, warm cabin also had some appeal.

8/3, Wednesday, Day 12
Clear morning becoming overcast in the afternoon
Winds calm building to 10 mph


I heard the Union Jack weigh anchor around 6:00 AM. I peeked my head out and saw that the guys were getting their gear together to go fishing. I wasn’t ready to get up yet, told Dave as much and zipped my tent shut. I got up an hour later and made coffee. I filled Keith’s travel mug and set off in my boat to take it to him.

Cultus Morning
Dave Resler


It was a very still morning. There was no wind and no swell. The Pacific was absolutely flat.

Flat Pacific
Jon Dawkins


I have an equilibrium issue in smooth, glassy water like that. I think that it may be the way flat water reflects light but I get to feeling a bit queasy and have the sensation that I am going to slowly roll over. Had there been a swell I would have been OK but there was nothing, just a bit of boil from the current. The Pacific shouldn’t be this laid back. This wasn’t right. I saw the guys out by the headland and they were moving my way. Rather than sit there feeling strange I paddled out to meet them.

They all seemed strangely subdued as if they felt that something was out of kilter but couldn’t figure out what it was. I asked them why they were coming back in. They didn’t know. It just felt kind of weird. I agreed and we headed back to camp.

Flat Cultus Sound
Jon Dawkins


As Keith made breakfast the rest of us broke camp. Breakfast complete, (potatoes, onions and salmon) we pushed off and headed outside for the cabin that awaited us near Joassa Channel, 20.6 miles distant.

Our route took us northwest between the McNaughton and Simonds Groups on smooth, smooth water. Exposed while crossing Lilooet Passage and to the west of the Prince Group we followed Keith into a narrow passageway through the Admiral Group. The transition from open water to this close, intimate environment was strange. Our view of the sky was reduced to a 90 degree slice directly overhead. The restricted and quiet waterway reminded me of the Jungle Ride at Disneyland without the fake animals or waterfall. So far, this day was kind of playing with my head. Where I expected a sense of power from the water I got nothing at all. Where I expected to be bounced around in reflected swell I got that still-water-queasy feeling. Not another watercraft sighted since the Union Jack weighed anchor.

Passage Through the Admiral Group
Larry Longrie


Popping out the far side was equally disorienting. Suddenly there was unlimited sky and lots of open water. Immediately in front of us was Tide Rip Passage that had to be crossed to the Tribal Group. We experienced a current of about 3 or 4 knots that wanted to take us out to sea but crossed the worst of it in about 100 yards. From this point on we would be paddling against the current and were only halfway to the cabin.

Dave used his GPS to locate the most favorable, or should I say the least unfavorable currents to paddle in. Along Athabaskan Island there wasn’t much of an advantage in working closer or further from shore but as we entered Brown Narrows and the current increased those little variations started to make a difference. The sky was lightly overcast now and a breeze had picked up to about 10 mph. The wind’s interaction with the surface current offered us clues as to where the most favorable route lay. After a PowerBar / GU break in an eddy behind some small unnamed islet we put our heads down for a tough 5 mile, uphill push into Boddy Narrows.

There wasn’t any conversation on this leg and each of us pretty much made his own specific route against the current. Dave paddled steadily with his eyes on his GPS. I knew that he would be maximizing his performance by using his 3 knot benchmark. Larry and Keith took the lead while I hung back choosing my own way by studying their efforts, comparing my speed to Dave’s and searching the water’s surface for instructions. The eddy we hoped to catch a free ride on at Kingcote Point wasn’t there. Bummer! I was looking forward to conserving some energy. The eddy behind Gow Island wasn’t as strong as hoped for and didn’t help much either. The next 1 ½ miles would be the toughest.

Raymond Passage runs north/south from Seaforth Channel down to this point. At its narrowest, it is twice the width of Boddy Narrows. It offers the waters of the Pacific a thoroughfare during tidal exchanges but the south end of the passage is constricted a bit by several islands. Those islands create a venturi of sorts and the current accelerates through the widest gap. Those obstacles stood between us and Boddy Narrows where we hoped for diminishing current.

We had three narrow gaps to cross before we got to the big one. Eddying up the shore we would gain an advantage and then lose it ferrying across to the lee of the next island. Three times we did this. As we came to the big gap the current was obvious. The breeze against the flow forced the water to rear up into modest standing waves. Larry and Keith still led the way and as the current took them I could see they were countering heavily with their rudders. Without a rudder I knew that I would have to take a different approach so I eddied up a bit further then they had and set a sharper ferry angle into the flow. Still, the water tried hard to turn me around and as I looked over my shoulder I could see Dave crossing over downstream.

We paused only briefly behind Kingsley Point and didn’t really speak much. We still had distance to cover and we were all looking forward the end of the day and one of Keith’s meals. The last 2 1/2 miles were traveled on smooth water with little current and calm wind yet it seemed to take a long time. We had the coordinates for the cabin that was built on an island owned by the Heiltsuk chief. Would it be occupied when we arrived? We hoped not as the thought of that cabin had kept us going all day. If it was in use we looked forward to a campsite noted on the Rat-Bastard BC Coastal Rec Map at nearby Quinoot Point and we all know what great luck we had been having with those.

The GPS led us right to it but without knowing it was there we might have paddled right on past and noticing. Lynn and Steve had stumbled on the cabin while exploring. Without their help we wouldn’t have known of it’s existence. Tucked around the wooded point was a small cove that was the obvious place to take out. We walked up the bank to the porch and found nobody home. Perfect!

Heiltsuk Cabin
Jon Dawkins


The spot where this cabin was nestled commanded a view north to Joassa Channel and southeast down Boddy Narrows. Behind the cabin was a shallow channel that led to Cree Point at the southern extremity of Dufferin Island. The cabin was built by the Heiltsuk Nation for use as a Rediscovery Camp. When not being used by Heiltsuk youth it is open to anyone who would respect the property. No problem there, as after staying at the sodden Hotel Triquet we truly appreciated this luxury. Keith had a “stand-up” kitchen for the first time on this trip. Every other meal he prepared was done bent over.

Keith in Heiltsuk Kitchen
Jon Dawkins


What deluxe digs. The wooden floor was swept clean. The “kitchen” counter was clear and there were cooking utensils in the event you needed them. Some canned goods were lined up along a shelf. There was a wood stove with dry wood and kindling. Bunk beds for four adults and two kids. A ladder that led to a loft large enough for another eight people. A table with benches. A door that opened and closed plus four windows that did the same. A guestbook revealed that the last visitors had been through a week prior and they complained about the rough accommodations. I can’t imagine how they could find fault with this gift from the Heiltsuk People. For sure, they hadn’t stayed at Hotel Triquet.

The wood stove kept the temperature in the cabin from dropping below 60 degrees ( mid-40’s outside) and it dried out every wet thing we owned. The mouse that lived under Dave’s bed only came out very late and didn’t wake Dave or me up at all. Larry and Keith heard it scurrying across the floor of the loft and later watched it clean salmon grease off of the Coleman stove.

8/4, Thursday, Day 13
Overcast with light rain, heavy at times
Winds calm building to 10 mph


Today’s plan was to paddle 16 miles to Shearwater. Getting to town would give us a chance to do laundry, take a shower, sleep in a real bed, have some pizza and a beer. The ferry didn’t come through until Friday night so we would have at least 24 hours of civilization before heading home. I think we all had mixed feelings about that. It was great being out here yet we looked forward to seeing loved ones and not sleeping on a Thermarest. Plus, our food stocks were depleted.

For breakfast, Keith used up the last of the pancake mix and a big bunch of something that was supposed to be dried eggs. It would be charitable to say that they resembled scrambled eggs and just as accurate to say that their taste was reminiscent of gritty wallpaper paste. Not Keith’s fault. He did the best he could with what he had and we mostly choked it down without comment. I’m being critical of that particular dish now for the first time and have to say that I feel a certain twinge of responsibility. You see, before we ever got off the ferry at Nanaimo Keith had complained to me that REI had been out of his favorite (Wakefield) dried eggs. I knew the supply and demand story about that particular product and shared it with him. The realities of the free market didn’t save me from having to eat the yellow substitute that glowered up at me now, though. No indeed. In fact, before it passed my lips the idea of scrambled eggs had been so appealing it had stirred up my digestive juices and whipped my taste buds into a frenzy. I was plum excited at the prospect. So excited, in fact, that I had piled the big yellow mass on my plate that after one bite perplexed me so. How was I to get out of eating them? I couldn’t put them back. I didn’t want to complain.

“Hey Dave. I kinda hogged the eggs. You want some of mine?”

“No thanks”

“Larry?”.

“No thanks, Jon”.

Keith?

“No. I’m cool. Thanks.”

Well, the pancakes were really good so I ate as many of those as I could and then said that I was too full to finish my eggs. Keith did a great job of meal planning, providing meat and cooking for us. If after two weeks the only complaint I had was about some dried egg mix on the last meal of the trip then I call that a job very well done.

We cleaned up the cabin really well and left a complimentary note of appreciation to the Heiltsuk People along with the remaining canned food that we had. Packing up and leaving that cabin felt like we had been on a family vacation in the mountains and were now loading up the trunk of the car for the drive back home. The paddle to Shearwater would reinforce that feeling.

Slipping away from the beach at 8:10 AM we entered glassy Joassa Channel. It was about ½ mile in width yet would narrow to about 35 feet in a 1 ½ miles or so. The reflection of the sky on the water was so detailed and clear that I started in with my queasy feeling right away. It wasn’t the eggs, it was the glassy water. Boats pass though water like that with a completely different sound. The sound of our paddles entering and exiting the water became almost unbearably loud. My head started to spin.

Joassa Morning
Dave Resler

Joassa Reflection
Jon Dawkins

Dave Reflected
Jon Dawkins
(This photo is upside down)


You could say that my equilibrium was a little messed up paddling through this. I felt like I was in a fun house with mirrors. I was paddling through a maze where some passageways dead ended in Dave’s reflection, or Keith’s, or Larry’s or a rock wall. Which way to pick? How close is that rock? How big is it? It was hard for me to sort out where the water started and where it ended. What was real and what was reflection. We were all moved by the beauty of the morning and the reflective nature of the water but I think I was the only one suffering from vertigo. I felt like I couldn’t rely upon my eyes. After all the time that I had spent paddling this boat, though, I could rely upon my paddle in the water and the feedback that I got through my seat and knee braces. “Just keep padding, Jon. Stay close and keep paddling. This won’t go on forever.

Will it?”.

Joassa Totem Pole
Jon Dawkins


About midway through the channel it opened up briefly to a cluster of islets which changed the whole look of things just long enough for us to wind our way between them and then it slammed shut again as we entered Rail Narrows. This is where it got down to 35 feet in width. Larry and Keith had camped in here once before. That must have been a very strange night.

Rail Narrows opens out into a decent sized bay that sits back from Seaforth Channel. Anchored in that bay was the “Parry”.
The Parry
Larry Longrie


Having sent his guests out fishing, the skipper was happy to see Keith, Larry and Dave who he had met two years before in Cultus Sound.

Skipper of the Parry
Dave Resler


We visited for a while and then the Chef came out with a bag of treats for each of us. We each received a ziplock bag with a fresh cinnamon roll, a muffin and a large cookie. What a great bunch of folks. I would love to spend a week as their guest sometime.

Chez Parry
Dave Resler

The Parry and the Union Jack had played such key roles in this trip and in the guy’s adventure two years before that it was hard to leave them astern and paddle out into Seaforth Channel. Saying “Goodbye” was tough.

Leaving Joassa Channel for Seaforth Channel was like coming to the junction of a deserted and winding mountain road that led from a place of high adventure to the four lane highway that you had to take to get back home. You still had some miles to go and plenty to see but each paddle stroke would bring you closer to the end of the trip and the water and shoreline increasingly reflected civilization. Navigation markers, logging scars, the nature of the flotsam, increasing boat traffic, occasional aircraft overhead. Make no mistake, Seaforth Channel is a beautiful place to paddle but it definitely felt like it was on the way home.

Seaforth Channel
Dave Resler


Not only did the traffic increase but the nature of that traffic changed, as well. Further south and on the outside we saw mostly smaller aluminum sport fishing boats zipping from one hot spot to another. Here was a cruise ship, a container ship, a tug with barges in tow and many large luxury yachts pulling their own deluxe personal fishing boats behind them. Their fishing boats seemed really big to me and luxurious in their own right. The yachts moved swiftly with engines that rumbled low and loud and remained in the air long after they had passed from sight.

The ebb was against us but not strongly so. Each stroke came without enthusiasm and seemed to move the boat forward less than the last. One of the thick clouds overhead decided that it was time to rain and poured on us for a solid hour. This rain was not like the Day of the Cadaver Hands, though. This one seemed appropriate for our mood and provided a change of pace. It flattened the ripple that had built, beat on our decks and sent watery ball bearings skittering across the surface. The din was comfortably loud and cancelled out the static of civilization. I didn’t mind the drenching as I knew that later in the day I would take a hot shower. On the Day of the Cadaver Hands there had been no promise of warmth or comfort and there had been none. Tonight, though, I would sleep in a bed. It made the rain OK.

We decided to take a break at Kynumpt Harbour, a bay that stretches back about ½ mile from the channel and the “Shit-Heel” Coastal Rec Map marks two campsites on it’s shores. There would probably be places to get out of the boats. Larry and Keith pulled out at the mouth of the bay while Dave and I continued in. We each chose a different place to pull out. My rocky beach at the back of the bay exhibited the passing of many people and was depressing. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be on the way home. I wanted to head back out.

Joining up at the mouth of the bay we started on the last stretch. Paddle strokes came with more reluctance. Our boats moved sluggishly through the water. We didn’t speak until we saw the Dryad Point lighthouse. How many weather reports had we listened to that told of conditions at Dryad Point?

Dryad Point Lighthouse
Dave Resler


We paused for a joyless group photo. A loud power boat passed by spewing exhaust. Time to get this over with. We paddled on and rounding the point there was Bella Bella. Just like that. Not a welcoming sight for me. It meant that this trip really was almost over. We were on the freeway now.

Bella Bella in the Distance
Dave Resler


Our destination was about a mile east of Bella Bella at the resort of Shearwater. Keith, needing a bit more time to get used to the idea led us away from the sight of town and behind some islands where we got to avoid our inevitable re-entry into the hustle and bustle of the real world for just a little bit longer.

When we could avoid it no longer, we passed around Meadow Island and started across the bay for town. The noise of the boat engines seemed really loud. A seaplane made it’s final approach behind us getting louder and louDER and LOUDER. We never looked back. “Just kill me now”! Touching down close behind us he taxied past towards the fuel docks. The shuttle boat left the dock for Bella Bella and hurried past going the other way. Coming close on our left they blew their horn and waved at us. Their wake rocked us and seemed like the final slap. “Welcome to Shearwater, Fool”!

Shearwater
Jon Dawkins

We passed by the end of the visitor’s dock with it’s large, shiny yachts each tied to it’s own spot and rounded the weather-beaten pier where the working class moored their working class boats, tied together there eight a beam. Six local grade school kids in a discolored skiff, three wielding oars and each paddling with a different intent noted our arrival and summoned up enough cooperation to follow us in. Sunburned faces appeared in windows of the well worn, rusty and dented boats and silently witnessed the last fifty yards of our trip.

The steep concrete boat ramp towered above me as I watched Larry, Keith and Dave each drive their bows gently up onto the slope, step out and help each other carry their craft up out of the way.

