Too many of us are not living our dreams
because we are living our fears.
—Les Brown
“IT’S NOT AN ADVENTURE until things start going wrong,” Yvon Chouinard once said. Okay, Yvon, I get it, but REALLY? Does it nearly have to kill me? I was nearing the end of Grenville Channel, a 45-mile trough of water contained within steep walls rising more than two-thousand feet, its north end roughly 35 miles south of Prince Rupert, British Columbia. Pretty much in the middle of nowhere.
Places to land were scarce and my hopes to stop and camp were dashed on two occasions that day when grizzly bears—cubs in tow—stood defiantly along the shoreline. By the time I did find a marginal place to set up camp, I was a soggy, string-of-bad-luck, hypothermic bundle of exasperation. Had my adventure truly just begun? I didn’t know, but what I did know was that any residual arrogance I may have had was now whupped out of me. I was paddling solo on the Inside Passage, and I was being handed a pivotal lesson—almost along with my ass.
“Give me a fucking break!” I screamed at the top of my lungs—at the wind, at the stinging rain, at everything and at nothing, thrusting my chest forward, my arms hyper-extended behind me, all ten fingers spread wide in outrage. I was 38 days into my expedition and had come to accept, even expect, being cold and wet. But this was different—and much more dire.
My primal screams filled the forest, only to be reabsorbed by the howling wind, sullen seas, and the sucking mud of this godforsaken bay I was stuck in. I was attempting to set up camp a hair’s-width above the briny dung of what appeared to be a saltwater chicken coop, a goopy, flat area where the funky smell of seabird guano met my nostrils. Debris from last night’s high tide hung like Christmas garlands from the fringes of the impenetrable forest behind me. My campsite would certainly be under water in the middle of that night and the reality of having to deal with that made me sick to my stomach. Remembering that my sleeping bag was damp and my tent waterlogged, frantically crammed in the back hatch earlier that morning, made my heart sink even further.
A vigorous rain pelted the right side of my face, which was swollen and disfigured from the previous day’s blood-sucking black fly attack. Moments before, I’d shivered violently in sopping wet clothes, and struggled with a nylon tarp as the wind belligerently whipped it out of my hands. My fingers, barely able to tie the knots to secure the corners, became less and less dexterous. Gale force winds had descended upon Grenville Channel and were only slightly diffused by the landmass I was hiding behind.
Earlier that day, I’d briefly fallen asleep in my drifting kayak, then succumbed to the initial stages of hypothermia, as crushing fatigue took hold; I hadn’t cared enough to extract myself from the gallons of cold water I was sitting in inside my cockpit. Warm urine pooled in the crotch of my wetsuit, momentarily warming me as I peed in the boat. I’d landed here out of default, and ludicrously bad luck, after paddling nearly forty arduous miles, forced to move on at the twenty- and then thirty-mile mark when mama grizzly bears had trumped my intended campsites. My muscles cramped, my head throbbed, and in spite of a tailwind, my lightweight carbon-fiber paddle felt like a two-by-four and the seas felt like grape jelly. I was completely, utterly spent, and there were simply no other options. I knew that night would be no different from the three previous ones: when I was finally tucked into the thin veneer of my nylon tent, my serial date with the high tide would come knocking at my door. When saltwater began licking at my rainfly under the dark cloak of night I would curse the moon and I would curse gravity for conspiring on a 23-foot tidal exchange. Around three a.m. I would be forced to change back into my cold, wet rain gear and extract myself from my womblike shelter. Then, like a bride snatching up her gown, I’d lift my tent just as the water poured in around my bug-bitten ankles and stand tippy-toed on a piece of driftwood or slippery boulder. Each of those three past nights I stood in a brine-soaked kiddie pool, in the dark, in the pouring rain, and pleaded with the ocean, politely asking her, “Are ya done yet?”
I learned early on in my trip that Mother Nature can be unforgiving. Or she can be neutral, soothing you, enveloping you in her sweet velvety senses. But on that day in Grenville Channel—as I desperately tried to set up camp—she was schizophrenic. She didn’t care that I was on the verge of tears, or scared out of my wits. I’d put myself in this position, and it was up to me to put on my big girl panties and figure a way out.
It was then, when I was chilled to the bone, fumbling with the tarp, that an inner pathos hurtled out of me, along with an alarming variety of expletives. My explosive rage made my blood flow hot, pressed my mental reset button, and refocused my intent. Perhaps it saved my life. Miraculously, I was able to tend to all my needs: shelter, food, warmth and rest—at least for a few hours. Praying for sleep to come, shivering inside my slightly damp sleeping bag, eyes wide open, I felt an unease in the pit of my stomach. Would I have the strength and courage to take care of myself throughout the entire journey?
WATER WAS TABOO in my family: a strong river current had snatched my father’s five-year-old niece, who had slipped and fallen down a muddy bank while playing along its shores. The river took her and would not let go. My father vowed to never let me suffer from the same demise and forbade me to play in or near water during my youth.
I thought about this as I lay trembling in my tent that night in Grenville Channel and wondered if I should have heeded my father’s fears more seriously. But I knew better. Water is my element, where I feel most at home. I have always been attracted to water, seduced by it, drawn to the very thing that my parents tried to shield me from. I was nine years old when I learned that the letters W-A-T-E-R formed Helen Keller’s first spoken word. This impacted me in a way I couldn’t understand at the time, but now I realize that much like those five letters meant to Helen the wonderful cool something that was flowing over her hand—a living word that awakened her spirit and set it free—so water became for me a substance to love and cherish.
My spellbinding connection to water began with the forbidden tributaries and ponds I frequented as a young girl. I spent countless idle afternoons carefully positioning a toy boat high in the creek below our house—out of my parents’ view. The boat tumbled its way downstream, crashing into obstacles, careening over miniature waterfalls, bouncing and free flowing, much like my child’s mind. I’d run alongside it, enamored by the forces acting on it. This creek flowed into a small pond where I stashed a dilapidated rubber raft inside a rotten maple log. On quiet summer afternoons I would stealthily retrieve my raft and with my small pink lips sealed over the plastic valve, my pint-sized lungs would exhale air over and over again until the raft slowly began to take shape. Still dizzy from hyperventilating, I would climb in and shove off with my yellow plastic paddle. I’d often stop halfway across the pond, sling one leg over the side of the raft, and, with fishing pole in hand, gaze at the dark watery world below. I’d drift and dream at this most magical time when I truly knew how to relax.