“Maybe I’ll just sit here a bit”, I thought. I considered all the beaches that I had slid up on in past two weeks. I relived the feeling and sounds of that first slick boulder strewn put-in below the ferry dock, the crunching, muddy clamshells at low tide on Shell Beach, the welcoming soft sand of Cultus Sound, the louder gritty nature of the crushed barnacle sand at Hole in the Wall, the fine white grains of Wolf Beach, the annoying grating of the wet, dark rocks of Triquet and the slippery angular fist sized stones belonging to the Heiltsuk Chief. In the end it was going to come down to grinding ashore on a concrete boat ramp in the middle of a schizophrenic settlement that didn’t know if it was a ritzy resort or an economically depressed fishing village. What was real here besides the ramp? The Visitor’s dock with it’s sleek luxury liners or the blue-collared flotilla beside me? Was it the visitor off of the yacht from La Jolla walking his boutique dog in his $90 blue jeans and $75 sweatshirt or the shirtless Heiltsuk man nailing boards to the new soffit on the mercantile? Was it the manicured green grass overlooking the dock or the pot-holed track that led to the ferry dock?

What I did know to be real was:
Dave’s relentlessly friendly manner that relegated all people to one of two categories. Friends of his or people he hadn’t yet met.
Keith’s toughness and stoicism resulting from years of climbing, bike racing and figure eight auto racing. Going into the wall real hard in a race car probably made sleeping in wet clothes seem like a walk in the park. Never a complaint out of him and he cooked just fine.
Larry’s good natured barbs that he dished out to Dave but could also take with dignity. His ability to start a fire from nothing (Triquet excluded) and willingness to pitch in and help wherever he might be useful. Don’t forget that extra gear of his that he uses to find a pace beyond mere mortal paddlers.
And of course those dreadful eggs this morning. They may have been freeze dried but they were definitely real once they hit my mouth.

Floating there with my bow about a foot away from the shore and pondering what was real and what was not I heard Dave say “Welcome to Shearwater, Jon”. I looked up and he smiled as he grabbed the toggle on my bow. Lifting it up a bit he pulled my boat forward until it was mostly clear of the water then set me down gently on the ramp.

We had that pizza and beer.

Keith Smiling Over Pizza
Dave Resler


We did laundry, took showers and slept in beds. We spent a day in Shearwater waiting for the ferry. We took the shuttle to Bella Bella for an enlightening visit to the Heiltsuk Cultural Center and a sobering walk through town. We spent a night sleeping on the “Spirit of Chilliwack” and another day traveling.

Aboard the Bella Bella Shuttle
Dave Resler


We got back to our homes and loved ones on the evening of Saturday the 6th, two days after arriving in Shearwater, but in my mind the trip was over at the moment that Dave helped me ashore. All the rest was just “on the way home”.

Shearwater Harbor
Dave Resler


Sunset on the “Spirit of Chilliwack”
Jon Dawkins

Klemtu 2007

Gale Passage

James & Jennifer Hamilton

When Dave and I started talking about a trip for 2007 we didn’t have approved time off from our jobs.

We didn’t have a route.

We didn’t have a plan, really.

We were inspired to get back to the coast and do something a little more ambitious than we had done before.

The 2005 trip introduced me to the area and convinced me that I had to return again and again and again until I could say that I had paddled the West Coast of Canada. Bumping into Keith Webb at the conclusion of that trip in the bar at Shearwater was amazing fortune as he introduced us to the legend of Kayak Bill and planted some seeds for this trip. His on-line article for Sea Kayaker Magazine fertilized those seeds. We walked into that bar motivated by pizza and beer and walked out inspired by the legend of a dead man.

John Kimantas, a Canadian author and sea kayaker, had quietly released a book called the Wild Coast which covers kayaking the west coast of Vancouver Island. When I received the book for Christmas I hadn’t seen or heard of it before. What a surprise. Detailed routes, great photos, good natural history. Dave and I were inspired to start planning our next trip.

Work kept me close to home in 2006 so I wasn’t able to travel but Dave did go back to the Central Coast and spent a rainy week at Cultus Sound with Larry and Connie Longrie. During that time John Kimantas released the Wild Coast 2 which covers the coast from the north end of Vancouver Island to Prince Rupert. John’s descriptions of campsites that Dave and I had stayed at were spot-on and gave us confidence in using the Wild Coast 2 as a planning tool for the 2007 trip. We wanted to spend as much time as possible “outside” and finding information on the Outside Passage was not as easy as the Inside Passage. The Wild Coast 2 filled in lots of blanks. John's website ( http://www.thewildcoast.ca/ ) also offered first-hand trip information from other paddlers.

Dave and I both wanted to explore the area between Banks Island and Milbanke Sound but recognized that we were challenged by logistics. We needed to try to fit our trip into a two week window if we were going to persuade a third person to join us. We felt that we needed a third partner to share this trip with and, as you know, finding the perfect adventure travel companion is tough. We wanted the safety and strength that a skilled and level-headed partner would provide.

I knew Greg Polkinghorn a bit from work and had paddled with him a few times. I knew that he was stronger than most paddlers had reason to be and had more experience on kayaking trips than I had. Smart guy, strong, no hidden agenda. I had shown him photos of the Bella Bella trip and knew that he was interested but he had lots of competing priorities. I threw it out there to see if he would consider it and to our delight Greg signed on!

Dave, the best qualified to design a trip plan assigned the task to me. Not sure why he did that but I shared my ideas with Keith Webb and John Kimantas. Keith was very generous and spent time on-line and on the phone candidly discussing his experiences and learnings chasing “Kayak Bill”. He also shared copies of Bill’s charts along with GPS coordinates of campsites that worked and didn’t work at spring tide levels. John Kimantas encouraged me where I wavered, confirmed the validity of some thoughts and suggested that I re-examine my plan where it didn’t pencil out for him. Eventually I submitted a plan to Dave who did the preliminary chart work and made a few suggestions. That plan, for the most part stuck and that was what we showed to Greg. Nothing extreme or crazy. Bigger crossings than I had done before. Reasonable exposure with bailouts. Three Kayak Bill campsites with the possibility of more. Maybe see a white bear. Ton’s of new territory. A bit of time in familiar haunts. Sounded like a great trip.

In the wee hours of July 14 Dave Resler, Greg Polkinghorn and I piled into the truck and traveled north arriving in Port Hardy, BC that afternoon. Port Hardy is close to the northern tip of Vancouver Island. In Port Hardy we would board the Discovery Coast Ferry and sail north through the night arriving at Klemtu, BC at 2:15PM on Sunday, July 15. As the eagle flies Klemtu is about 440 miles NW of Seattle. From there a route was planned that would allow us to catch the return ferry from Shearwater, BC in two weeks, however, we knew that weather would dictate how much of that route we would actually achieve. Our route allowed us several “outs” which provided security in inclement weather while allowing us to catch that boat home.

Map from Wild Coast 2
Copyright John Kimantas

We planned to leave Klemtu as soon as we could pack our boats (4:30PM-ish), traveling north up Tolmie Channel against an opposing ebb tide. That meant a tough 6 miles uphill to the northern extremity of Swindle Island where we would hang a left into Meyers Passage and catch the ebb current flowing towards Laredo Sound. Meyers Passage separates Princess Royal and Swindle Islands and bears south another 6 miles or so to a sharp westward bend. That bend is forced by Saunders Point, the southern-most extremity of Princess Royal Island. We expected to find our first campsite at the outside of that bend, about 10.5 NM from put-in at Klemtu.

The next morning we planned to paddle west out of Meyers Passage for a short 7.7 NM to Milne Island near the north end of Laredo Sound, a body of water about as wide as Puget Sound and open to the south. Milne would provide a good campsite above high tide and offer an excellent springboard for our next day’s destination.

Weather permitting we would paddle to one of the best preserved First Nations cultural sites on the coast. Disju holds the remains of a Kitasoo longhouse that was in active use 400 years ago. The Kitasoo Xai’xais inhabited this coast 10,000 years ago and their pictographs, rock art and middens document their presence in the area thousands of years before Christ.

Traveling south down Laredo Sound we would enter Higgins Passage which separates Swindle and Price Island and bears east to Milbanke Sound. Cultural sites exist there, both aboriginal and European, and somewhere in that area we planned to spend the night.

An early crossing of Milbanke Sound would be advised as it is a sizeable body of water open to the south and we wanted to travel 14 – 15NM to Dallas Island at the entrance of Jackson Passage between Dowager and Lady Douglas Islands. Noted as a great campsite by all who have stayed there it offers comfort in weather and access to sheltered routes should weather dictate. This site holds one of Kayak Bill’s camps where we expected to spend the night. There are many references to Kayak Bill in the Trip Log. Canadian paddler Keith Webb met and studied Bill and his exploits. His excellent article on Bill, "Kayak Bill - A Requiem", is available at Sea Kayaker Magazine's web site. If you haven't read it you should take some time and do so. It is available here: http://www.seakayakermag.com/2005/Oct05/KayakBillReq.htm

Sheltered routes weren’t our choice, however, as we wanted to cross Seaforth Channel to find tiny Gale Passage that bisects the Bardswell Group, a cluster of large and small islands that separate Seaforth Channel from Queens Sound. About 12-ishNM there are decent campsites in the area that would allow us to time our entry into the pass. Gale is narrow and features tidal rapids with significant drops that we would need to time to our benefit. Not sure where this day’s journey would leave us. Maybe holed up along the shores of the passage awaiting a favorable flow.

Map from Wild Coast 2
Copyright John Kimantas

South of Bardswell Group is the McMullin Group, a cluster of small islands that are remote enough to discourage the casual paddler and always described by visitors in glowing terms. Dave had been here before and knows the area. We planned to spend a night.

South of McMullin is the Goose Group, much larger and more remote, Goose sees a limited number of kayakers and offers great campsites with an inexhaustible store of firewood. I saw Goose as a thin horizontal line off shore two years ago and swore to visit someday.

Traveling east now we expected to cross Queens Sound early in the morning before the wind built. In 9.5NM we would end up at Cultus Sound on Hunter Island, a beach where I have spent a few wonderful nights.

This would leave us two days to travel north to Shearwater where we would catch our ferry back to civilization. It’s just 20-some NM from Cultus to the ferry but if we took our time there is a wonderful campsite just 8NM away at a tiny island off Soulsby Point. We call it Shell Beach and it was our first campsite traveling south 2 years ago from Bella Bella. It’s fabulous but may seem mundane at the end of trip filled with great beaches.

We would be back in Port Hardy on the morning of the 28th. From the time we sailed north until we arrived at PH there would be no cell coverage but we were carrying marine radios.



Seattle to Port Hardy

7/14, Saturday, Day 1
Overcast with Clearing at times


Greg showed up a bit before 2:00 AM while Dave arrived exactly on the appointed hour. Nice to be traveling with folks who are punctual. We loaded up, I kissed Jean and Koda and hit the road headed north with Greg wedged in the “backseat” of my truck. Other than missing the Nanaimo ferry by four cars there was nothing extraordinary to report. The drive from Nanaimo to Port Hardy was, likewise, unremarkable and including our stop in Campbell River for fishing licenses took about five hours to complete.

We did have a great meal at a restaurant in PH whose name escapes me at the moment but if you are traveling that way and want a reference I can give you directions.

Once on board we spread our gear in the solarium and awaited departure. At 9:30 PM the “Queen of Chilliwack” blew her horn and we left the dock for our nighttime trip to the Central Coast.

Port Hardy Dock Astern
Jon Dawkins


We wasted little time settling in for sleep as the drive had been tiring and tomorrow promised to be a long, hard day.

Dave
Jon Dawkins

Greg
Jon Dawkins

Jon
Greg Polkinghorn

Port Hardy to Klemtu


July 15, Sunday, Day 2
Mostly overcast with clearing at times, light and variable winds


We awoke to the stunning scenery of Fitz Hugh Sound. As the sun rose the visuals intensified and were punctuated by a pod of porpoises that pursued the ferry, jumping and dashing around the boat, surfing our wake and generally having a great time. Dave pointed out a Humpback Whale about 100 yards from the ferry traveling in the same direction and close to the same speed as the pod. Eventually it sounded and we watched it’s great tail slip beneath the surface.

Morning on Fitz Hugh Sound
Jon Dawkins

The ferry stopped in McLoughlin Bay, where we had started our trip two years ago, and again in nearby Shearwater. During this stop we met Ned and Nan from Sedro Wooley, a couple who have been exploring this coast for many years. Our routes were similar and their knowledge of the area vast. They showed us where to find good water and which sources to avoid. They knew where campsites existed that we weren’t aware of and what tides they would survive. Nan carried those numbers around in her head and could spit out what level flood covered which campsite. In their relationship that was clearly a responsibility that she had assumed. Ned would suggest a campsite and say “Hon, what tide will that that one tolerate?” She would quickly respond, “It will take a 16.2 maybe a 16.4 depending on wind and barometric”. When they learned about our plans to paddle Gale Passage they told us exactly when to enter the rapids in order to insure success.

After passing Dryad Point on Seaforth Channel the bridge announced that the ferry was slowing down to avoid a Humpback that was traveling ahead of us. I looked out the windows and saw the great animal initiate its long dive, signified by its tail rising high in the air then slipping beneath the waves. Greg remained glued to the charts spread out on the table measuring and marking the critical legs of our route. I knew this was going to be a great trip. Dave continued to grill Nan and Ned and fleshed out portions of our route that were, to us, like those blank areas on charts that you will transit but haven’t yet been surveyed. Greg continued to scribble notes and incorporate newly gathered information onto the charts.

Seaforth Channel opens onto the southern end of Milbanke Sound which is about eight miles wide. As the ferry made a gentle turn to the north it began to buck and roll. The Sound is open to the Pacific and Hecate Strait which some meteorologists view as the third most dangerous body of water on earth. If you took a course due south from this point the first landfall would be Antarctica. Looking at Price Island across the Sound was daunting as I knew that we would be crossing this body of water in about a week and the scale of things made me uneasy. It’s big water. Closing towards Klemtu didn’t erase my concerns. The country is so vast with few people and lots of open water. Rain came and went, never hard, but always threatening.

Soon enough we passed Jorkens Point, the southernmost tip of Swindle Island and entered Finlayson Channel. The channel narrows to about 2 miles and maintains that dimension north past Boat Bluff. About this time the southern tip of Cone Island, which shelters Klemtu, came into view.

Cone Island on the Right
Jon Dawkins


The ferry traveled counter-clockwise around Cone Island, approaching Klemtu from the north. The channel narrows here to a comfortable scale and the town lies at the base of the mountains along the right shoreline. The clouds were breaking up and bathing the area in sunshine as Klemtu came into view. I was being reintroduced to the Central/North Coast weather. The day had started out very cool and damp with low clouds and fog. The sun had peeked out from time to time but had mostly remained hidden as had the peaks of the islands. Now, it was turning into a brilliant day and would warm to near 70 degrees. But the thing about the weather here is that it constantly changes and would change again before the day was done.

Approaching Klemtu
Jon Dawkins


The “Queen of Chilliwack” docked at 2:15PM and we waited about an hour before being allowed to disembark. I hadn’t anticipated this wait as I knew that we had a strong ebb tide to buck leaving town and I was hoping to be ready to leave by 4:00PM which was one hour into that ebb. Basically, we would be paddling against a current for the first 7 NM on our way to the first possible campsite. The current was predicted to be 3 kts. A normal traveling speed in a kayak is 3 kts. Do the math. The longer we waited to start the stronger that current would become. I was growing nervous by the minute.