“KEEP YOUR LEGS WIDE,” said my friend Bobbie. “And sit tall like your mama told you to at the dinner table.” Instinctively I pulled my chin back, my shoulder blades together, and lengthened my spine as my legs assumed a loose frog-legged position in the boat. It was early summer 1991 and was the first time my pelvis had met the low-slung fiberglass seat of a long, tippy sea kayak. As my toes reached for the foot pegs deep within the cockpit, I knew this was for me.
“Don’t forget to breathe!” Bobbie said as she watched the skinny kayak beneath my rigid hips respond to every twitch of muscle, and quiver a jig in dead calm waters.
My inaugural sea kayak excursion placed me on the largest lake west of the Mississippi. Bobbie was shepherding three greenhorn paddlers over the glassy waters of Montana’s Flathead Lake, across a three-mile freshwater expanse to a large island where we planned to have a picnic lunch and catch glimpses of wild horses and bighorn sheep grazing on the rolling hillsides.
Within ten minutes, my body started to relax and my hands loosened their grip on the paddle shaft. Soon my hips settled deeper in the cockpit and the boat sat quiet and steady beneath me. “Hah!” I yelled across the water toward Bobbie. “She senses my fears—just like a horse. I stop fighting, she stops bucking!” From this low, yet commanding vantage point, I treasured the feeling of cruising along on the water’s surface at the pace of a brisk walk. I felt blessed to experience nature’s beauty from this perspective, while absorbing all that my senses would allow. I was contained in that kayak, ensconced in a vessel that I literally wore, that suited my body type, my personality, my soul. I radiated a child-like sense of joy and wonder, and embraced a sense of discovery, contentment, and familiarity like none other. I transcended into a secret world, a magical world, a healing world with that first sea kayak experience. I could touch the water at will—and the water could touch me. The kayak was an extension of my hips, the paddle an extension of my torso. I imagined myself as half-woman, half-kayak. I was Womyak.
FOR THE NEXT NINETEEN YEARS, my perpetual love of water and this newfound sport led me to many adventures. Being on the water, paring life down to the basics, puts things in perspective for me and illuminates in a very clear and undiluted form what really matters—and who I am. I’d sometimes pack my gear into my kayak and disappear for several days to be alone somewhere on the water. I paddled the glacier-carved lakes of Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming. I paddled with friends in Mexico, Belize, on the Atlantic and the Pacific. I explored the Great Lakes and big rivers, from the muddy Missouri to the class-five whitewater rivers in Montana and Idaho. I paddled lagoons, estuaries, lakes, mill ponds, creeks, rivers, bays, and pools. Laudably, kayaking is a layered sport—it can be whatever you want it to be: gunk holing in protected nooks and crannies; playing in dynamic water; surfing; racing; pushing through grueling, exposed crossings; barreling down adrenalin-spiked whitewater; exploring sheltered coastlines—or paddling the Inside Passage.
My fascination with the Inside Passage began in 1996 when I joined Jim on a hundred-mile portion of its route in British Columbia. A novice at expedition paddling at the time, I stuck to Jim like the epoxy resin that held my kayak together, mimicking his every move, absorbing his seamanship skills as best I could, and simply learning about the unstable environment of the sea. I took an instant liking to the expedition aspect of sea kayaking. I loved the repetitive cycle of multi-day paddling: setting up camp, exploring, breaking camp, paddling, then more exploring. I reveled in my newfound self-containment—everything I needed to survive was either on my person or in my boat. I remembered falling into a rhythm with the ocean and feeling at peace with my surroundings. Over the years I was slowly introduced to other sections of the Inside Passage, and I felt a deep desire to connect the dots.
FROM A CRESCENT-SHAPED BEACH near Anacortes, Washington, I sat tall in the cockpit of my eighteen-foot sea kayak, ceremoniously dipped my paddle into the vast expanse of the Salish Sea, and sallied forth on an inner and outer journey up the Inside Passage of British Columbia and southeast Alaska, and into the unknown. It was Spring 2010.
My kayak was a beautiful boat: fire-engine red, low-slung and sleek, seaworthy, and tough as nails. Long and lean, she cut through the water gracefully, even fully loaded with kit, food, water, and paddler. She needed a name. I chose Chamellia.
Loosely named after the chameleon lizard, whose eyes rotate independently in all directions, I entrusted Chamellia’s 360-degree view of all aspects of this journey to watch over me and to help me adapt to quickly changing conditions. When my eyes were focused dead ahead, I’d need her to gently guide me, because part of my quest was to lose that tunnel vision, but not necessarily my focus. With our collective vision, one eye would be looking forward scanning the horizon, the other observing behind or to the side, to keep me—a mere sliver on the sea—safe. Whether we were facing long stretches of monotonous placid seas, or monstrous waves, or butt-puckering tidal currents, Chamellia and I would continuously respond and adjust to the ocean’s moods and motions, its rhythms and writhing. Slow and calculating, frozen in anticipation, or gracefully swift, we would meet the sea on its terms—or so I hoped.
I wanted nothing more than to experience the Inside Passage in all her moods, with all my senses. I wanted to feel free, bold, and spontaneous, to be awestruck, and to see in my journey the lessons I needed to learn. And I believed those lessons, and the ability to ponder deeper truths, would best be acquired in solitude. I realized my choice to go solo was risky, but I felt the potential rewards outweighed the possible dangers and accepted the fact that my adventure had an unknown outcome. For that is the ultimate draw of a long journey: the unknown, and all the possibilities of adventure wrapped up in that uncertainty.
“Adventure” implies an element of risk, of gambles and unpredictable circumstances, and one risk I was not willing to take was that of staying on shore and then dealing with the rising flood of “what-ifs” that would certainly follow. I didn’t want to grow old and look back on my life and feel disappointed that life had passed me by, or that I’d shortchanged myself and missed out on something big because I’d harbored fears of uncertainty. I didn’t see my adventure as a foolhardy endeavor or some sort of quixotic dream. It just felt right. The time was right, my dreams and ambitions about it were all right, as though my queries to the universe had finally given me the thumbs up. I needed to trust that all I’d done to this point had prepared me for this journey.
I DOVE HEAD-FIRST into the world while a blizzard raged outside a hospital window in upstate New York. It was January 14, 1961. As that storm raged on that cold winter evening, my birth mother—a child herself at sixteen—lay stupefied at the thought of a second mouth to feed. Her son, born eleven months earlier, was home with an uncle. Our father, who didn’t care much for snot-nosed kids, was nowhere to be found. He cared most for his bottle I was told—so much in fact that he had earned the title of town drunk. My birth mother would bear four of his children before she finally left him for good. Often neglected during those precious formative years, my three siblings and I were wrenched from the arms of our petrified teenaged mother and made wards of the court, consigned to New York State’s foster care system. I was three years old.
Meanwhile, in a neighboring county, Helen and William Conrad were busy raising their thirteen-year-old boy, Billy. He was their pride and joy, yet they yearned for a daughter. Unable to conceive another child, they decided to adopt, and placed their order for a blond, blue-eyed girl. Initially, they got two. Another family adopted my one-year-old baby sister, leaving child services hesitant to split up the two older girls. My two-year-old sister and I arrived as a matching set. I can still picture our cherubic little faces, framed with hair so blond it was nearly transparent, our chubby legs swinging in unison, eyes uplifted, hearts eager for this much-needed attention. For a few short months we shared Lincoln Logs, Tonka trucks, and cloth dolls—until a tragic accident separated us for good.
While our new family of five was headed home one summer evening, an accelerating Mack truck crossed the double yellow line and hit our ’62 Plymouth Fury head-on. The two drunks in the Mack truck were killed instantly. My new dad was critically injured, his chest crushed by the steering wheel, his right leg mangled by the impact. He held on to life by a thread in the hospital’s ICU. Two weeks later he was moved to a private room where he stayed for two more months. His healing period was extensive and, because he was the sole provider (mom didn’t work or drive), child services ruled that my parents could no longer support two young girls and insisted they return one of us. My sister was taken away and I remained in their lives; another bond broken, new feelings of isolation and abandonment permeating our young souls. Yet I still had a new family and a new world that would, optimistically, provide me with a sense of security, love, and caring.
Up until that juncture, I had suffered many childhood injustices. I was too young to clearly remember them, but I know they happened. I remember fragments: the glass ketchup bottle hitting my brother square in the head at the dinner table; the Christmas tree smashing through the window, then teeter-tottering on the deck railing, tinsel and shiny ornaments still hanging on its branches; and the yelling and screaming and doors slamming and dishes breaking and babies crying and car tires screeching. A sibling’s broken arm, another’s walloped head, my severely burnt hand, held to the top of the kitchen stove burner—to learn the meaning of “hot.” Details are vague, yet I know these things groomed me into a guarded, if not stoic, young adult. I became an elusive shadow, avoiding all attention, because in my world, attention only meant more pain. These loud and terrifying moments embedded themselves in my psyche and created in me a craving for sacred privacy and stillness. As a teenager, I was safe in my aloneness, in the quiet of my soul.
Yet, in reality, I wasn’t always safe in my aloneness. My brother had moved in with his girlfriend years prior and I was often home alone on Saturdays when my parents were at work. I was probably twelve or thirteen—old enough to have budding breasts. A close friend of the family often visited on these Saturday afternoons. He’d sit too close to me, stay too long, say inappropriate things, creep me out. As uncomfortable as it all was, nothing happened—until one day something did happen. Breathing heavily, he abruptly turned toward me and forced himself on me, ripping my shirt open, forcing me to the floor, wedging a knee between my thighs. He left marked hand-shaped bruises on both my breasts, which I would hide from my mom for weeks, until thankfully they disappeared. I kicked and screamed and fought bitterly under the weight of his heavy, hairy body until he finally stood up, zipped his pants, and, as if suddenly coming to grips with what he had just done, mumbled an apology and left. I sat trembling on the couch, clutching my torn pajama top to my chest, listening to the crunch of his tires as he pulled out of the driveway. I locked the doors and windows, then sobbed for hours. There was no physical penetration, yet his actions left an emotional penetration that was a significant game-changer for me.
Much like water was taboo in my family, so too, I sensed, was talking about this sort of thing. It was dangerous heresy, and therefore shouldn’t exist. I chose not to tell, although my behavior spoke volumes. I awoke screaming from nightmares, grew hugely rebellious, and became savvy at emotional detachment. I’d walk briskly through the kitchen, past this man who had the audacity to take a place at our dinner table, as if nothing had happened. I didn’t understand why it happened. I couldn’t rely on my feelings, and I certainly couldn’t rely on my parents to protect me. I felt betrayed by their inability to provide a safe home, and their inattentiveness to my sudden, erratic behavior. I expertly masked my vulnerability and built skyscraper-high walls, all of which helped make my decision to remain silent easy.
Yet I yearned to be loved and wore my fill-this-huge-hole-in-my-heart emblem on my sleeve, but they couldn’t see it, and clearly they couldn’t heal it. They provided all my fundamental physical needs, and I viewed them as my true parents, but it was the emotional needs that they had no clue how to deal with.
In fact, about two years later, my father’s actions would deepen my emotional detachment and shatter my already fragile confidence. Mom was in the hospital for a brief stay, healing from gallbladder surgery. I voluntarily tried to fill her shoes, and brimmed with pride as I kept up on the laundry, swept the floors, and made dinner for my dad and me. It may have only been spaghetti or mac and cheese from a box, but my domestic contributions mattered a lot to me. The night before mom came home, I was lying in bed reading a book, its pages barely illuminated by the dim light on my nightstand. My bedroom door creaked open and in the sliver of light from the hallway I saw my father standing there in his boxers and a button-up nightshirt that wasn’t buttoned, revealing his chest and stomach. The last thing I saw was his penis in his hand. The door opened farther and he walked toward me. Oh my god, you, too! I thought, throwing the bedcovers over my head. I held my breath, and prayed he would just go away. He didn’t. Instead, he sat down on the bed beside me. I could feel pressure through the blankets; I don’t know if it was his hand, or some other part of his body because I numbed out, dissociating my mind from my body. “Go away, don’t do this, please go away!” I yelled. “Go away. Go away.” And he left as quickly and quietly as he entered. I didn’t breathe a word of it to anyone, and nothing of this nature ever occurred again.
THESE EARLY LIFE EXPERIENCES of neglect, abuse, and abandonment led, not surprisingly, to unhealthy behaviors and coping mechanisms as I matured. As a teenager, I was convinced that my parents had conspired to ruin my life, and I ran away from home three times. On my sixteenth birthday, in the midst of a blizzard in upstate New York, I ran away for the final time. With that choice I cheated myself out of much of my youth and innocence and lost a productive young adulthood.