The dock here was not a typical ferry dock with the straight-on approach and large bundles of pilings tied together with cable but rather an “L” shaped affair where the boat tied up along the inside leg of the letter and nestled it’s bow into the “foot” of the “L”. Exiting the ferry required a sharp right turn onto the wooden dock. No big deal on foot but might be interesting for a passenger vehicle.

When we were able to disembark we walked off the dock and started looking for a good place to launch. Because of the extreme high tide the normal spot in town was not a good choice. The public dock was not going to allow an easy load or a graceful entry either. Dave had pointed out a dock nearby that looked OK and we asked around. A Kitasoo elder gave us permission to use that dock so we moved our boats and gear. Dave went to fill water bags while Greg and I moved all of the equipment down the ramp onto the floating dock where we would begin paddling. Ned and Nan chose to launch from the rocky public area so we wished them a safe trip and got to the business at hand. After driving 350 miles and being on ferries for 15 hours we were ready to get on the water and get out of Dodge.

Point of Departure
Jon Dawkins


Morning on Fitz Hugh Sound
Jon Dawkins


Morning on Fitz Hugh Sound
Jon Dawkins

Klemtu to Meyers Passage


July 15, Sunday, Day 2
Mostly overcast with occasional clearing, light and variable winds, rain at times

Looking North from Klemtu
Jon Dawkins


With our boats jammed full of gear we left the dock and headed north. Each of us carried a minimum of 100 pounds of gear consisting of food, water, clothing and shelter for the next two weeks. Our boats were sunk to the shear lines and some handled it with more grace than others. Because of the delay in disembarking we were at least two hours into the ebb and could expect little mercy from the current. We also had one less hour of daylight to work with in navigating to our campsite. It was invigorating to be on the water at last. Surprisingly we were not yet experiencing any negative effects of the predicted current. In fact, for the first mile we just breezed along enjoying the show. I was suspicious at the ease of our travel and figured that it couldn’t last but what did I really know? This was nice.

Low Riders in Klemtu Passage
Jon Dawkins


After months of planning we were finally on the water and entering into the Great Bear Wilderness where one-in-ten black bears is white. Where ten thousand years ago the original people followed the retreat of the glaciers and established villages on land that is still rising through isostatic rebound. Where you walk into a forest and find 400 year old remains of a native longhouse. A place of magic.

After 20minutes of easy paddling we came to the north end of Cone Island where Jane Passage connects Tolmie Channel to Finlayson Channel and provides an “easy out” for the escaping tides. It was here that we encountered the opposing current and the chatter of the rips began. They were still out away from the shore so we stayed in close hoping to work back eddies against the flow that was now clearly not in our favor. The shoreline offered some relief as small sections protruded further out into the flow and we could make decent headway or rest behind these points of rock.

Resting in an Eddy
Dave Resler

The current wasn’t yet oppressive but was becoming more work. Between Swindle Island and Jane Island it upped the ante as the standing waves spread most of the distance from shore to shore. At the 2 ½ NM mark Sarah Passage separates Jane Island from Sarah Island and the light station at Boat Bluff comes into view. It was here that the current really picked up and progress became a chore. The shoreline is pretty straight here so there wasn’t much to work with in terms of eddies. If you could stay right in against the rocks it was easier, but my Chatham, loaded to the gills, wasn’t very responsive and wherever I got in close I felt at risk of kissing granite. Greg and Dave worked where I didn’t dare while I moved out a bit. The current was stronger here but I could make headway by picking a path of reduced flow through the boils. At one point Dave and I were close and both paddling very hard, unable gain and only able to maintain our position against the current, when we took advantage of the slope of a small standing wave to give us just enough of a boost to move forward. This was fun but very taxing and, now, there was no place to rest. If you stopped paddling you would just be flushed back south on Sarah Passage.

Boat Bluff Light Station
Greg Polkinghorn

Split Head is the northernmost point of Swindle Island and it marks the entrance to Meyers Passage which theoretically should provide the 3 kt. ebb from Tolmie Channel another route to the open ocean. I was counting on this to give us a well deserved free ride the final 5 NM to our campsite. While rounding Split Head did provide relief from the chatter and angst of Tolmie Channel it was very discouraging to find that the current was still flowing against us. As we continued our uphill paddle the noise quickly faded behind us to be replaced with only the sounds of our hulls moving through the water, our strokes and my occasional cursing at the tides.

Meyers Passage
Jon Dawkins


It was really a pretty magical transformation from one “place” to another as the water was suddenly glassy smooth (albeit moving in the wrong direction) and the light was oddly filtered by the moisture in the air. The mountains on both sides of the passage plunged steeply to the water, their peaks just lost in the clouds. Rain could be seen approaching from the southwest while the sun, low on the horizon, peeked under the cloud deck. This change from sun to clouds to rain to clearing would become the norm and would make each hour of most days different from the last.

A group of some type of bird, that we never saw, called loudly from shore. I’m talking really loudly, here. It was a very piercing Goose or Crane-like call. They were scattered somewhere along the southern shoreline and their easternmost representative would issue a loud call. Along the shore, for what sounded like ¼ mile, the chorus would answer as if acknowledging our entry and progress through their domain. Their song was amplified by the otherwise silence of the scene that our breathing and “boat/water” music didn’t eclipse. They would raise a stink, settle down again and the eastern hell raiser would stir them up again. The sound was welcome yet surreal. Almost too intense as it made me forget, briefly, about how pissed I was at the fact that we were still pushing against a current that, in my mind, owed us a free ride. Their calls were reflected off of the mountains of Princess Royal Island and returned to remind me that we weren’t in charge.

After several hours of hard paddling we pulled up onto the shallow, slimy “beach” at the elbow of Meyers Passage. It had been raining for the past hour and we were all ready call it a day. We hung our sprayskirts and PFD’s on a stump that was washed up on the beach, pulled our boats up into the woods, tied them to a tree, found clearings for our tents and braved the mosquitoes and no-seeums that greeted us. Dave tossed some odds and ends behind a log that had washed up tight against the edge of the forest. We each fired up our stoves, boiled water and picked our freeze-dried poison. The promise of a dry tent and a warm sleeping bag called us. While a campfire would have felt nice none of us wanted the deal with the responsibility of a fire and it didn’t take long for us to drift away to our tents. Before we did, though, I had to inhale a lungful of blood-thirsty flying insects, go into a coughing/gagging frenzy, recover and then do it all over again.

Around 3:00 AM I awoke to the very different sound of water lapping near my tent. I listened to it for a while trying to determine if it was a bad sound and finally decided that I had to check the gear. I put on my headlamps and sandals and stepped out into the rainy night. My headlamp penetrated the darkness to reveal that the tide was up flush against the forest, Dave’s gear was awash behind the log and our stuff hanging on the stump was hanging in the water but still secure. Knowing that this was the high slack I tossed Dave’s gear higher for security and chose not to move the sprayskirts and PFD’s as I had checked them before inhaling the bugs and knew that they were secure but wet. I went back to bed with dry feet.


Klemtu to Meyers Passage Camp – 10.5 NM


Dave Entering Meyers Passage
Jon Dawkins


Meyers Passage
Jon Dawkins

Meyers Passage to Laredo Sound


July 16, Tuesday, Day 3
Cloudy in the morning with light rain, clearing by late afternoon, light and variable winds


The goal for this day was a short 7.8 NM jaunt through Meyers Passage to Milne Island. The low slack was at 9:16 AM and we were up and fed long before that time. In spite of bug bites we were in good spirits. Some of our gear was wet from the previous evening’s high tide but none of it was missing. As the tide was still falling on our shallow “beach” the packing routine went like this: carry gear from tent site to boats across mucky beach, load gear in boats, move beached boats into deeper water, repeat, repeat, repeat. Eventually we were loaded and on our way.

Expecting a free ride through the passage on the falling tide we were discouraged to find an opposing current. Nothing strong just a little annoying. I was wondering when we would catch a break with the tides. Within 1 ½ NM we passed through Meyers Narrows where the current was a touch stronger and the shoreline was insane with the color of starfish, sea urchins and anemones. The odor of life and death at the tide line was pungent and I couldn’t decide if it was wonderful or repugnant. A reddish colored Mink ran up the rocks from the water, paused to look us over and vanished into the forest.

About this time we came upon the first of the Kitasoo Xai’xais pictographs that were “painted’ on the rocky bluffs. At first glance the orange color appeared to be a lichen or oxide on the rock but this wasn’t a natural occurrence. Upon closer examination the smudge revealed a detailed figure that was very important to someone once.

Orange Smudge
Dave Resler

Upon Closer Examination
Dave Resler


Once you “see” it you start looking for it and can recognize it from a distance. We found another pictograph a little further along.

Milne Island lies along the edge of Laredo Sound just a little north of the west end of Meyers Passage. Rounding Hartnell Point we skirted the shoreline of Princess Royal Island approaching Milne from the southeast. Photos of Milne depict tents set up on a sandy beach but we found the campsite nestled in a small rocky cove. Two deer watched from shore as we carefully exited our boats. Once they determined that none of us were going for a swim and that little gel coat was being sacrificed they slipped into the forest. A clearing set in the trees just above the high tide line would hold our tents. We hung our wet gear on a log, set up the parawing and carried our boats into the woods where we tied them safely to a tree.


Milne Island Camp “Beach”
Jon Dawkins


Dave was lulled to sleep on the beach by the chatter of the Ravens while I read and Greg went exploring. Shortly Greg was back to show me a trail he had found that led to the far side of the island. It wound through the trees and bushes and emerged on a small beach that was jam-packed with driftwood and other debris. It’s amazing what washes up in an otherwise pristine environment. Where do all of these athletic shoes come from? Seems like they are always cheap but new. Not somebody’s well-worn kicks that were washed from a deck but shiny new cheap shoes.

We gathered up all of the handy sized firewood that we could carry and started back to camp. Greg, an unrepentant yet environmentally conscious pyromaniac (every trip should have one) was much happier now as our campsite was bereft of anything that we would consider burning. His day was looking up.

Before we reached camp we spotted some Abalone shells just off the trail. We assumed that a River Otter had gathered them up and carried them to the shelter of the forest to be eaten.


Abalone Shells in the Forest
Greg Polkinghorn


Next we noticed that sections of bark had been stripped with surgical precision from several trees.. These were Culturally Modified Trees (CMT) or, as many of the First Nations people call them, “shaped trees”. A horizontal cut marked the beginning of the strip which tapered up as much as forty above the ground. For thousands of years the original people have used the bark of Western Red Cedar for fiber, food, medicine and even harvested planks, leaving the trees standing and healthy. Spruce and Hemlock have traditionally been stripped for their edible inner bark. Looking around we saw some much older trees that bore the marks of their symbiotic relationship with the indigenous culture. With new eyes we would see these trees in many campsites through the remainder of our trip.

Culturally Modified Trees
Jon Dawkins


Aside from being an unrepentant yet environmentally conscious pyro Greg is a fisherman and will drop a line in the water at every opportunity. He also brought a small collapsible crab trap that stored nicely up against his front bulkhead. In the evening he paddled out to set his crab trap and do some fishing. The real catch of the day, though, were the gorgeous photos he took of the sunset.

Milne Island Sunset
Greg Polkinghorn


Meyers Passage Camp to Milne Island Camp – 7.8 NM



Greg & Dave in Meyers Passage
Jon Dawkins

Milne Sunset
Greg Polkinghorn

Disju


July 17, Tuesday, Day 4
Cloudy in the morning with light rain, clearing by early afternoon, Winds NW to 17 with 2 ½’ wind waves changing to light and variable.

Morning on Laredo Sound
Greg Polkinghorn


This was the day that we paddled to Disju (pronounced Dit-soo), the historic Kitasoo village site that holds the remains of the best preserved First Nations longhouse in the world. The longhouse was in use before the Europeans founded Jamestown. Over 400 years ago the Kitasoo had established a village where all of their food and clothing needs were satisfied. They built the longhouse to serve as the heart of their community. Today it is protected as a World Heritage Site and it’s location is not marked on any public maps. Dave and I had heard about it from a fellow paddler, Don, who we had met on our trip two years before. He knew the status of the site and that it’s location was protected by the Kitasoo but he had not been there himself. We were sworn not to divulge it’s location.

Don was right about the existence of Disju and it’s status but wrong on it’s location. Internet research offered little information on the site but one account described the amount of time it took to reach it by kayak. Dave did some math and calculations on a chart and pointed out a place that made more sense. It was about an hour away from where Don had located it. I hoped that Dave was right.

The tides looked as though they would be in our favor as we could expect their ebb to move us westerly up Laredo Channel for most of the time it would take to paddle to Disju. On our return we would have a nice flood to ride all the way back.

The morning sky was very dark and dramatic but showed signs of clearing. It just depended which way you were looking. If you were looking east back towards Milne it looked anything but inviting but it had rained only lightly and briefly at that.

Laredo Sound
Greg Polkinghorn


The west wind began to freshen during our 3 ½ NM crossing from Aiken Island to Dallain Point. The sea state became more animated and “noisy” making communications tough but provided some very invigorating paddling. I was really looking forward to surfing all the way back to camp. Before we reached Disju, though, the tide changed and the sea laid down. “That’s OK”, I thought, “We’ll still get blown all the way back to camp”. About that time the wind started to drop and stabilized at westerly around 5 kts.

From far off we spotted an eagle high up in a snag where we expected to find Disju. It watched as we skirted the shoreline beneath it and continued to watch us silently as we rounded the point and let the breeze blow us into the sandy shore. Greg asked if I felt like we were being watched and I said that I did. It was suddenly very quiet and still and we felt that we were entering a sacred place were we didn’t belong. I hoped that the eagle, or whoever he was wouldn’t object to our visit.

Approaching Disju
Dave Resler


We exited our boats and began searching the tree line for a way “in”. There were no obvious trails and the trees were thick right up to the sand. Maybe this wasn’t it after all. Then, a branch was pulled aside and the forest allowed our entry. After a couple of steps, there it was!

Two huge 40 foot long logs were suspended horizontally atop four 10 foot tall cedar posts. They defined the sides of the longhouse and had been the main supports. Between the supports the rectangular “floor” was about 15 feet lower and accessed by regular “steps” on each of the four sides. Had the steps been benches that the villagers had sat upon around a fire pit? A theatre for conducting potlatch ceremonies? A classroom where oral traditions were passed down to younger generations? We didn’t say much as we were pretty overcome by it all. We were definitely in a place that wasn’t ours and had to just wonder what had gone on here over the past 400 years. I felt that we were intruding, being watched but allowed our visit. Odd, I know, but that’s how it felt to me.

Longhouse Supports
Jon Dawkins


Once out of the forest Greg turned to me and said, “I never had much religion before but I’ve got something now”. I knew what he meant. A deer exited the tree line nearby. It walked along the rocky rise, noticed us, then trotted back into an invisible opening in the woods and disappeared. This place felt special and powerful. Maybe a little spooky.

“I never had much religion before but I’ve got something now.”
Dave Resler


We took our time leaving but we didn’t feel that it was the place to eat our lunch. That might have been pushing it. We paddled out of the bay, around the point and into open water, all the while under the watchful eye of the silent eagle (or whoever he was) atop the snag. We had passed a nice beach a mile or so east and chose that as the place to eat our lunch and discuss the experience.

I called this Lunch Counter Beach and wondered to myself what the inhabitants of Disju had called it. At this tide it was very sandy with huge rounded boulders and a jumble of logs to sit on and relax, A pair of deer tracks led from the waters edge up into the woods atop the beach. The wind was down, the water flat, the sun was breaking out and it was warming up.