Just as I ran and hid as a teen, I became a runner as an adult. At the tender age of eighteen I ran from my biological brother when he tried to reunite me with my siblings and birth mother. I ran from my feelings when I lost my adoptive brother to a drug overdose, his death the first in a series of tragic losses that I had no clue how to deal with. I ran from one man to the next, one job to the next, one state to the next. I ran from my problems, I ran from my fears, I ran from love and commitment, I ran from myself.
WHEN I DECIDED TO PADDLE the IP, it had been 45 years since I had been separated from my biological family, yet I was still a woman in search of something, still working through many issues from my past abuse, still struggling with the why of it all. Over time, I’d proven to myself empirically that my old patterns and strategies didn’t work, but I trusted that if I kept at it, truly put my heart and soul into it, that the healing would slowly come.
My personal research into child welfare has revealed that kids who have been abused or neglected tend never to feel attached to anyone in a trusting way and often insist on slugging it out alone. Perhaps this is why I chose to experience the Inside Passage solo. Solo adventures had always pulled me into a realm of solace and healing, an emotional comfort that I hoped the Inside Passage could also impart. The IP felt different to me. Instead of running from something, I realized I was running to something—my hopes and dreams and desires. And to uncertainty, for I preferred risk over stagnation and was convinced that I’d make peace with that uncertainty, become even more comfortable with solitude, and honor the questions that would emerge from it. Yes, I decided, I would paddle a long, skinny boat to Alaska, and I brought my whole focus to this intention. I was confident about my decision, and in turn, my decision created confidence.
Common paddling wisdom asserts that it takes about 1,000 strokes to travel one mile in a sea kayak, in average conditions, without the assistance or impedance of wind or current. With this math, I would take approximately 1,200,000 strokes. Once underway, in my aloneness, through all those miles I would paddle, and all those strokes I would take, I would have plenty of opportunity for soul-searching.
Mine would be a one-way paddle. Not a circuitous route, but linear—like me. I revel in sequence, preferring things orderly. I call it methodical, goal-oriented. My friends call it anal. I thought for such matters as planning a solo expedition up the Inside Passage, methodical was a good thing. Real dangers existed “out there,” and the best mitigation, I reasoned, was proper planning and sensible risk management. A twisted ankle, an errant stumble into a tidal rapid, or an unexpected encounter with a grouchy mama grizzly could abort the trip in a heartbeat. Hyper-vigilance would be necessary at times. So too would patience.
I had no idea what I was doing, really. I’d figure it out as I went. I knew that certain hardships would manifest and when they revealed themselves to me I believed I would have my own personal ocean of revelations. With these thoughts, I sealed my commitment to myself, my adventure, my friends and loved ones, my safety, my life. I would paddle the IP, one section at a time, one mile at a time, one island at a time, one stroke at a time. And with each milestone, I hoped to move closer to healing my soul and to find answers to all those questions swirling in my head.
SIX MONTHS AFTER COMMITTING to the IP, in the midst of a cold, dreary winter, I watched from my assigned window seat as the tarmac crew de-iced the airplane wings in preparation for a long flight from Montana to New York. Buckling up, I imagined that similar weather awaited me back east. I shivered, picturing a steel-gray sky hanging over low rolling hills, and long rows of barren deciduous trees dusted with snow, flanking the stone walls that were part of the landscape where I grew up.
I cautiously exited the enormous car rental complex at the John F. Kennedy airport and drove ninety miles north to my mom’s nursing home in the Catskill Mountains in upstate New York. They call them “adult care centers” now, I was told. I had moved her into this care center a couple years earlier, into the same room with my father, who was dying of Alzheimer’s disease. His brain went quickly, followed by his body, which had finally waved the little white flag seven months prior to this visit. I’d long since forgiven my father for the one isolated incident where he breached my trust as a child. I’ll never know why he made the decision to enter my room that night in such an inappropriate manner. But through my own perseverance—and years of therapy—I worked through those transgressions, which allowed me to change on the inside so that I could move forward in my life with intent and purpose. The very act of forgiveness had taken away the power of those bad memories, now just experiences safely tucked away in my past.
I HADN’T SEEN MY MOTHER since the funeral, and felt a strong need to visit her before embarking on my big kayak journey.
It was late December 2009, and I was feeling a hint of dread, as I always did, in returning to the nursing home. I was highly sensitive to the sights and sounds and smells that permeated the building, and usually made my visits as brief as possible.
The elevator doors slid open and I walked down the polished hallway toward my mother’s room. She stood with her back to me just a few feet away, rummaging through her top dresser drawer. For a moment, I quietly watched her from her doorway. A crinkled-edged black and white photo fluttered to the floor, landing face-up near her foot. That was my cue. “Look Mom, it’s a picture of our old house!” I said, snatching it up before she could do so herself. Slightly startled, she quickly turned toward me. Within a split second her facial expression went from surprise to sheer happiness; her eyes twinkled and a generous smile filled her face. After a long hug, we turned our attention back to the drawer of photos, while rain flecked a window that looked out over a small wooded pond.
“DROP DEAD!” yelled an emaciated woman, sitting on the edge of her twin bed, suddenly disrupting our moment. Her long, thin hands clutched the opening of a paisley bathrobe that resembled an old couch cover. A strong urine funk lingered in her corner of the room, which she shared with my mother.
“I HATE YOU!” she angrily lashed out at no one in particular. An intravenous fluid bag dangled from a steel hook above her bed and shook violently from her erratic movements. While the bag still swayed, her head fell heavily forward, and she sat slumped in a catatonic state until her next outburst.
While mom and I visited, the shift nurse came into her room to change her bedding. Soon it would be dinnertime for the residents. Those who were ambulatory, like my mother, would walk to the dining hall on their floor; others were wheeled, and those most incapacitated, like my mother’s roommate, would have their meals brought to them.
“See you tomorrow, Mom,” I said as I hugged her goodbye. Releasing our embrace, ten plump fingers wrapped around my hands and held me tightly. “See you tomorrow, sweetheart,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes.
As I walked down the hallway toward the elevator, I averted my eyes from doddering men in wheelchairs who wanted to reach out and touch me. I walked past the dining hall where my mother would soon be eating, then hurried into the elevator, pressed the ground-floor button, and held my breath against the nauseating smell of Lysol and urine. When the doors finally opened, I stepped through them and watched a black man with white hair expectorate into a napkin. I walked down the hallway past plastic flowers and chunky oil paintings, past silver rolling carts with neatly stacked food trays, past a mop and bucket, to the receptionist desk where I would sign out—quickly. Relieved to be outside in the fresh air, I took a deep, cleansing breath and nearly ran to my vehicle.
In the years to come, I grew to understand that mom was where she belonged, that the care center was her home, that she loved living there and was adored and well-cared-for by the staff. This comforted me, allowing my sensitivities and apprehensions to soften over time, but on that day, I struggled with the intensity of my emotions.
Free to explore the countryside where I grew up, I drove my rental car past stone walls symmetrically lined with maple trees, past forgotten cow pastures and dilapidated barns. I reflected on my visit with Mom as I drove, allowing the strong images to cycle through my mind. Odd, I thought, that my focus was more on her roommate and all the sights and sounds and smells, as uncomfortable as they were for me, rather than the mother/daughter bond one might expect. I realized then that my visits were more out of obligation and relationship than love and connection. Mom had mellowed over time and seemed more insightful and loving than I had ever remembered as a child. I knew in my heart that she was a different person now, but for some reason I was only able to reciprocate that love on what felt like a superficial level. I’d long since stopped running from her but obviously held feelings of resentment that still lingered in my soul; feelings I hoped I could work through in the months and years to come.
I INSTINCTIVELY TOUCHED THE SCAR on my upper lip as I looked down the steep hill sprawling below me. I’d driven to the very spot I had stood, day after day, year after year, waiting for the long, yellow school bus on top of Thunder Hill Road. The road still had gaping ditches and lacked a respectable shoulder, much like the other twisty-turny country roads that it connected to. I spotted thin patches of sand on the pavement, scattered there by the road crew to offset the icy conditions New York winters are notorious for. Those sand patches took me back to the day when I’d slid too fast through one of them on my bicycle many years before, which had sent me into a head-first tumble over my handlebars, resulting in lips and knees colliding with the pitted surface of Thunder Hill Road. I remembered the bicycle I pedaled that day: it was brown with silver sparkles, balloon tires, a rusty kickstand, and a three-speed thumb-shifter that rotated loosely on curved handlebars with pink rubber grips. My wispy blond hair had streamed in the wind, as I stood high on the pedals, the seat post permanently rusted, set too short for my long, skinny legs. I remembered watching my mother’s face as she cut away my torn, blood-soaked dungarees with a pair of sharp kitchen scissors. Tears had streamed down my face and rolled over my fattening, bloodied lip, but the thick flap of gravel-encrusted skin that hung from my kneecap—revealing the bone beneath it—took priority.
The gaping wound had taken months to heal and the skin on my kneecap had become smooth and shiny, permanently devoid of hair. Standing on the road I grew up on, I could practically still feel the stiff fabric of my bell-bottom jeans rubbing on my tender skin as I limped through that painful stage of my youth. My scabbed lip, though it healed much quicker than my knee, elicited hurtful remarks from my schoolmates, who claimed among other things, that I’d kissed a horse’s ass. At the time, I vowed to myself to be more cautious, but not to allow any of this to quell my sense of adventure.
This strong childhood reflection became proof in my mind that while I wasn’t immune to adventurous mishaps, I was also high-spirited and thick-skinned. As a child, I felt that the bicycle represented freedom and exhilaration, much like the kayak had come to embody those things for me as an adult. What I didn’t know as a child was that my overly stubborn, I-shall-conquer personality quirks would flow into my adult life, further hone my sense of adventure, and eventually bring me to my choice to paddle the Inside Passage.
THE INSIDE PASSAGE is an extraordinary coastal route, with some of the most spectacular fjords and convoluted coastlines in the world. It’s a narrow artery that connects with and is a part of the 64 million square miles that comprise the Pacific Ocean. Often presented as the most breathtaking—and challenging—paddling trip in North America, it’s touted as a holy grail for those accessing it in long, skinny boats.
Seattle, Washington is considered the official starting point and Skagway, Alaska the terminus where one literally runs out of ocean, about 1,300 miles later. After traversing through a snippet of northwest Washington, including an oblique trajectory through the San Juan Islands, the IP extends north along the British Columbia coastline. A fifty-mile-long strait called Dixon Entrance plays sentinel to the Alaskan boundary, and from there the IP snakes its way up Alaska’s panhandle, where Skagway waits at the pinnacle like a grand finale.
In addition to providing habitat for bears, wolves, whales, sea lions, a host of other sea mammals, sea birds and birds of prey, the Inside Passage also boasts the largest intact temperate rainforest in the world. I planned on being wet.
As I began to discuss my trip with others, it surprised me how many people thought of the Inside Passage as an easy route through calm, protected waters. That I would simply point my bow north and paddle. Nothing could be further from the truth. Yes, the Inside Passage is an inland route, sheltered in part from the open ocean. But the exposed and often tumultuous sections such as Queen Charlotte Sound, Cape Caution, and Dixon Entrance would demand patience and respect. Even then, I wasn’t about to let my guard down in more protected waters. Funneling winds, schizophrenic seas, and unfriendly or nonexistent beaches make even the so-called protected areas problematic. Regardless, it would be my universe for an entire summer—a sea voyage marked by inlets, bays, valleys, peaks, glaciers, towns, inflowing rivers, sounds, islands and the Alaskan peaks looming in the distance.
Once I started blabbing to people that I was actually going to do this, I was thoroughly committed. A rush of fierce determination percolated through me. No turning back now, no matter how many powerful reality checks flashed in front of me. The big “five-O” birthday loomed depressingly close; I was pitifully out of shape and still nursing my wounds from a series of losses that had left me with a raw, lingering ache. In addition to the recent death of my father, a close friend had died, another had moved away, my cat had been eaten by a coyote, and my long-term relationship was falling apart. I had withdrawn from the paddlesports business that had defined me for ten years and felt a strong need to reinvent myself. I was single, jobless, fatherless and restless, desperate for new doors to open. I could continue to throw my chronic pity parties or pull my head out of my ass. I chose the latter, signed up for a triathlon, became a gym rat, and started a regular paddling regime. I was going to paddle the Inside Passage after all.
It occurred to me that I should set a date.
Cinco de Mayo had a nice ring to it. I would launch on the fifth day of May 2010. It’d be early enough in the season to avoid heavy boat traffic on the more populated coastline of the lower route and would put me in Alaska sometime in July, where, I reasoned, I would have a better chance at good weather and calm seas. Depending on the whims of Mother Nature and how my energy level and body held up, my ETA in Skagway, Alaska, would be ten to twelve weeks later.