Lunch Counter Beach on Laredo Channel
Greg Polkinghorn

On the paddle back to Milne we did not benefit from a tail wind. We didn’t get to surf back. In fact the flood current was so mild as to not be noticeable at all. Seemed as much work going back as it was coming out but it turned into a beautiful day and it was great to be on the water.

Greg in Laredo Channel
Dave Resler

We passed Aiken Island just before arriving back at Milne. Aiken holds a campsite that is viable with all but the highest tides but it wasn’t readily evident. All “beaches” looked very rocky and uninviting but Don had camped here before and didn’t complain. Maybe we just didn’t see it. We did see some wild life, though. Lots of birds and some Sea Otters that are re-establishing themselves along the coast. The otters were wiped out by the fur trade and considered beyond endangered. They were just plain gone and the ecosystem of the sea had changed. Now, they are making a comeback in selected areas and these would be the first but not the last that we would see on the trip.

Aiken Island Bird Life
Greg Polkinghorn


Back at camp we stripped off our drysuits and turned them inside out. Off came our sweaty clothing and everything was hung out to dry in the sun. The adjacent beach was sandy at this tide level and offered a nice place for a cold but much needed bath. The rest of the day was spent exploring the island, reading and napping. It was nice not to stink.

The evening promised another beautiful sunset and didn’t disappoint. Dave got some spectacular shots.
Sunset on Milne Island
Dave Resler

Sunset on Milne Island
Dave Resler

Milne Island to Higgins Passage


July 18, Wednesday, Day 5
Fog in the morning clearing in the afternoon. Winds calm rising to 18 kts. with higher gusts.



On this day we were paddling to a campsite at the west end of Higgins Passage. We didn’t really know what to expect as none of the descriptions we had found confirmed that it was viable with the predicted high tide level. We figured that we would find something in the area as there was a Kayak Bill camp shown on the copies of his maps that I had had gotten from Keith Webb. Also, settlements, both First Nations and European had existed in nearby Grant Anchorage so we would be fine or at least dry.

Dave and Greg had drawn our course out in three legs.
From Milne we would make a 3+ NM mile crossing of Kitasu Bay continuing south (191 degrees) past Wilby Point.
At the 4.2 NM point we would alter our course (to 152 degrees) for 2.6 NM at which point we would be 2.7 NM (on a heading of 102 degrees) from our campsite. We had figured that the headings on the chart were nice to have but that we would basically cross to Wilby point and follow the shoreline to Higgins Passage using VFR.


Greg Studying the Chart
Jon Dawkins

The fog was a rude surprise with visibility very low. We had Dave’s GPS just in case but Greg stepped up and wanted to use the IFR conditions as a learning experience. He took the chart, checked his watch and led us away from Milne into the surreal world of the white-out. We decided that since missing Wilby Point by one degree to the west would lead to a place we didn’t want to be we would cheat a bit to the east of the original heading so that we “should” encounter the shoreline of Kitasu Bay. We figured that the crossing would take one hour of blind paddling.

It was an interesting experience as I felt that I was paddling in circles while constantly chasing a compass heading. We learned that my compass varied from Greg’s by two degrees as I was repeatedly veering off to the left of our intended path. Maybe it was my survival instinct kicking in as I knew that making a mistake to the left would only lengthen the number of miles I had to paddle while missing to the right would make for a very un-fun day. Nothing much positive can be said, though, about the accuracy of a bungee mounted deck compass. Mine was obviously at fault but what I couldn’t understand was how Greg’s compass, identical to mine but mounted on top of a deck bag that was velcroed to his deck lines, could be more accurate than mine. Dave’s GPS confirmed that Greg’s was true so we followed him. I tried to learn from the blind paddling experience and stubbornly followed my compass with my head spinning until I found myself embarrassingly to the left of Greg and Dave when I would regroup with them again. It was a pretty odd experience to be on slick flat water with a couple of friends and see absolutely nothing.

After one hour of weirdness we were really wanting to see the shoreline and squinting very hard to make our eyes work better when suddenly, about 100 yards ahead something seemed to darken about where we imagined the horizon should be. As we paddled on it became more defined, individual trees beginning to show and then we saw a figure walking down the beach towards us. Sliding up onto the sandy beach we found Ned who said that they had been listening to us for some time while had we discussed the blind crossing and I cursed my compass. Funny how sound travels in those conditions. Soon, Nan came down to join us and the five of us compared our experiences. They had chosen this campsite so that we wouldn’t impose on each other’s evenings. They had stayed on a tombolo short of our camp in Meyers Passage and had chosen this site knowing that we would be on Milne. Here we had run into them again in a total whiteout in Kitasu Bay.

Taking our leave we followed Greg out around the reef that extended far beyond Wilby Point and back into the whiteout. The water surface was a slick, greasy-grey merging with the sky at about 100 feet in any direction.

Greg Navigating Blind
Jon Dawkins


The reefs, normally a problem, gave us contrast, comfort and a sense that we were still of this earth. The kelp beds that we paddled through confirmed that we were paddling against the current. Occasionally a salmon jumped and broke the trance. At some point in this grey, featureless space Greg stopped paddling and leaned over his deck to study the chart. He looked at his watch and returned to the chart. He looked in all directions, in vain, for any kind of a sign that would confirm his mental calculations that we were at a specific point on the earth where changing our heading to 102 degrees was the right thing to do. I looked at Dave with a raised eyebrow and he turned on his GPS. Once it had acquired satellites he smiled but didn’t say anything until Greg was disappearing into the fog and then whispered” I can’t believe that he is doing this. He changed course exactly where he was supposed to and he did it “blind”. Amazing! We followed him in the fog for another 40 minutes when bits and pieces of shoreline and islets started to appear. My chart was not as detailed so I wasn’t sure what I was starting to see.
After leading us by his compass and watch for 3 ½ hours Greg stopped paddling and leaned over the chart, read his watch, squinted into the fog for anything that would act as a landmark, read the chart again, looked at his watch, squinted into the fog and finally said, “I may be completely wrong but according to my calculations this is the mouth of Higgins Passage”.

Fog Lifts at Entrance to Higgins Passage
Jon Dawkins


Dave turned on his GPS and after a moment started laughing. Greg had nailed it. We were exactly where we wanted to be and as if to celebrate Greg’s success the fog suddenly lifted. Our destination was within sight and Dave led the way. We paddled up to the rocky beach, exited in knee deep water and tied the boats together. I attached the boats at the bows to a large rock while Greg tied the sterns to another rock that he threw out into the water, firmly anchoring the boats and protecting them from the sharp rocks. We pulled lunch from our day hatches and waded ashore.

Milne Island to Higgins Passage 10 NM

Kayaks Anchored at Higgins Passage
Greg Polkinghorn


The beach backed up to a steep 8 foot bank that rose into the trees. This spot hadn’t gotten raves reviews as a campsite so we didn’t go explore the forest but sat on the beach and ate lunch in the sun. It was a lovely but rocky beach surrounded by islets and blue water. Up against the bank was a small pebbled area that could hold a tent but we were unsure if it would be dry during the predicted 14 foot flood during the night. Dave and Greg scrambled up the bank and disappeared into the woods. They were soon back.

“Jon, you have got to come look at this”.

Higgins Passage Campsite
Jon Dawkins


I climbed the bank and saw the most beautiful tent site I could imagine, A large level area was covered with some sort of plant that grew about 8 inches tall. There were large stumps indicating that the area had once been logged but the loggers had left any tree that wasn’t straight so there were some misshapen giants back here as well as many healthy, slender and tall second growth trees. The sunlight filtered through and cast a green luminescence on the area. It was flat, soft and sweet smelling. A sleeping pad wasn’t needed. This was deluxe!

Dave in Higgins Forest
Jon Dawkins


Once camp was set up Greg was hot to fish and I needed to go find a source of water. A creek was shown on the chart about ¾ NM east at the site of an Indian Reserve at Goo-ewe. I announced my intention of paddling to get water and to look for an old village site. The tide was rising and we waded out to our boats that were now in chest deep water. Before we could leave, though, a lone paddler approached from the east. He said that his name was Chuck Cummings and that he was paddling solo from Port Hardy to Prince Rupert. We invited him to stay with us but he wanted to get further up the coast. After ½ hour or so of chatting we bid him farewell and he disappeared to the west.

Dave and Greg readied their fishing rods and lures and headed outside to Kipp Islet which guarded the entry to Higgins Passage. Greg said that the area looked “fishy” to him as had pointed out the rocky prominences and steep drop offs on the chart. The wind had picked up now and made my short jaunt to Goo-ewe effortless. I couldn’t find any sign that a village had ever been along that shoreline and the creek where I had hoped to filter some water was foamy brown from tannin. I paddled up the creek until it was too shallow to go further then drifted slowly back into the passage. It was very warm and sunny and it felt great to just drift, feel the wind, smell the air and relax.

Searching for Kayak Bill in Higgins Passage
Greg Polkinghorn


My trip back towards camp was against the tide and wind and was a bit of work but it felt so good. I radioed Dave and Greg to check their location and Dave said that they were out near Kipp Islet. Between myself and Kipp were a number of other islets, one which held a Kayak Bill camp. I told Dave that I was going to try to find it and that I would stay in touch. The convoluted cluster of islets was a pleasure to explore but I never did find the camp. Eventually I left my protection and headed out towards Kipp. It seemed a bit rough after zigging and zagging around rocks and reefs and eventually I saw Dave and Greg bobbing in the waves.

Greg Catches Dinner
Dave Resler


Dave wasn’t fishing but Greg was. Dave was “standing watch” while Greg fished calmly fished in 2 ½ to 3 foot waves that were occasionally breaking. The wind was up to 18 kts out here and without cover it was rough. When Dave saw something coming that looked like trouble he would alert Greg who had already put a Rockfish and a Ling Cod in his boat. He had released a 15 pound Ling shortly before I arrived and almost capsized in the process. He had brought the fish to the surface and was working to release it, all the while balancing in wind waves. Holding a 15 pound weight over the side of your boat while trying to shake it free isn’t easy in the best circumstances. Now add conditions and you really have to pay attention. When the fish unexpectedly came loose Greg almost rolled right into the water. I wonder if he could have rolled up using his fishing rod instead of his paddle?

Greg Cleaning Dinner
Jon Dawkins


Back at camp Greg prepared dinner of perfectly seasoned Ling Cod and Rockfish with rice pilaf. Dave and I fixed a freeze-dried Raspberry Crumble for dessert. After dinner we cleaned up and basked in the warm evening sun. Greg paddled out to set his crab trap and enjoy more time on the water.

Milne Island to Higgins Passage plus exploration miles – 15 NM

Dave at Milne Island
Jon Dawkins

Fog Lifting
Greg Polkinghorn


The evening just kept getting better.

Boats on the Beach
Jon Dawkins

And better…….

Higgins Evening
Jon Dawkins

And better……

Sunset Higgins Passage
Jon Dawkins

Higgins Passage to Dallas Island


July 19, Thursday, Day 6
Overcast with rain, heavy at times. Winds SE 15 kts. with higher gusts. Seas 3 foot swell, wind waves to 2 feet.

Wet weather for a slog to a Kayak Bill Camp on Dallas Island. Today’s route would take us east through Higgins Passage to Pidwell Reef where I would load up on some much needed fresh water. My freeze-dried breakfasts were taking about a cup more water per day than Dave and Greg’s oatmeal. I was really going through it and needed to top up. Leaving Pidwell Reef we would make our first serious crossing on Milbanke Sound to Dallas Island. The weather wasn’t looking like fun.

We left camp on a falling tide with a need to clear the south end of Lohbrunner Island. Lohbrunner is about 1 NM mile long and is oriented north/south in a passage that runs east/west. It’s south end forces Higgins Passage up against Price Island into a pretty narrow and shallow channel but presents the most direct route. It closes at very low tides and dictates a route up around the north end of the island where the passage is wider and deeper. That adds a couple more miles to a day that we hoped to keep to about 14 ½ NM. We paddled carefully through the shallow passage against a bit of current while dodging barnacle covered boulders above and below the surface. We zip-zagged in single file as the leader pointed out and avoided submerged obstacles.

The rain started shortly after leaving camp and was constant through Higgins. As the passage became straight and broad the funneled winds off of Milbanke Sound became a dominant factor. We were paddling against the wind and, according to the kelp, against the tide as well. We each just closed ourselves off and paddled without commentary or conversation. Grey was the overwhelming color of the water and the sky as the mountains of Swindle Island disappeared in the clouds a couple of hundred feet above the water. This was just a wet, windy slog. We tried to hide by tucking close to the south side of the passage while observing the wind’s effect away from shore.

After something over 2 hours we had reached the last point of land on Price Island that offered shelter from the 15 kt. south-easterly. Anchoring ourselves to a kelp bed by pulling it up over our decks we steeled ourselves with energy bars and GU. From here it would be 2 NM of open water to reach the shelter of Pidwell Reef. Out in the open the swell was 3 feet with 2 foot wind waves. Our heading allowed us to encounter the waves at a slight angle. That made for some really enjoyable paddling as the sea was textured but consistent and our boats rode up and over the waves instead of plowing into them. As the crossing progressed the wind dropped to 10 kts. and sea began to soften. Sliding into the shelter of Pidwell Reef the rain stopped and wind dropped even more. The water behind the reef was completely flat.

We headed for the obvious beach and the reliable water source that Ned and Nan had told us about. After a windy and “noisy” crossing the quiet luxury of Pidwell Beach was almost shocking. Shorebirds followed the tiny waves in and out along the sand, chattering among themselves but completely ignoring our sudden presence. On a sunny day this would have been spectacular. Today it was a needed fuel stop on the way to Dallas Island.

Greg and Dave on Pidwell Beach
Jon Dawkins


We sat on the wet beach and made lunch. Dave ate his Buffalo Cheese and spiced salami with Pita bread. Greg ate tuna and cheese. I had cheese and beef jerky on Pita with coffee. Lunch done, Greg went out towards the east end of the reef to fish and we agreed to meet him on the water. I took my water filter to the stream and found a pocket behind a rock where I pumped 10 liters of tan but fresh water.
The sea state outside of the reef was now nearly as flat as inside. There was some low southerly swell but it was mostly flat. Grey, wet sky merging with and grey, glassy water. Our boats and gear offered the only color in sight.

Grey Sky Merging with Grey Water
Greg Polkinghorn


The crossing from Pidwell to Dallas was uneventful but tiring. At 5-plus NM it took a bit over 1 ½ hours and we saw no other traffic. Just big empty water. It was raining again. I had hoped that we had seen the last of it for the day but that wasn’t to be.

Approaching Dallas we started looking for Bill’s Camp with it’s signature windbreak. It didn’t take long to find it tucked just inside the woods above the beach but the landing in front didn’t look like it would work in all tides. Dave continued around a point of rocks and called out that he had found the access. Greg and I quickly followed and slid ashore behind him.

The camp was just as Keith Webb had described it. A wind-block of driftwood tied up with rope that had been collected from the beach. The rest of the shelter was sort of an A-frame, constructed of driftwood. Long branches had been gathered from the beach and the smaller limbs cut leaving supports for other structural members to be tied into. The roof was made of blue plastic tarps that allowed one to stand erect only under the center pole. The bed was a wooden platform and the signature stove stood to one side. Firewood cut and split precisely was stacked where Bill had left it four years before. An odd collection of “things” was piled around that Bill had found and saved because he might someday have a use for them. Much of it consisted of broken plastic crates. What could these have been for? Other plastic pieces shaped like small rollers of some sort were piled in a corner. I couldn’t figure out what they were. Maybe something to do with fishing nets? Piles of plastic rope and sections of fishing nets were stacked against the wind break. Fishing floats of all description were piled together. Beside the shelter was a kayak rack and leading off behind the camp was a trail that disappeared behind a large tree.