May 5th would also border on the one-year anniversary of my father’s death. Launching into this new journey on this day would, in a sense, commemorate his life. Over time, he and my mother had come to accept and—I suspected—secretly admire, my adventuresome spirit. My pelagic wanderings, and my blatant disregard of their whole don’t-go-near-the-water-you’ll-drown thing, probably concerned them the most, but other than telling their grown daughter to “be sure to wear your hat,” they didn’t have much recourse. I wanted my father’s blessing on this journey, and had he been alive at the time and cognitively with it, I believe he would have given it to me. I believe he would have respected what I was doing. And my mother would have stood by his side, wringing her hands, her eyes slightly crossed like they do when she grows worried. She would remind me not to “do anything foolish,” because she wouldn’t know what else to say. But this would not be the scenario. Neither one of them would be there when I launched, because after 62 years of marriage she was alone in the world, confined to her small room in the adult care center. I could never muster up the nerve to tell her that I planned to do this, to paddle the Inside Passage by myself. I didn’t want to add any stress to her already enlarged and compromised heart. My friends and relatives back in New York had been sworn to secrecy. All Mom knew was that I was traveling “up north” and that my cellphone coverage might be a bit spotty at times.
With Cinco de Mayo less than nine months out, it occurred to me that I’d never done a solo trip on the ocean. I’d paddled on the ocean with others and had led guided trips in the San Juans of Washington State and the Southern Gulf Islands in neighboring British Columbia. But in the better part of two decades I’d only paddled solo a handful of times, mainly short trips on large lakes in Montana. In his nuts and bolts book Kayaking the Inside Passage, Robert Miller lists three essential skills one should have before embarking on such an ambitious journey: a dependable roll, competent navigation, and good seamanship.
As if keeping score, I tallied my strengths. My ability to right a capsized kayak was solid, and I could read a chart, plot a course, and stay found. I knew how to read water and I wasn’t afraid to get wet. But having lived in landlocked Montana for nearly twenty years, my seamanship skills were questionable. I understood that good seamanship, in part, is about internalizing the rhythm of the ocean—deciphering, respecting, and accepting her moods, her patterns, her soul. Good seamanship is about making choices—and not second-guessing yourself once you do. It’s about good judgment and corralling your fears, of knowing when to push on and when to say uncle—and staying out of the shit in the first place. The upshot of all this is staying upright—and alive. Cold water shock, which often leads to instant drowning, is the number one killer for sea kayakers. Hypothermia, a drop in your core temperature, is the runner up. On the water, the anatomy of a bad or fatal decision is often blamed on hypothermia, which, among a myriad of other symptoms, causes a person to become grumpy, irrational, and seriously brain-fogged. Since falling into the heat-sucking fifty-degree waters of the Inside Passage was not on my to-do list, I needed to be as prepared as possible.
Experience, they say, is the best teacher. I decided that the scattered islands, islets, and reefs of Vancouver Island’s west side would be my tutor. A short solo stint in Barkley Sound would serve as an overture and tell me if I could cut the mustard on a longer journey up the IP.
I chose a circuitous hundred-mile shakedown trip in the fall of 2009. It turned out to be the perfect approach to decide which pieces of equipment were working and what needed to be reworked. Forced to paddle through dense fog on a compass bearing, I gained more confidence in my navigation skills. I slowly acquired a keener sense of scale, and grew savvier at converting the two-dimensional chart on my deck to the three-dimensional world across my bow, constantly matching the natural features of the landscape with the chart on my lap. I drastically edited the self-doubt tape that often played in my head. I knew deep down inside that I must trust in my abilities or I would never pull off paddling the more arduous and exposed waters of the Inside Passage.
I enjoyed my own company and traveling solo. When I was sublimely lost in my thoughts or my camera lens, the minutes and hours would melt away. I reveled in the wind, waves, swell, and sunshine bestowed on me on the outer islands and crossings. I dabbled in sea caves, poked into bays, and skipped around rocks and reefs. Once, skittering around a corner of a rocky islet, I came face-to-rump with a sizable black bear, her fur so dark and glossy it contrasted sharply with the monochromatic landscape surrounding us. Rummaging through the beach debris, she pawed at large rocks, moving them as easily as if they were pieces of Styrofoam. I was relieved to be down-wind of her and quietly paddled into deeper water, distancing myself from her. Note to self, I thought: check the expiration date on my bear spray canister before setting off for Alaska and research every drib and drab I can find on proper bear etiquette. I respected all wildlife and harbored no unusual angst at being in their presence, at least in broad daylight, but I was a firm believer in being prepared.
A few moments later, I was gliding through the water when the glistening, forty-ton body of a humpback whale abruptly surfaced in front of me. I gasped, then watched in stunned reverence. It barrel-rolled, then disappeared, but suddenly resurfaced. She stared directly at me with a large, bulbous eye. Chills darted down my damp back when she slowly rolled away, waving her large, white pectoral fin as if to say goodbye. She dove deep, her tail fluke momentarily suspended above the water. I finally exhaled.
While roaming bears, ogling whales, persnickety tidal surges and growling sea lions kept me on my toes, I had an epiphany. I didn’t embark on this shakedown trip to simply sort through issues such as paddling longer distances day after day, or schlepping massive piles of gear without assistance, or coming to terms with camping alone—I had come to deal with my fears. My overactive worry gland was in zero danger of atrophy. I needed to dig deep and figure out where my trepidations were coming from, make some sense of them, and perhaps come to terms with them. Most importantly, I wanted not to allow them to petrify me to the point of questioning why I was going there in the first place.
Was I afraid of dying? Nothing life-threatening had happened on my practice run. Was I terrified of having to be rescued? Was this all a result of my fragile ego? A fear of embarrassment? Was courage the opposite of fear? I knew that a healthy fear—a respect for the power of the ocean and all it could dish out—was one thing, but I also knew it was imperative to get a handle on dealing with my fear in general. So I vowed not to let fear hold me back. I would coexist with the fear—perhaps that would be my courage.
I spent the tenth and last day of my warm-up excursion poking around in protected inlets, nooks, and crannies and I began to lose myself in the rhythm and pace of the islands and to work through my fears with a hint of composure.