Looking West from Camp on Dallas Island
Jon Dawkins

We chose our tents over Bill’s four 4 year old plastic tarps and tried to tuck them up under the trees for shelter from the rain. Dave settled into his chair under the Parawing with a book and was soon sound asleep. I sorted through my food looking for a freeze-dried meal that sounded appealing. Greg disappeared into the woods but was soon back.

“Jon, you’ve got to come see this trail”.

Greg on Bill’s Boardwalk
Jon Dawkins

I followed him around the big tree and into the forest. The trail wound and twisted and turned and didn’t follow a route focused on efficiency but one inspired by whimsy. It turned where no turn was necessary and would detour around an interesting tree or pass between a pair of trees just because they were there. After a short distance we came to a fork that was marked by a vertical post capped with a colored plastic “roller” from camp and two carved arrows, each pointing the way. The way to what?

Greg looked at me like “WTF?” and I just shrugged my shoulders. He chose the fork to the right and I followed. The trail wasn’t exactly overgrown but it hadn’t seen any trimming for the past four years. It passed over the moss and fern covered forest floor surrounded by culturally modified trees. I wondered if Bill had harvested cedar bark as these didn’t show the practiced skill that marked the trees of Milne. At times the trail descended into boggy areas covered with skunk cabbage and was “paved” with planks elevated above the bog by end cut sections of logs. All had been carried up from the beach. Hanging from branches at intervals intended to provide visual guides when needed were yellow and orange bits of the plastic grid or fishing floats from the piles back at camp. After many unexpected turns the trail ended on a slick wooden plank suspended over a tannin-browned pocket of fresh water. This was where Bill collected his fresh water. We followed the trail back to the fork and struck off the other direction, eager to find where this one led.

This fork was much more adventurous and a greater engineering feat. The ground was more uneven with hills and ravines. End cut sections of logs that could have only been carried one at a time were set into hillsides to provide stairways. The use of plank boardwalks became more the norm. Twelve foot planks that had washed up or been found floating had been carried or drug along this trial in order to extend it another twelve feet. Where a forest giant had succumbed to a major windstorm and blocked to way Bill had cut steps into it’s sides to enable passage. A handrail of driftwood set into the surroundings provided a source of security. At one point we descended on slippery end cut steps down a hillside to a tree that had fallen across the ravine. It was about six feet off the ground and while a fall wouldn’t have hurt you it would have inconvenienced you significantly. The log was sloped at about 15 degrees off of horizontal and Bill had sliced the top of this tree off in order to make a smooth, flat (narrow) surface to walk on. After four years in the rainforest it was very slippery from moss and disuse and it’s thirty-some foot span was kind of scary to cross. We continued carefully on watching for the floats and colored plastic grid that hung from the trees and marked the way. When the trail disappeared we just looked in all directions until we saw a flash of color. The trail clung to the side of the hill above a rocky pocket beach that was packed with flotsam. Rope, crates, floats. We continued through the wet jungle as the trail led up to the island’s crest.
Pyro-Meister Greg and Dave on Dallas Island
Jon Dawkins

We had been eagerly following the trail and had not taken measures to stay in contact with Dave. We had left camp without a radio. Dave had been sound asleep when we left and we had been gone for a while. If he was awake he might be concerned. We chose to turn around and return to camp. That thirty foot log bridge was much worse to cross on the way back.

Once back to camp we found that Dave had just awakened and had not had time to wonder where we were. Greg started a fire in the light rain and we prepared dinner. It rained hard during the night and sound of the pounding rain made me worry that I would wake up with a tent full of water.

Higgins Camp to Dallas Island 15.1 NM

Dallas Island Camp
Jon Dawkins Approaching Beach at Pidwell Reef
Jon Dawkins

Greg at Pidwell Beach
Jon Dawkins

Dallas Island to Gale Passage


July 20, Friday, Day 7
Overcast with rain, heavy at times. Winds SE 10-15 kts. Seas 2 foot swell, wind waves to 2 feet.

Kayak Bill’s Maps
Courtesy of Keith Webb

It had rained consistently through the night and was still coming down in the morning. We prepared and ate breakfast in our drysuits under the Parawing. After breakfast we broke camp. I had passed a dry night inside my tent but the rainfly was soaked and the tent body got wet taking it down. I hate packing wet gear in a dry boat. Reluctantly, I wadded up the sandy, soggy mess and stuffed it into the rear hatch. Since I had eaten a week’s worth of food there was some space in the boat and I could get away with such sloppiness. A few days ago it wouldn’t have been an option.

The day’s goal was the Heiltsuk cabin inside Gale Passage. It’s about 12 NM from Dallas and involved crossing Moss Passage, traveling outside of Salal and Lady Douglas Islands to a 2 NM crossing of Mathieson Channel followed by another 2 NM crossing of Seaforth Channel. Dave cautioned that there was no place to land once we committed to the outside route but the weather report sounded wet and settled so we pulled our rain hats down snug and headed outside.

A Rainy Start, Grounded Barge on the Rocks
Dave Resler


Tucked in close to the south end of Lady Douglas Island is tiny Roar Islet and the site of another Kayak Bill camp. While we didn’t plan to camp there we did want to visit and figured it would be a nice place to have lunch. From there we could evaluate the conditions on Seaforth Channel and choose to cross or hole up at Roar Islet and wait until morning. We weren’t in a huge hurry as our window for transiting Gale Passage would open in late afternoon and the next preferred campsite after the cabin made for a long day. We weren’t sure what to expect from the tidal rapids in Gale.

The trip to Roar Islet was wet and uneventful. The seas were without much personality and everything was grey and wet. After two hours of paddling we forced our way, against a mild current, into Blair Inlet that splits Cecilia and Ivory Islands. Another 20 minutes brought us to what we figured must be Roar Islet. It matched the point on Bill’s Map and looked right. We slid up onto a shell beach, grabbed our lunches from the day hatches and walked up to the tree line. No obvious campsite here. We poked around looking for an overgrown camp and Greg beat his way around the island but no camp was found. We sat in the open under the light rain and ate our lunch. Not really what we had in mind.

Looking Across Seaforth Channel
Dave Resler


We left whatever wet islet we had just had lunch on and made a beeline for Gale Passage which was about 3 NM to the south of our position. Crossing Seaforth Channel was uneventful with 2 foot wind waves and not much current. The tide was still ebbing so our drift was to the west and as we got closer to Gale Passage the opposing outflow current became more noticeable. It was never more than slightly annoying.

Entering Gale Passage
Jon Dawkins


Once into Gale we began searching for the cabin. We knew that it was on the east side and were hugging that shoreline when we spotted a Wolf trotting along the beach with something in it’s mouth. It disappeared around the corner that hid the cabin. The cabin is made in the same style as the one that we had stayed at on Joassa Channel two years before. No boats were on the beach. None pulled up into the trees. We had it to ourselves. We quickly hung all of our wet gear anywhere and everywhere to dry. The inside and outside of the cabin was festooned with wet gear We really took the neighborhood down a notch. Greg started a fire in the wood stove while we pondered the Wolf’s destination.

Dave Drying Gear
Jon Dawkins


After resting a bit and starting to dry out we were once again in our boats and off to scout the first rapid to the south. The northern portion of Gale Passage varies from as wide as 1/4 NM to as narrow as 30 feet and the moon’s pull on the water flushes the current back and forth through the pass. The first rapid is about 1 ½ NM from the cabin and at this tide stepped down between large rocks on both shores. We tested the current above the drop to try to determine if we could paddle back up it and get to camp. Greg got bored with our caution and just ran it, exiting into an eddy about 30 yards downstream. Dave and I soon joined him. Now we had to paddle back upstream through the gap. It took some determined paddling but we all made back and felt better prepared for the next day’s task.

Gale Passage Narrows
Jon Dawkins


Back at camp we kicked back, napped, wrote, read the cabin’s log, and relaxed. It was nice to be inside even if the flue for the woodstove was falling apart and constituted a safety hazard. The smoke mostly went up the chimney. Our gear was drying out and we were warm and comfy.

Dallas Island to Gale Passage including exploration 14.3 NM

A Rainy Start
Dave Resler

Greg Reading the Cabin Log in Mid-Afternoon
Jon Dawkins

Gale Passage to Joassa Channel


July 21, Saturday, Day 8
Overcast with rain, heavy at times. Winds SE 10-15 kts. Seas to 2 feet

Gale Passage Chart

Ned and Nan had told us to plan on transiting the passage 2 hours before high slack. High slack was at 6:49 PM. That gave us all day to do chores and relax. We needed fresh water and there was a stream near the cabin that wasn’t “too” awfully brown. It would do just fine. Dave passed the morning by patching a hole that he had found in one of the socks on his Goretex drysuit. After that he took a nap.

Dave Napping In Gale Passage Cabin
Jon Dawkins


Between downpours we gathered several bags of water from the stream for filtering. Greg and I pumped a couple of bags, waited for a break in the rain and dashed out to gather more. Dave woke up, tested the Aquaseal goop that he had used to repair his sock and deemed it dry enough for paddling. We weren’t used to sitting through the morning and were all suffering from Cabin Fever. Greg and Dave couldn’t stand it anymore. They suited up and went out into Seaforth Channel to fish. I was more interested in staying dry while I could so I stayed behind to filter water and listened to the rain beat on the roof of the cabin. It dumped rain and set the roof to roaring.
The Hunter/Gatherers returned fishless so we decided to pack up and start through the passage even though it would put us two hours ahead of Ned and Nan’s recommendation. We just couldn’t sit anymore and besides the weather radio was announcing the approach of a storm that would bring even more rain with high winds. We rationalized that the extra two hours would give us more time to exercise our options once we cleared the passage into Thompson Bay. It was sounding like we were going to lose Sunday to weather and wanted to find a sheltered spot to sit out the storm.

We paddled south with the flood and just prior to the first rapid we saw a cabin cruiser at anchor. As we got closer it started looking more familiar. The “MV Dirona” looked in life at it did on the website that Dave and I had used as a resource to plan this trip. (http://www.mvdirona.com/) The smell of fresh coffee that drifted from the galley was intoxicating and drew us like flies to a flame. James and Jennifer Hamilton stepped out on the deck to greet us. They seemed pleased to know that we had used their cruising website as a resource for our kayak trip. We chatted a bit before bidding them bon voyage and entered the first rapid.

Jon in Gale Passage
Greg Polkinghorn

There were two short drops of little consequence. There was more water that was moving faster than the day before. I couldn’t have paddled back against it though Greg might have been able to. The narrow passage dropped us into the shallow end of a large lagoon. It took us about 20 minutes of paddling in a hard rain to reach the far end where we would climb back out. We were all expecting to find a narrow slot with current that matched what we had ridden down but as we drew closer to the end we noticed some floating trees and decent sized logs. The rocky shore was home to some seriously large stumps and wood debris that had washed up on the bank. They wouldn’t have made it down through the north end so it was a bit disconcerting to ponder how it was that they ended up here. The current increased significantly as we rounded one last corner and saw the ingress route of the large debris.

A noisy drop was bordered by ragged rock and topped with trees. It was a bit broader than what we had descended and looking up, it seemed higher and steeper but that couldn’t be. It had to be an optical illusion. The current was faster, for sure, and we nosed up against it to test the strength. Dave attempted to climb it and made little headway before losing his momentum and washing back down. Greg (the Beast) charged into it and flailed away, madly paddling at a comical cadence while inching slowly uphill. Sometimes he would gain a bit of ground and then be stopped dead against the current still paddling like crazy. It seemed to take forever before he had finally climbed far enough that he could eddy in behind a boulder and rest. I knew that there was no point in me even trying since he had barely made it after such a determined effort. After a bit he peeled out from behind the boulder and continued his climb. He came to a steeper, faster section close to the top that he couldn’t conquer, though. After that Dave and I were content to poke around in the lagoon and wait until the levels equalized a little more. What was it Ned had said about timing? Two hours before slack flood?

Over the noise of the falling water we couldn’t hear Greg as he shouted to us but I did understand his gestures that we should look to the right of the drop. I paddled along the bank and discovered that the shoreline was part of an island that split the passage. More debris and obvious current was soon visible. Greg was showing us another way up, though! The stream here was much wider, deeper and unfortunately much swifter. There were few rocks near the surface to disturb it’s green flow and looking up it was like looking up a long, green slope that stretched for about 50 yards. I pulled into the current to see if it was as strong as it looked and was quickly spun around and sent packing. Discouraged at the realization that I wasn’t going anywhere for a while I pulled some kelp up over my spraydeck as an anchor against the current and settled in to wait it out in the rain.

I looked across the lagoon and saw that Dave was out of his boat and on the shore. I quickly paddled over to see what his plan was. I pulled up on the rocky beach and asked what he was thinking.

What are you thinking, Dave?
Jon Dawkins


“I think we should have waited, like Ned said” was his reply. “Let’s relax, have a bite and see what it looks like in an hour. Besides, my ass is killing me”.

Now Dave’s Explorer is a great boat but the seat isn’t user friendly and he was realizing that once out of the lagoon we were facing some potentially long time in the saddle. He couldn’t see any point in getting a head start on his hurting.

Sitting in a downpour isn’t real relaxing but our drysuits made it bearable. We just sat and watched the water rise. The sound of the rapid was becoming less obvious and suddenly, there was Greg. He had come down the far passage after another unsuccessful bid against the final rise. He said that he just hadn’t been able to overcome the last little bit but he thought that the current might be lessening some. After a while we got back in our boats for another try.

Greg went first and climbed up the initial section without too much drama. Dave went next and I followed. It was hard work but do-able. The current was definitely reduced now and the climb not as steep as an hour before. We all rested in the eddy behind a large boulder where the stream split around the island. The slope of the stream was very evident from here as we were sitting in the only “level” spot in sight. Anyplace else that you looked was either uphill or downhill. A sharp eddyline peeled past the prow of our boulder and threatened to grab our hulls and sweep us down the wider, faster stream if we challenged it.

Iron man Polkinghorn went first with a full-frontal assault. As Dave and I sat in the calm of the eddy Greg charged across the eddyline and began flailing away just a few feet from us. The current tugged at his chines and attempted to pull him off of the course that he was trying to hold but not progressing on. He pounded away with that paddle for a long time and moved very, very slowly forward. Finally the current released him and he pulled up over the mild transition.

I was discouraged that it had been so hard for Greg because I knew that I was a slower paddler/boat combination and not nearly as strong. I told Dave that I didn’t think that I could repeat Greg’s feat. Dave said that he was going to do something else. He explained that from the back of the eddy he would paddle right at the edge of the rock with as much speed as he could muster in a few short strokes, sweep the bow just to the right of the rock and cross the eddyline with a very sharp angle. As the current attempted to turn the boat downstream he would plant a strong left stern rudder and ferry across the stream to climb the slope 30 yards away. And, that’s just what he did. Once across that eddyline he was just screaming sideways across the current until tight against the far shoreline. He made it up with some difficulty and then ferried back across the top to join Greg.

I yelled up to him that his approach had too many moving parts and asked if he had another idea. He paddled back down with one. This time everything would start the same but the stern rudder would quickly progress into an aggressive back stroke to face the current and then a straight ahead climb, which he did. It looked do-able but I wanted to watch it one more time so he came back down and showed me again. After that I followed his example and soon joined them at the top.