On my last evening in Barkley Sound, I soaked up a crimson sunset, sipped burgundy wine, and reflected on the recent chain of events in my life. I hugged my knees to my chest and allowed waves of emotion, and feelings of perpetual gratitude, to wash over me. I listened to my fears and accepted that they were a necessary part of this journey, and every journey to come. I understood that as long as I didn’t allow my fears to consume me, they would prompt me to be strong and vigilant—and hopefully safe. I felt fortunate to be sitting on a beach in the Pacific Northwest, slowly healing from a lousy year.
I RETURNED TO MONTANA after that late fall shakedown trip feeling rejuvenated and more prepared for my big journey. Autumn turned into winter and the sun’s rays became ever more indirect, skimming the big sky vastness at an almost horizontal angle. Temps dropped well below zero, and the water grew too hard to stick a paddle into.
On a frigid December morning, my hair hung in frozen ringlets, nearly shattering each time it brushed against the top of my down jacket. I shivered, then gently placed my kayak, bow first, into its protective cradles that were attached to my vehicle’s roof rack. Once Chamellia’s hull made contact with the ice-encrusted saddles, she slid effortlessly into place, and I strapped her down. I’d just finished a two-hour practice session in my local health club’s heated pool, refining my rolls, braces, jazzy paddle strokes, and all the other things a prudent kayaker does to ward off unexpected capsizes. I often took advantage of this open-pool session on Sunday mornings throughout that winter. Sometimes I’d share the pool with one or two other paddlers, but mostly I had it to myself, like I did that day. In the comfort of that heated pool, I deliberately created out-of-boat experiences in order to practice climbing back in. Re-entering a capsized kayak involves a blend of coordination, strength, and timing—a conundrum in cold, undulating seas. Falling out of the cockpit is the easy part—getting your butt back in, weighed down with layers of neoprene, thick-soled boots, a sprayskirt, and a personal flotation device (PFD), can be a bloody hassle. Consistent practice, in my mind, was of utmost importance. Occasionally, I noticed spectators peering through the steamed up, thick glass walls that surrounded the pool area. They seemed amused by my body-contorting antics; perhaps they thought I was playing a game of “Aqua Twister,” or practicing advanced yoga moves. Although their presence distracted me at times, I was committed to devoting as much time and energy as possible to preparing for the trip, and this included sharpening my rescue skills, boat control skills, stroke precision, muscle memory, and overall body conditioning. I stayed focused as best I could.
After my training session on that sub-zero Sunday, I negotiated the icy roads from the pool to an outdoor store in the nearby town of Kalispell in search of a cushier sleeping pad. I was skulking in the camping gear section when a young, marmalade-haired employee appeared and asked if he could help me.
“No, just looking. Thanks.” I wasn’t feeling chatty that day nor did I want to go into my whole soliloquy about what I was doing. Persistent in a professional manner, he asked all the right questions, until I finally admitted that I was “going on a longish trip.”
His interest deepened. “How long?”
“Oh … I’m not sure, really. Could be up to … three months,” I demurred.
His eyes widened as big as saucers as he surveyed the forty-something-year-old woman standing in front of him.
“Wow, where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m going to paddle to Alaska,” I answered.
“Alaska?! Whoa, from here?”
I tried not to roll my eyes, although I guess technically it could be done. I could paddle down Montana’s lower Flathead River for 72 miles to where it joins the Clark Fork River, which eventually meanders into Idaho. From there I could ride the currents of various tributaries until I hooked a sharp left onto the mighty Columbia River. Eventually I’d get dumped into the Pacific near Portland, Oregon. Heck, then all I’d have to do is hang a right and I’d be on my way to Alaska! Never mind the series of dams, waterfalls, rapids, and gut-splitting portages I’d encounter along the way.
“From Anacortes, Washington,” I politely corrected.
“Dude—that’s a LONG friggin’ trip!” he said as though I’d just told him I was traveling to the moon. “Wow, that’s burly!” He gestured with his hands outstretched wildly over his head. I laughed, mostly at his animations, and before he could ask me any more questions, a gangly teenager intercepted him with a pressing inquiry about backcountry stoves. I quietly turned the corner, and slipped out of his view behind a compendium of earth-colored sleeping bags that hung plumb from the rafters.
I didn’t buy a camp pad from this store. I didn’t buy anything. There was still time, and I had a lot of other things to tend to. I had to calculate how much toilet paper and floss and ibuprofen I’d need, plan food rations and resupply boxes, consolidate my bills, automate my debt, get my teeth cleaned, my pap smeared and my hair cut, order enough contact lenses to last the entire trip, put my car insurance on hold, move out of my cottage, and cram everything I owned into storage. I also had to place my domestic life on hold for six months: February, March, and April I’d be living on Salt Spring Island in Canada to train in a saltwater environment, and, after a brief return to Montana to fine-tune any trip logistics, the following three months I’d be paddling to Alaska.
Thick aromas of pineapple, kiwi, banana, and cinnamon greeted me later that day when I entered my kitchen. For months I’d been dehydrating food for my trip and these fruity odors had alternated with the more acidic fragrances of drying tomato leather, chili, and pork stew, and the wholesome smell of sweet red peppers, snap peas, and juicy tomatoes. Wafting through my cottage 24 hours a day, these were the smells of progress. I dehydrated much of my food for this expedition in order to eat well and to save space in my kayak. The rest of my kit was no different. I’d learned the importance of going as light as possible from my previous trips, and as I prepared for this one, it was imperative that each item that went in the “go pile” had multiple purposes to warrant taking up precious space in my hatches. Empty, my kayak weighed 52 pounds. Full of gear, water, and food it would top the scales at over 150 pounds. On numerous trips I’d experienced heightened annoyance with all the stuff one takes on an expedition and was forever inventing ways to lighten my load.
I regularly refined my urban hunting and gathering skills by sleuthing food co-ops, Asian markets, and wholesale grocery stores. I also frequented farmers’ markets and pilfered friends’ gardens and orchards, bringing home a wide array of fruits and vegetables that would lie on my dehydrator trays as hot, dry air sucked the moisture out and inhibited the growth of bacteria. I’d be packing up to two week’s worth of food in my kayak hatches between each resupply town, so the substantial savings in weight and volume were worth the effort. An entire pineapple fit into a snack-size baggie, and ten medium-size dried tomatoes weighed in under one ounce. I had already vowed not to subsist on preservative-laden canned mystery meats, lifeless sodium-saturated noodles, or bottomless jars of boring peanut butter. I was committed to having quality food choices on my trip—something to look forward to after a long day on the water, to savor and delight in. And as far as I was concerned, chocolate was non-negotiable. This treat consoled me on nearly all my adventures, and would be tucked into every available nook and cranny in my hatches.