It was another 1 ½ NM against the lagoon-filling current to reach Thompson Bay. Thompson Bay greets the ocean to the south with open arms. With a serious storm coming we needed a good place to shelter for a day or so. We were interested in camping on Islet 48 at the south end of Potts Island but once into Thompson Bay we would have 3 ½ NM of exposed paddling to a campsite that we had never seen and didn’t know what kind of a shelter it would provide. Nearby Cree Point had been recommended by others. It sits on a rocky bluff and is accessed by a sheltered cove. We stopped and looked at it but the trees there showed the ravages of life on a windy point and would have provided little shelter from the coming wind and continuous rain. We weighed the exposed run to Islet 48 and it’s uncertain shelter with Cree Point’s guarantee of misery against the luxury of another night in a Heiltsuk cabin that lay less than 2 NM to the north on an islet north of Quinoot Point. The Heiltsuk cabin won hands down. Dave and I had stayed there two years before and remembered it in to be in much better condition than the one on Gale Passage. We paddled for 40 minutes to reach that cabin on the last smooth water that we would see for 24 hours.


Joassa Cabin
Jon Dawkins


We were happy to be done after a hard and wet day. We drug our boats up into the woods above the beach and hung our wet gear from the cabin’s rafters to dry. Greg chopped wood for the stove, I fixed freeze dried spaghetti with meat sauce for all and we read the cabin log while we ate. There were a couple of entries by Ned and Nan and another that I had written two years before. Many of the entries referred to the resident mouse, “Joey”, who had left signs of his ownership in various places throughout the cabin.

The rain began in earnest and beat on the metal roof. The spaghetti with meat sauce contributed to the evening ambience in a most vile fashion. I had read a cautionary review on this stuff but had not taken it seriously.

Hear me now! Never eat Backpackers Panty Spaghetti with Meat Sauce!

Gale Cabin to Joassa Cabin 8.5 NM

Greg in Gale Passage
Dave Resler

Fun in the Rain and Current
Greg Polkinghorn

A Forced Day Off


July 22, Sunday, Day 9
High winds with heavy rain in the morning. Clearing in the afternoon with diminishing winds

Windy Joassa Channel
Greg Polkinghorn

I awoke during the night and listened to high winds and heavy rain beat on the cabin and surrounding trees. Snug in the dry shelter I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of night we would have spent at Cree Point or Islet 48. When morning came the worst of the rain was past but the wind remained strong. We knew that we weren’t going anywhere for a while.

As Greg was preparing his breakfast he noticed that Joey had left a calling card in his oatmeal bowl. Kind of disgusting but pretty funny for Dave and me. We chuckled as Greg scrubbed out the bowl and laughed out loud when he discovered that his plastic coffee cup held another prize. Somehow, Joey had climbed into his cup and left a solitary turd nestled there in the bottom. Dave and I roared with laughter while nervously checking the integrity of our own eating utensils. Greg was ticked and amused at the same time. How did a mouse crawl into a lightweight plastic cup, crap and then back out without knocking it over? Why did he defecate only in Greg’s cup and bowl when there were others to choose from?

With breakfast dishes cleaned and made “Joey safe” we ventured out into the wind. It was blowing hard and felt really good. Too windy to paddle, but perfect for filling our lungs with fresh air. Dave and I reminisced about our years of sitting on hang gliding launches, waiting for the wind to moderate and here we were, 30 years later, waiting for the same thing. It was clearing up nicely.

Jon & Dave at Quinoot Point
Greg Polkinghorn

Returning to the cabin Greg began digging through a drybag for a goodie to eat. He pulled out the plastic bag containing his snacks to find that it had been compromised. Putting two and two together he quickly flipped the drybag over to find that Joey had struck again. The Rogue Rodent had chewed through the drybag to get to the Power Bars. Dave and I laughed while quickly surveying our own gear for damage and finding none. So far Dave and I were golden. Greg was dirt.

Joey just seemed to have a thing for Greg. Maybe it was all coincidence but it had to feel personal and Greg was ready to waste him at his first opportunity. Joey had made a couple of brief appearances as the morning progressed but we didn’t get a good look at him. Just a little brown streak dashing here and there. Greg headed out the door threatening to “take care of Joey” when he got back from the outhouse.

Outhouse North of Quinoot Point
Jon Dawkins

Wilderness travel offers new and enriching experiences, startling revelations and drastic change to our mundane day-to-day routine. Mostly these changes are good but sometimes they are not-so-good. Take indoor plumbing, for instance. You won’t find that in the wilderness so you make do. When you do find some sort of a commode in the wilderness it can range from a wonderful luxury to a deeply disappointing experience. The outhouse at the Heiltsuk cabin is somewhere in between. It is extremely civilized given it’s location yet it has a certain “funhouse” aspect to it that is disquieting. It sits about 20 yards away from the cabin beneath a large sheltering cedar. For those who seek privacy during their outdoor experience, it has a blue tarp that hangs in front and serves as a door. For those who prefer a view it flips up out of the way. The structure lists oddly to the left as you approach it or to the right if you are, uh, seated. It’s 10 degree tilt imparts a mild bit of vertigo as you anxiously draw near (toilet paper in hand) and escalates once you are ensconced within.

Questions that come to mind as you try to clear to your head include:
Why is this thing leaning to one side?
Is this about to tip over?
Is this about to tip over with me in it?
Wait a minute, is this tipping over right now?
What will happen if it does?

These are the very questions that Greg, no doubt, was struggling with when Joey or one of his relatives decided that this visit was negatively impacting a favorite family hang-out and burst out from beneath the box, passing like a brown RPG, between Greg’s feet. Reacting to being startled with one’s pants around one’s ankles can’t have a good outcome and didn’t. This was really beginning to feel personal and was the last straw for Greg who came back from the outhouse with a “Joey Must Die” point of view.

He took up a broom that was leaning against the wall near the corner that Joey had been frequenting and waited. Soon, like a gunslinger called out into the street Joey emerged to face his challenger. Greg took a couple of half-hearted swings at him which Joey easily dodged but he acted a bit odd. I’m no expert on rodent behavior but this mouse seemed “wrong” to me. He could have hidden, but didn’t. He could have run but didn’t. He could have been out of there but wasn’t. Was he counting coup? What’s with this mouse, anyway. Was he possessed? Was he the spirit of a Heiltsuk departed?

Great White Hunter
Jon Dawkins


Greg put the broom down as we figured that this mouse had something going on. With one more night to spend in this cabin we decided that we had better just make sure that our gear was safe and do our best not to piss him off any more than we already had. Joey casually climbed the wall and sat up in the corner watching us.

Joey (Walks-with-White-Feet)
Jon Dawkins


Satisfied that our gear was safe we went outside to enjoy the windy day. The sun was breaking out and the wind was very slowly diminishing. We considered paddling out into the wind in front of our point so that a mishap would just blow us back to shore but the shore was lined with razor-sharp rocks. Instead we hung our wet clothing to dry and chased the garments that blew off of the limbs and clothesline that we had strung. Dave and I read (napped) while Greg pondered his strange connection with the brown mouse.

By afternoon the wind had dropped off and we considered packing up and running towards Islet 48 but we were too far from Thompson Bay to know what was really going on out there and didn’t want to have to retreat and unpack. So, Greg went fishing while Dave and I continued to read (nap). By late afternoon it had turned into a beautiful day.
Dave Reading (not napping)
Jon Dawkins

The Calm After the Storm
Jon Dawkins

Calm at Joassa Cabin
Dave Resler


Joassa Channel to McMullin Group


July 23, Monday, Day 10
Calm winds and seas in the morning, increasing in the afternoon 10 – 15 kts, a few showers.


The Bardswell Group


The Bardswell Group, like the rest of the coast, exhibits a general north to south orientation in land features and waterways. These coastal “scars” were roughed out by the advancing sheet ice during the last ice age and exploited by fluctuating sea levels and isostatic rebound which have destroyed and created a maze of pathways for tidal streams. While Seaforth Channel marks a clear boundary from the island groups to the north, the extremities of individual islands tend to either trickle out into the open Pacific as a series of diminishing islets, or blend with other islands of the group at high tide. At ¼ and ¾ moon tides this island, owned by a Heiltsuk Chief, remains it’s own entity by virtue or the water surrounding it. At full or ½ moon low tides (approximately 5 feet lower) Potts rejoins Dufferin Island while adjacent Stryker Island forces a longer paddle for those bound for Queens Sound through the eastern Joassa Channel / Boddy Narrows route or a schedule accommodation through the “back door”. Departing the cabin we chose to slip through the back door where a narrow crack between Potts and Dufferin allowed passage near high tide.

Leaving Joassa Cabin Through the Back Door
Jon Dawkins


The trees closed in overhead while mild opposing current was evident. Just more water going in the wrong direction and that seemed to be the theme of our trip. The “back door” quickly widened and we were no longer forced to dodge rocks that set just below the surface and defined our pinball course. Within 40 minutes we were passing the cluster of islands that protected the passage from Thompson Bay.

Thompson Bay in Sight
Jon Dawkins


We enjoyed calm winds and seas as we traveled the length of Potts Island on our way towards the McMullin Group where we planned to spend the night. Dave and I wanted to visit Islet 48 for a look-see. Such a cool place-name with good reviews. Greg was more interested in doing some fishing as ¾ NM south of Islet 48 the area was closed to fishing and would stay that way until we reached Cultus Sound, two days hence. Greg has got to have his fishing. It’s in his blood and his pole is always within reach. It had been a couple of days since his line was last in the water and the thought of going two more days was too much for him. Dave wanted to get out of his boat and give his butt a rest while I was content to sit and drift a while. We agreed to stay in radio contact. Greg would meet up with us on the crossing to McMullin while Dave and I would meet at Islet 48.

Greg and Dave shrunk as they opened the distance between us. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the coaming. When I opened them again only Greg was visible ½ mile away. I closed my eyes again and when I opened them Greg, too, was gone. I sat on the glassy water and bobbed on the low swell. Alone, I leaned back, dipped my hands in the water and closed my eyes. The ever present scent of off-shore salt water life flavored each breath. My lips had a mild salty taste. Perspiration or salt water? The sound of the swell meeting the rocky shore a few hundred yards to my left was distinct while the sound returning from 1 NM to my right reverberated as though as though produced by a sub-woofer. My hands, freshened by the cold water, began to tingle and then ache. I pulled them out of the water and concentrated on the feel of them warming in the cloud-filtered sunlight. The crackling of my radio and Dave’s voice brought me back. Dave was on the beach and would meet me there. Reluctantly, I gathered my wits and made my way to Islet 48.

Islet 48
Jon Dawkins

Islet 48 is one of many islets at the mouth of Louisa Channel which splits Potts and Stryker Islands. They were all one once and figuring out exactly which is which can be challenging. I poked around looking for Dave in a wonderful little group and was surprised when I saw his boat at the water’s edge between two forested bumps. Landing here could be interesting, depending on the tide, as the tombolo that blocked the Pacific breakers would yield at higher tides. Waves would wash though creating two separate islets. Sand interspersed with boulders. It could spell bad news for fiberglass but on this morning it was a lovely little beach.. The back side of the tombolo looked 2 NM across open water to the McMullin Group where we planned to spend the night.

McMullin Group from Islet 48
Jon Dawkins


Dave had been exploring and showed me around. The “bump” on the left held a few nice tent sites with tables and benches made of drift wood. The taller and larger “bump” to the right held more isolated tent sites that were inter-connected with a winding trail that wound up the hill. They all offered shelter from wind and varying degrees of protection from rain. A nice place to camp, for sure, but we had made the right choice to hole up with Joey.
We hailed Greg on the radio to tell him we were leaving Islet 48 for the McMullin Group and would meet him on the crossing. He had made good use of his time fishing on the edge of the Restricted Zone. He threw this one back

Ugly Fish
Greg Polkinghorn


We spotted him about ½ NM away and as we crossed our paths converged. The water was a bit choppy and as we drew closer to McMullin an opposing current became obvious.


Dave & Jon on McMullin Crossing
Greg Polkinghorn


The last ½ NM was hard work as the current increased to about 2 kts making headway very slow. Even as we drew near the islands the current butted against us and it felt as though we were barely crawling towards the large sandy beaches that beckoned. Once fully inside the group the current relaxed and Dave led us to a large white sand beach where we would camp.

If it had been warmer you might have thought that you were on a tropical island. When the sun broke out from behind the clouds the sand was very light in color and the water a brilliant blue As the tide dropped the nearby islets and rocks became one, connected by the white sand beach.


McMullin Beach
Greg Polkinghorn


We walked the beach to choose tent sites. There were some spots cleared out up in the trees but on such a nice beach a sandy site was preferred. Since rain was still threatening some coverage by overhanging trees was desirable. The wind was picking up and not expected to go away so driftwood that would allow the solid anchoring of a tent while providing some windbreak was a consideration. Dave claimed his spot first by “throwing his stick” on a level, tent-sized area.

It works like this; you walk along with any stick that you have picked up and if you want to claim a spot you have to be the first to throw your stick on it. It’s sort of like licking a cookie that you don’t want anyone else to eat. If you later come across a place that you prefer and nobody else has thrown their stick on it you can retrieve your stick to claim the new spot but it frees up your old one. You can’t un-lick a cookie but you can un-stick a tent site.

After setting up camp we ate lunch and relaxed. Dave crawled into his tent to nap while Greg and I read and napped on the beach. When I woke up Greg and Dave were suiting up. Looks like we were going to go paddling.

The sky was mostly overcast, though clearing to the west, with fast moving clouds and sun breaks. It would go from very dark and cool to a warm, brilliant blue and back again in minutes. It was beautiful to watch as the water reflected the changes and shifted from dull grey to tropical, transparent blue in the blink of an eye.. The SW wind at the surface was about 10 kts and as we rounded the end of our island we encountered swells that broke unexpectedly on submerged shoals. We picked our way through the small boomers, zig-zagging around some and timing our passage through others. There seemed to always be a wave breaking over a shoal ahead of us and it felt like we were looking uphill at the horizon. We paddled towards the blinding reflection of the sun on the open Pacific.

Outside McMullin
Greg Polkinghorn


At some point it seemed to me that we were charging west without a plan and no visible end to the breaking waves. I suggested that we turn north and circumnavigate our island. Heading north we encountered an odd sea state that must have been influenced by the southwesterly swell, west wind, a tidal current, shallow water and reflected waves from the rocky shore. It was active paddling for about ½ NM until we turned the corner and were sheltered from the confusion. We continued around the backside of the group and found lots of sea otters in the protected waters. I headed back to camp while Dave and Greg continued their exploration.

Once we were all back at camp it was time for dinner. After 9 days, freeze-dried meals were beyond getting old. There were a couple of my selected meals that I could barely consider eating.

Joassa Cabin to McMullin Group including exploration 12.2 NM

Greg Growing Tired of Eating Out of a Bag
Jon Dawkins

Into the Blinding Sunlight
Greg Polkinghorn

Northbound Outside McMullin
Greg Polkinghorn


Outside Goose


July 24, Tuesday, Day 11
Clouds in the morning clearing by afternoon. Winds SW at 10 kts

Goose Island

As the McMullin Group is an ancestral remnant of the Bardswell Group so, too, is Goose the ancestral body of a peninsula that once stretched out into the shallow sea that has become Queen Charlotte Sound. The shelf that defines the Ice Age sea level is about 6 miles west of McMullin and 2 miles west of the current Goose shoreline. That means that lots of shoals and shallows affect the sea state for many miles along this stretch.

On the ferry to Klemtu Dave and Greg had charted out an exposed 13 NM route around the outside of the Goose Group. Beginning at McMullin it tracked south to the end of Duck Island, east beneath the tip of Gosling Island and north along the eastern side of the group to Goose Anchorage, a protected bay surrounded by Goose, Gosling, Snipe and Gull Islands . People who have visited Goose always remark about how the entire west coast of the island is driftwood and sand stretching for miles. Actual accounts from people who traveled the outside are hard to find but somehow, all of these folks who camped at Goose saw the western shore and it was all good. I was nervous about making the commitment to the outside but the weather sounded settled and we agreed to reassess once we were closer.

Queens Sound
Greg Polkinghorn


The 2.1 NM crossing of Golby Passage to Goose was uneventful though I suspect that it could exhibit lots of current during peak tidal exchanges. We discussed the pros and cons of a direct route of only 5.9 NM along the eastern shore or the longer, more adventurous route down and around the outside. The sky was much like the day before, changing by the moment from very dark to sun breaks and back but the weather forecast was not calling for increasing winds. As we drew closer to Goose my comfort level on the outside route rose and fell depending on how scary the sky looked at that particular instant. At ½ NM offshore a route had to be chosen and we opted for the outside.

Decision Time
Greg Polkinghorn


Goose stretched out for miles ahead of us as a low, rocky shoreline topped with weather-beaten trees and dark sky. I didn’t see the “miles of sandy beach” that everyone talked about, just lots of rocky shoals tripping the swells into offshore breakers. After about 20 minutes of southward paddling we finally saw a sandy beach set back in a bay about ¼ mile wide and protected by more reefs.

Dave’s NDK Brotherhood of Pain seat was already causing him problems and he was making noise about his butt hurting. About two miles ahead we could see a light band of color set back in a small bay that might be a protected beach that would offer a place to land and relieve the pain. I think that he had figured out that we were in for a long haul and that there was more discomfort in his future. The chart had a notation that said “SG” which we interpreted as “Sand / Gravel”. Sounded welcoming, right? Not exactly a sandy beach but fine overall. In honor of Dave’s aching butt we dubbed it Boo-tock Beach and Boo-tock Bay, set that as our goal and forged ahead. We were doing a lot of paddling but not passing a lot of shoreline. Dave’s GPS confirmed that we were only making 2 kts and once again paddling against the current.

It took us a solid hour of ducking behind reefs and bucking the flow to get close enough to realize that the light band of color wasn’t a sandy beach. In fact it looked like a bad idea to even get very close as it was a jumble of large white boulders. Maybe “SG” stood for “Scratches / Gashes”.

It turned out that Boo-tock Bay was very shallow for several hundred yards and the clear water allowed us to see that the bottom was comprised of rounded, medicine ball sized boulders that extended up into the treeline. We paddled very carefully towards shore just barely clearing those rocks. Finally it was too shallow to go further and we exited our boats. Because the bottom was made up of large round rocks there were no graceful exits as footing was desperate at best. A curious deer watching from the shore was the only witness of our flailing attempts to land with dignity. I ended up sitting in water up to my chest with my cockpit full of brine but with both ankles intact. I considered it a win. Amused or bored, the deer, unencumbered by difficult footing, trotted off into the trees.

So far, this was shaping up to be a tough day. The water, though not difficult, wasn’t smooth and the current and wind were both against us. Here we were resting after just a few miles with many more to go. Even on dry land the boulders made footing difficult. Boo-tock Bay definitely wasn’t a Club Med destination. None of us really relaxed even though we could have used it. I pulled out my JetBoil and made a quick cup of coffee. We each ate a snack and pounded GU as we knew that this might be our last chance to exit the boats and rest until we got to Goose Anchorage.

Suddenly, Dave was yelling something about the tide and the boats. Moving as fast as possible across the rocks we saw that the tide was retreating quickly from the shallows of Boo-tock Bay and our boats were all grounded. The shallow water that we had carefully negotiated had become a trap. “Shit!” I hadn’t considered that but kicked myself for not thinking of it. Of course this shallow bay would dry at low tide. We had arrived near high slack and now the water was receding fast. Could we move our heavily laden boats to deeper water without damaging them? How far out was deeper water? Just wading through the slippery medicine balls was treacherous and I found myself falling and rolling in the water while searching for secure footing. Avoiding a broken leg was much more important than remaining upright. Greg’s poly Tempest slid across the rocks pretty well while Dave and I struggled to find footing, lift and slide, find footing, lift and slide, repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat. Finally, we moved our boats into water that was deep enough that they could float with our added weight and not hang up on the rocks.
Once we had made our escape we reflected on the experience and felt that this seemingly benign shallow water rest stop had presented the greatest real danger we had faced on the trip. A badly broken ankle here would have required a helicopter evacuation by the Canadian Coast Guard and the temporary abandonment of a kayak and gear. The abandoned kayak and gear would have to be recovered and the cost would have been high.

Leaving Boo-tock Bay
Greg Polkinghorn


The way south was beautiful yet boring. The relentless opposing current and headwind required constant effort to keep progress at 2 kts and it dulled the mind. We were somewhat fortunate in that the wind and swell was off starboard bow so we were air conditioned and could see waves approaching. The highlight of the next 1½ hour workout was watching an eagle diving at a fish. We watched for several minutes as we slowly drew near. It would dive and disappear behind the swells only to pull up and dive again and again. I must say that it was entertaining and took my mind off of the painful progress. Finally, when we were about 40 yards away the eagle went behind the waves and didn’t emerge.

I had read accounts that said that once an eagle was in the water it couldn’t take off but could “swim” using it’s wings. We were pretty far out and I didn’t imagine that it could swim that far. I figured that we would have to go try to rescue the bird. How was that going to work? Would it let us paddle up, scoop it up onto someone’s deck (not mine!) where it would dry it’s wings and take off? Would we have to paddle it to shore? That would be interesting. This is a shoreline bereft of beaches and easy landings and one of us (not me) was going to be the designated driver for a wet eagle and take it in and set it loose on dry land? Now, the designated driver would be endangered and if the other two of us had to perform a rescue against the rocks we would also be endangered. And why? Because an eagle had been a dumb-ass and taken a swim.

I quickly figured it this way:
Greg is Mr. Nature and would want to be the designated driver. I was using the largest bladed paddle so I would scoop it up onto Greg’s deck and quickly back out harm’s way.
Next, Greg would paddle the wet and totally pissed-eagle who would be content to stand quietly on the very furthest reaches of his deck while he was being delivered to a hostile, rocky, breaker-beaten shoreline with no possible place to safely land. (Did I happen to mention that there are no sandy beaches on the outside?)

This is where Dave’s practiced rescue skills would come into play. He would zip in, attach his static tow line to the Tempest and pull Greg (assuming he is still in his boat and breathing) off of the rocks while the grateful (and pissed) eagle steped lightly to shore.

I’m not proud of it but I think that I did a realistic skills/conditions assessment and the value of this eagle’s life was in question. I wasn’t sure what was going through Dave and Greg’s mind at this point in time but I figured that we were going to paddle up to a flailing eagle and have to make a decision as to whether to try to rescue it and place ourselves at risk or paddle away and leave it to it’s fate.

We glanced at one another as we worked against the wind and current, trying to read each others thoughts. The bird had been out of sight for a significant period of time when suddenly it struggled above the waves with a good sized fish in it’s talons. Bald Eagles run 7 to 15 pounds and are capable of lifting approximately ½ of their body weight. Somehow this wet bird figured out how to take off from the water with a load. I figure that it used the lift on the face of the combined swell and wind waves to get aloft. It was barely clearing the tops of the swells as it struggled to stay aloft and I feared that a large wind wave might clip the prize and pull it down again. Somehow that bird managed to stay just high enough to make it back to shore. What a drama. Much better than the movies.

The narrow gap between Goose and Swan Islands was not visible from the water and the “shortcut” between Swan and Duck Island wasn’t a reasonable option. It was protected by breaking waves that swept through the gaps. On a flat day it could have shortened our paddle by several miles. We were tired and fed up with the headwind and opposing current and continued south, looking forward to reaching the end of Duck Island where we would head east towards the south tip of Gosling Island. From there it would be less than 2 NM to Goose Anchorage where we would camp. It had been a strenuous day and in case you are interested it is a fact that there are not miles of sandy beaches on the outside of Goose and that the western shore of Goose is, in fact, rocky and uninviting.

Reaching the southern extremity of Duck Island we were all dismayed to see that shoals and boomer fields ran south for another 3 NM into open ocean. I was crushed because I didn’t feel like I had another 3 miles of opposing wind and current in me. In my head I was prepared to work hard for another 4 miles, not another 10. Two NM to the east were the bluffs that marked the south end of Gosling Island and the protected home stretch into Goose Anchorage. We sat outside the line of boomers that barred our progress and studied the pattern looking for a safe slot. Finding none we moved a bit further south and were tempted. It looked like this area was never completely closed out but if you watched long enough there was no place that didn’t break at some point. I was seriously tempted as I figured that safe water was just 50 yards away. I could pick a line and paddle fast. I was surprised when Dave wouldn’t hear of it. I had to respect his opinion as he had made many more of these choices before.

He and Greg rafted up and studied the charts and GPS while I sat dejected and watched the breaking waves that blocked our progress. They determined that there might be a spot a bit further south and they were right. A little encouragement was all I needed and turning east it felt great to have the swells and wind waves giving us a push instead of slowing us down. Another hour and 20 minutes found us throwing our sticks on the beach at Snipe Island.

Entering Goose Anchorage
Dave Resler

The Goose Group, while remote, shows the signs of traffic. The area is pristine yet somehow scarred. The whole trip down the outside was remarkable in it’s “wildness”. No signs of humans anywhere. Once into Goose Anchorage that all changed. I felt like we had entered the suburbs as we passed the remains of an enormous driftwood structure on the beach where we would eventually set up camp. When we came upon the powerboat pulled up on another beach with the sunbathing couple and their two barking dogs I knew that we had crossed the “Goose City Limits”. What a shock. Greg and Dave pulled in to talk with them while I kept paddling to a large deserted beach across the way. Several steps brought me to a much larger beach at the head of the bay between Duck and Gosling Islands with Goose defining it’s northern boundary. As far as the eye could see was an east facing, sandy beach with tons of driftwood. This was clearly the legendary beach on the “outside of Goose” that people referred to. It was beautiful and would have been well worth paddling a long way to reach if we hadn’t spent the last week in areas that folks didn’t frequent nearly as often.

Crowded Goose Beach
Jon Dawkins


The visit with the power boaters concluded, we all paddled back to Snipe Island to set up camp. It was a very nice and sheltered west facing beach It had the remains of a giant structure that had been constructed of driftwood and ropes and was far too involved to have been made by one group on a weekend trip. Either the weather or vandals or both had conspired to bring about it’s destruction and it was now nothing more than an eyesore. In it’s best day it couldn’t have looked better than a Hunter S. Thompson-esq binge. The backing forest was crisscrossed with trails and lots of tent sites. A box toilet was the crowning jewel overlooking the back bay. On any other kayak trip this would have been heaven. Coming from where we had been this seemed to me to be an Animal House party site.

Kayak Bill’s charts showed a camp to be ¼ NM to the south on Gosling Island. We could see the driftwood windbreak and a hint of a blue tarp. Dave stayed in camp while Greg and I paddled over to pay our respects. It was on this beach where, after 28 years of solitary camping, Bill’s life ended. He was found in March of 2004 sitting among the logs that lined the beach and protected his campsite. His shelter stood on the soft, mossy ground at the edge of the Hobbit-like forest with sunlight filtering down through the trees.

Kayak Bill’s Last Camp
Greg Polkinghorn


Bill’s neat piles of organized artifacts had been scattered and were intermingled with empty potato chip bags and candy bar wrappers. This desecration wasn’t the work of kayakers. Inside the shelter we found that his signature stove, bed and bench were intact but the details that we found on Dallas were missing. Too much traffic. At the foot of a tree near the entrance to the shelter I found a single piece of footwear. A rubber pack boot had been cut down to oxford height with a V-shaped notch cut over the instep. A single hole on each side of the notch had been made to accept a shoe lace. Bills shoe.

It was odd to look through the estate of Kayak Bill, a man I had never met, and try to recreate an accurate picture of the man, his life and his values.

McMullin Group to Goose Anchorage via the Outside 17 NM

Queens Sound

July 25, Wednesday, Day 12
Calm winds and fog in the morning. Clearing with winds SW at 10 kts

Queens Sound


The morning brought thick fog and the promise of a very long, blind crossing. I was ecstatic. What could be more fun than doing the “Blind Boy Boogie”, AKA “Kitasu Bay Times Two”? A real adventure in disorientation. I couldn’t wait to chase my compass in vain. Who wouldn’t sign up for two hours of weirdness? Move my name to the top of the list! Don’t consider other takers! This pleasure must be all mine! Memories of the “Sky River Rock Festival” of 1968 crowded my psyche and produced an uncontrolled “tick” that manifested itself in verbal outbursts of obscenities.

We had drawn out a couple of routes. The shortest crossing (5.2 NM) was on a heading of 060 degrees to the Purple Bluffs in the Simonds Group. The direct route to Cultus was on a heading of 078 degrees and would be 7.5 NM. Both presented plenty of exposure but the direct route would have us in open water for another 40 minutes of fun. Depending on the sea state that 40 minutes could be significant. Since we were starting without visibility we opted for the short crossing.

For the first 10 minutes we could only see each other in the grey gloom but then a thin line of light began to emerge and my heart soared. The fog was lifting and soon we could just make out the lower elevations to the east. After an hour the fog had given way to low clouds which, in turn, began to dissipate setting the stage for a remarkable event.

At a distance of ½ mile on our 2 o’clock position we spotted a humpback whale that surfaced several times. As we continued on our course we noted that it’s route was similar to ours and it looked as though it’s speed and heading would have it crossing our path ahead of us. We didn’t expect to be anywhere close. When it was something less than ¼ mile away it altered it’s course by 90 degrees and came in our direction. Greg was about 50 yards ahead and Dave and I decided to raft up and see if we could get a decent picture.

”Hey Dave. We are going to get a really good look!”
Dave Resler

The whale kept coming in our direction and it appeared that we would get a good look. Soon it was obvious that we would get a VERY good look as it was coming straight at us. When it surfaced about 100 feet away and was still on a collision course I became agitated and began to speak in tongues but Dave reassured me that it meant us no harm. Not totally discounting his show of confidence I began planning for how to climb onto the back of his deck. When it surfaced less than a boat length away and it's back passed me within a paddle's length I was shocked and could only utter a single expletive that I will leave to your imagination. It had no sooner passed us when we heard an exhalation on Dave's side and another Humpback passed within 20 feet. With that, the second whale's tail came up and it sounded.


Really Close!
Dave Resler


Dave and I looked at each other in disbelief and called out to Greg to see if he had seen it. He confirmed that we had all just had an out-of-body experience. Neither whale made enough of a ripple to rock our boats and, other than the sound of their breathing, there was only the hissing of the tiny surface bubbles generated in their passing. I followed Dave as he drew his boat over to the smooth, silent boil where the second whale had sounded. We sat in silence on the passage-slickened surface and considered our good fortune as the water roiled around us. Until the second animal surfaced next to Dave we hadn't even been aware that we were watching a pair. We didn’t see them again. They came over to check us out and, having done so, left.

That really livened up the conversation for a while and when we saw the splashing and plume of more marine mammals about a mile or more on a straight line towards Cultus we altered course and Greg took off like a shot determined to have a close and personal encounter. Our 5.2 NM crossing turned into an 8.5 NM crossing just like that. We didn’t have a chance of catching them and we soon settled back into a more sensible cadence. The water was flat and the sky almost clear. It had turned into a lovely day.

Turned Into a Lovely Day
Greg Polkinghorn

Greg’s sprint, coupled with the emerging sun had conspired to make him overheat and he needed to remove a layer. I rafted up with him while he removed the top of his drysuit in order to take off his sweater and suit back up. Dave, in the meantime, had used his GPS to locate a favorable eastward flowing current and was making very good time towards the entrance of Cultus Sound. By the time Greg and I were ready to start again Dave was a distant spec on the water. We started paddling and we paddled and paddled and paddled. We expected to close on Cultus quickly, as Dave had, but it didn’t go that way. It seemed to take forever to draw close and, then, even longer to actually get inside the mouth of the sound. Whatever flow Dave had found we didn’t find and bucked a current all the way into the mouth. Satellite photos on Google Earth show large eddies in Queens Sound. Dave had found a favorable flow and we hadn’t. That last mile was tiring.

Sport fishing boats were working the cliffs and rocky points as we approached. When we rounded the last point and came in sight of the beach we saw Dave chatting with another camper. It turned out that a nice couple from Vancouver had been camped at the beach for a day or so. We quickly threw our sticks and set up camp.

Cultus Campsite
Jon Dawkins


Greg was hot to fish and Dave was game. I wanted to explore further south past Superstition Point. I had read a report once about a couple who came upon a “Kayak Bill” camp in the area. Bill’s chart shows an “L” inside a circle with an arrow pointing to a bay. I didn’t have the page with the legend that referenced point “L” but I figured that I should be able to find it. The seas were reasonable for a solo foray and after a radio check and promises to stay in contact I left them trolling for salmon in front of the big cliff on the south edge of the entrance to Cultus Sound.

Looking NW Towards the Simonds Group
Jon Dawkins


The sea had a bit of bounce to it as I rounded Superstition Point. A fairly abrupt underwater ledge can make even boring waters interesting along this section so I was paying attention and watching for changes. The vertical shoreline reflects whatever the ledge excites and the resulting clapotis should surprise no one. I was wishing that I hadn’t taken my waterbags out as the added weight tends to smooth the ride. Small bays and narrow slots in the rocks looked interesting but were showing confused water and closing out with breaking waves. No place for me to go into solo.

I continued south near Spider Island to the entrance of a bay and was discouraged with the waves that were breaking over submerged shoals. I checked in with Dave by radio to report my location and reception was not great. I sat and bounced in the reflected waves for about 10 minutes while studying the water at the entrance. There was one section about 50 feet wide that never broke. Reassured, I paddled through without drama and was immediately into a very calm and quiet place. There was no sign of swell and almost no wind at all. I called Dave on the radio. No response. I called again. No response. Why would there be? I was in a fairly confined space surrounded by rocky shorelines and tall trees. I felt that I should leave and regain contact but I had wanted to see this place for so long.

The quiet, clear water was unruffled by breeze and it allowed me to steer clear of the rocks just beneath the surface. My stone enclosure radiated the sun’s stored heat and without the wind I began to get really warm. I followed the shoreline into a narrow cove with steep rocky cliffs. It was very close and warm. The sun was scattered by the salt spray on my sunglasses making it difficult to see. I sat in the boat, closed my eyes and enjoyed the feeling of the rising temperature. No wind. No noise other than a soft and low frequency vibration made by the crashing swells outside the bay that reverberated in this stone enclosure and could be felt deep inside my stomach. Oh, God. The sea smells so good.

I sat there for about a minute before placing my paddle down across the cockpit coaming so that I could drape both hands in the water. When I did I was startled by a loud seal bark and sudden splashing all around me. I had drifted into a sunny seal haul-out but hadn’t noticed them. When I set my paddle down it spooked them and they all took off. It scared the heck out of me, too. Good thing that they weren’t Stellar Sea Lions. They could have had their way with me

Feeling a bit shaken and guilty for being out of contact with camp I was headed back outside when I noticed a brilliant white beach off to my left. Paddling in I found a wonderful sheltered shell beach between the main body of land and a small island that joined it at low tide. It was beautiful. I scanned the tree line for a buoy that would mark Bill’s camp as I felt that this was surely it. Exiting my boat I walked up the slope of the tombolo and was greeted by the squawking and honking of some large birds that I had disturbed. Protesting my presence they took to wing and flew away, their voices fading with distance. At the top of the beach I looked south towards the entrance to Spider Channel and saw that the southern approach was hampered by large barnacle covered rocks.

I searched the tree line for an entrance into a camp. Finding none I crossed the crest of the tombolo to the small island. The southern edge of the island soon discouraged my exploration with tall jagged boulders and vegetation so thick that entrance seemed impossible. Landing on this margin wouldn’t be more than a desperate and misguided option. Simply walking here was ill-advised. Backtracking towards the northern end of the island I found a single rectangular clearing cut out of the forest. It was just above the high tide mark and no larger than a three person tent. The short vegetation stood straight, testifying that no one had been there for a while. The shell beach showed no footprints since the Spring floods two weeks prior. Continuing around the edge of the island I came upon a small grassy area where I found a white plastic bucket set into the ground. It’s placement wasn’t random as it had been fitted into a hole. This must be a “well” where Kayak Bill collected dew and rainwater. But where was the camp? I never found it or maybe I did and didn’t know it. Maybe “L” was a bivi-camp. Whatever, I will return to this spot and camp in 2009.

The paddle back took a bit of attention and bouncing around Superstition Point I spotted Dave and Greg trolling in front of the cliffs. Dave had a Salmon in his cockpit and Greg had a rockfish. We would eat well.

Greg Pondering the Crossing
Jon Dawkins

Dave’s Whale Saying “Goodbye”
Dave Resler

Cultus Sound to Shell Beach


July 26, Thursday, Day 13
Clear and calm in the morning becoming overcast with rain in the afternoon

Sunrise on Cultus Sound
Jon Dawkins


Other than Dave’s solid week of rain in 2006 it seems that everybody who camps at this beach comes away with great sunrise photos. It is so still, quiet and gorgeous in the morning. Nice day for a short paddle to Shell Beach near Soulsby Point.

I didn’t mention that I had experienced a gastrointestinal event on Wednesday evening that had kept me from enjoying thefish that Dave and Greg provided. Being two days out from Shearwater that was a troubling thing as we did have a boat to catch and we all had to be healthy to make that departure. I’m not sure what the issue was but everyone was curious to see if I would be able to hold breakfast down. No problem. I was hungry and ready to go.

Nothing much to report on the paddle to Shell Beach. We traveled north on Sans Peur Passage, we chatted, we stopped on a rocky shore so that Dave could strip a layer off from under his drysuit. Having only paddled this route heading south I was still surprised that it didn’t look familiar heading north.

Sans Peur Passage
Jon Dawkins


The island that holds Shell Beach is visible from about 3 NM on this route but the beach is not. I quit guessing where to head after a while as I knew that we could locate it on the GPS and somehow, I wasn’t looking forward to finding it. I really wanted to keep paddling and Shell Beach was just another signpost pointing the way back to reality.

We could see rain north of Hunter Channel and somewhere mid-channel it moved far enough south to touch us. Dave and I donned our rain hats. Greg wasn’t fazed and paddled on in his orange ball cap. Honestly, I was just along for the ride and sort of hoped that we would miss our beach and have to spend some time looking for it. Backtracking maybe. I didn’t care but I just didn’t want to arrive at Shell Beach in the rain.

Well, Dave and Greg are good navigators and they paddled right to the beach through the backdoor. I didn’t even realize that we were there until we were 20 yards away. We landed in a light drizzle.

Drizzly Arrival at Shell Beach
Greg Polkinghorn


Two years ago this campsite had been my initiation to the Central Coast experience when we had arrived on a brilliantly warm day on our way outbound. Keith had fired up the Dutch Oven and made chili and cornbread for lunch. For dinner Larry had produced and broiled the best steaks that I have ever eaten while Keith prepared fresh clams with butter sauce. We sat around the fire sipping bourbon. Today we were arriving during the rain with prospects of dehydrated food for dinner. We had spent the past two weeks at campsites much finer than this one. Shell Beach just wasn’t the same. Maybe a big part of my disappointment was the general melancholy that creeps in as these trips wind towards a close. I know for a fact that the Backpacker’s Panty Chili Mac dinner that I made was so vile that I couldn’t decide which chemical it was trying to taste like. It was nothing like food. That was discouraging and on my third bite I threw it all away and opted for some other meal choice from my drybag.

Cultus Sound to Shell Beach 6.9 NM

Shell Beach to Shearwater

July 27, Friday, Day 14
Overcast with rain, heavy at times. Winds south to 10 kts

The Red Men Suiting Up
Jon Dawkins


We tore down camp in a light rain. The last thing to come down was the parawing as we wanted a dry place to eat breakfast and don our drysuits that were still clammy from the day before. Not much conversation as I suppose we were all dealing with our feelings about this trip coming to an end. Something that really irks me is packing up a wet tent so I had one more thing to feel moody about. It’s about 13 NM to Shearwater and the prospect of paddling it in the rain wasn’t very appealing. Not today, anyway.

Morning at Shell Beach
Jon Dawkins


Hunter Channel floods to the north so we did have the current in our favor. The passing shoreline didn’t look at all familiar even though I had seen it in 2005. After about 40 minutes we came to the narrow entrance of a tidal lagoon on Campbell Island. On my first trip here we had paddled into this rocky crack to the foot of a six foot waterfall. With the current tide level the water was flowing in, not out of the lagoon and no waterfall existed. Very strange. No wonder nothing looked familiar. We were being drawn in by the flow so we played a bit with the current but none of us wanted the complications that being sucked downstream into the lagoon might bring us. We dug our way back out into Hunter Channel and continued on. The good news was that we had picked up a nice tailwind and the current was in our favor. We were traveling along at 5 kts without really trying. Was this the first time that we had current working for us? It might have been.

Lama Passage
Jon Dawkins


We stopped at Dave’s Walker Island campsite near the intersection of Hunter Channel and Lama Passage. Seemed like a fairly desperate place to camp but I tucked it away as a possibility for another trip. Not much to see in the way of scenery. The only excitement came with the passing of the Prince Rupert ferry and our ineffective attempts at surfing it’s wake with our heavily loaded boats.

Soon enough our free ride was over and as the ebb commenced our progress slowed. The rain came and went. More signs of habitation dotted the shore and waterway. Bella Bella appeared out of the rain and fog. Shearwater was right around the corner.


Bella Bella in View
Dave Resler


Sooner than we would like yet not soon enough the luxury yachts tied up at the Shearwater dock came into view. A hot shower at the Laundromat followed by a beer and pizza was sounding better all the time.

We arrived without fanfare on the concrete ramp at the Marine Center. We walked away from our boats and rejoined society.


Welcome to Shearwater
Jon Dawkins

Re-entry

When you are out you adopt a routine and when you land after a day on the water you go through your process of securing, unloading, setting up camp, preparing a meal, checking that your gear really is secure and going to sleep. When a trip is over the routine is still there but it no longer applies. Instead of landing on a beach we landed on a concrete ramp. Instead of the sound of Eagles and Ravens in the trees we were greeted by the sound of a loud grinding wheel and the hiss and snap of an arc welder from the Marine Center.

While Shearwater isn’t exactly a bustling town everything seemed loud.
We carried our dirty clothes to the Laundromat and the machines seemed loud. While the other patrons spoke above the sound of the dryers we spoke softly.
We took showers and the shower seemed loud.
The TV in the bar seemed loud.
The conversations of others in the restaurant seemed loud.
The voice of the French speaking man on the pay phone next to me seemed loud.
It was a as if after living out we were struggling to find the skills for living in.

We were reunited with Ned and Nan at the ferry dock and recounted our adventures. We met a group from France who had paddled from Port Hardy to Shearwater and another group from Vancouver who had been out for a week.

Greg, Dave & Nan (Guess who needs to shave?)
Jon Dawkins



As soon as it was dark we curled up in our bags and went to sleep. During the night I awoke to the slow rocking of the ferry as it rode the swells in the unprotected waters of Queen Charlotte Sound. I listened to the air shift back and forth between the cells of my air mattress as I rolled from side to side.

Arriving at the Bear Cove terminal in Port Hardy we wasted no time loading up the truck and hitting the road for the long drive home. At the southern edge of Port Hardy a bear rambled across the highway and disappeared in the forest behind the city limit sign. Greg assumed his “astronaut” position in the jump seats of my truck that were not meant for adults but not bad enough to garner his complaint.

The drive to the Nanaimo ferry was long but allowed the hope of an afternoon departure and an early evening arrival back home. The ferry lines moved at a tantalizing pace.

“We’re going to get on this boat!”

“No, we’re going to miss it!”

“No, we’re going to make it!”

We missed the 2:15 PM sailing by zero cars. We were the car that didn’t make it. Everyone else was behind us. Oh well. Nice try. Bad luck. We’ll be the first on the next boat in 2 hours. We had missed the Tsawassen Ferry by four cars and this one by zero cars. Tough re-entry.

It turned out that the next boat was delayed by a bomb threat. We didn’t know if we would end up camping here at the ferry terminal or catch the next boat whenever that would be. People in line were angry and threatening the ferry officials, as though it was their fault. Loud voices filled with angst. Very tough re-entry. I reverted to my comforting routine, got out my stove and fixed a freeze-dried meal. I thought I was done with these…………..

The bomb dogs finished sniffing the cars and cleared the ferry at the Tsawassen dock for sailing.. Eventually we were able to load at 10:20 PM after eight hours in line. BC Ferries felt so bad that they offered free meals to everyone on the boat. Since we were the first in line to load we were very nearly the first in line for free food. It was free “ferry” food so nothing was exceptional but it was a very nice showing by BC Ferries and much appreciated. The line for free food stretched the length of the deck and many of the passengers were compelled to order way more food than they could possibly eat. The BC High School soccer team was a particular offender. I hope they lost their asses in the tournament. Their pure greed meant that the people who loaded the boat last and waited in the food line for most of the Georgia Straight crossing were told that there was no food left and went hungry. Very, very tough re-entry.

I arrived home around 3:30 AM, helped Dave and Greg load their gear and went to bed. I was happy to be home but feeling oddly out of place.

Coming back from life on the coast is hard to do.

Reflections

In reflecting back on this trip I am so pleased in how it turned out.

Dave and Greg are great trip partners and both are such good paddlers. I will gladly go paddling with them for a day or a month or for whatever period of time that they will have me.

We worked well as a team and with the help of Greg and Dave I was able to accomplish some things that I wouldn’t have done otherwise. I hope I didn’t drag them down.

The route was a good one and the conditions allowed us to accomplished the whole thing plus more. Many thanks here go to Keith Webb, John Kimantas, Ned and Nan for their input and advice.

While we didn’t find them all but we did visit two of Kayak Bill’s camps and got to see more of the workings of his mind. The Dallas boardwalk needs to be seen before it is overcome by the forest.

We paddled 146.9 NM or 169 miles total.
We averaged 12.24 NM or 14 miles per day.

The weather was very good to us.
The temperatures averaged between 50 and 65 degrees F. Ideal paddling temperatures.

Of 13 days spent on the water there were:
3 days without precipitation
6 days with clearing
4 days with showers
5 days with rain that could be described as heavy at times.
Only one day was blown out and kept us ashore.

That probably sounds awful to some folks and if you are among them I discourage you from planning a paddling trip to this or any other coastal rainforest. If you need warm temperatures and sunny skies to feel like you are on vacation this is not the place for you.

This was exactly the right place for us to be in July of 2007 and I look forward to visiting again. Maybe I can talk Dave and Greg into paddling from Prince Rupert to Port Hardy with me in 2009.