THE WINTER SOLSTICE HAD PASSED, and the days were growing noticeably longer—the closeness of spring and the dawn of my trip loomed on the horizon. I grew restless from what felt like hopeless inertia. In my small, snow-bound Montana cabin, I longed to be attuned to the tides and currents, and smell the briny richness of the sea, my wild spirit reawakened. My thoughts turned to the seemingly endless eighteen-hour days I’d spend dipping my paddle along the wild coasts of British Columbia and Alaska. I could already see myself exploring the labyrinthine passages, clicking away the miles as I glided through the archipelago of islands. I was ready for the paddle to be my vocation, my engine, my brake, my steering wheel, my safety net, my rescue device. It was the repetitive, sometimes mundane, sometimes enchanting and hypnotic, stroke of the paddle that would tap the reset button in my mind, body, and soul. It’s what would keep me going out there. It would prop up my kitchen tarp, wave to passing fishermen, propel me forward, and poke at kelp beds during those rare times when I practiced the art of doing nothing, an acquired skill I had yet to master.
On expeditions of this nature, particularly solo ones, it seems there is always something that needs tending to. A large percentage of my time and energy would be spent on mere survival. Staying upright, dry, fed, hydrated, warm, alive. Dealing with my fears, doubts, and despair along the way, landing and launching, finding adequate camps and setting up and breaking down those camps, practicing good bear camping etiquette, experiencing many a restless night despite the good etiquette—all these things would occupy my time. But I prepared for these potential hardships and planned my trip around them, through them.
Paddling solo, I shouldered the burden of self-reliance, whereas people who paddled with others had the luxury of divvying things up. They share the carrying; they also share the workload. One person tends to the kitchen area, while the other pitches the tent and fluffs the sleeping bags. One person dips water from a nearby stream while a paddling partner rounds up some firewood. Whoever cooks is pardoned from KP duty. With convenient carrying handles attached to the bow and the stern of each kayak, it’s remarkably helpful when there’s another body to pick up the opposite end.
But I was choosing to go solo because I believe there is a clarity that comes with silence, a peaceful understanding and heightened awareness with solitude. Just as quality companionship is a gift, so too is delicious alone time. It helps deliver a feeling of contentment and a profound sense of gratitude. The mind-numbing repetition, the familiar motion of the paddle, and the delicate sound of the blade piercing the water—all these things are comforting to me. On a solo adventure I’m alone in my world, free to explore at my own pace; my experience is mine and no one else’s. I’m simply a part of it all, and intricately a part of something much bigger. I also felt that in being alone, truly alone, with my thoughts, feelings, hardships, and hissy fits, I could begin to understand the uneasiness I had been feeling, put an end to the self-destructive patterns that were braided through my past, and accept myself fully. I only wanted to be responsible for me, myself, and I—and that at times, was enough of a handful.
I knew this trip would be different from that of anyone who had gone before me: different in my approach and different in what I would take away from it. Before I embarked, that was all I truly knew. The rest would reveal itself to me on a need-to-know basis. I hoped to derive simple pleasures from all that was out there: the creatures, the plants, the water itself that would challenge me with its dance of rising and falling twice a day, every day. I hoped to be more at peace with myself and truly learn to live in the moment. For out there, what else is there? My survival would depend upon “the skill of now.”
As the January moon waxed over the Rocky Mountains, I realized it would be the last full moon I would see in Montana—whether momentarily or permanently, I had yet to determine. I was undecided as to whether I would return to this place I had called home for nearly twenty years. I’d always wanted to live near saltwater, and I had an inkling that that desire could grow too strong to ignore. My cottage walls were now barren, closets and drawers empty. Mounds of expedition gear had replaced furniture, and would be leaving with me. My emotions fluctuated like the tides that seemed worlds away. With so many decisions to be made synchronistically, the enormity of it all was hopelessly daunting and hugely gratifying.
WE ALL HAVE GOALS to reach, journeys to experience, and summits to tackle, whether metaphorical or physical. Dan Millman, in The Warrior Athlete, writes about how each one of us has been given a different mountain to climb, a goal to reach, during our life. The peak represents our highest potential. Each of us may be at different points in this journey: at the base looking up, on the mountain’s shoulders enveloped in the clouds, out on the plains contemplating where your mountain even is, or maybe on the summit, already scanning the horizon for the next peak. Regardless of where you are, Millman emphasizes, one should have a map of the terrain ahead, to avoid drifting or wandering aimlessly.
The complex route I would paddle consisted of 32 maps, or more accurately, nautical charts, each measuring three feet by four feet. Chart number 3462, Juan De Fuca Strait to Strait of Georgia, laid crisp and clean on the carpeted floor of my small cabin, which was the only place I could completely unfurl it. My starting point, Anacortes, Washington, highlighted in bright yellow, practically leapt off the paper. To this chart’s right sat an unfurled chart of the finish line, featuring Lynn Canal and Skagway, Alaska. Neatly stacked between them were the thirty other charts that would mark the progress of my journey, as would the islands, inlets, channels, sounds, straits, bays, fjords, waterfalls and lighthouses depicted on them.
Months earlier, as part of my logistical homework, I had loosely plotted my entire route on these paper charts hoping I could better wrap my brain around what I might encounter along the way. I tacked a six-foot paper map of the entire Inside Passage to the wall next to my desk and used it as a big-picture planning reference for the charts I’d be using on the trip.
On my hands and knees, I smoothed the creases of the chart I’d hand-numbered “21” and pushed aside a metal ruler, a small plastic compass, and two dog-eared books about the Inside Passage. I laid one of the books on the top right corner of the chart to keep it from rolling back over on itself.
Standing up, I plucked chart number 22 from the stack behind me and tacked it to the wall as Jim nodded in approval over my shoulder. He stepped aside as I hung chart number 23 on the adjacent wall, to the right of number 22.
“The currents will meet and reverse here at Klewnuggit Inlet,” Jim said pointing a long, bony finger on the arrow-straight, nearly fifty-mile long Grenville Channel. “If your timing is spot on, you’ll get a free ride with both the flood and the ebb.” He ran his finger up and then down the length of the fjord, his shaggy eyebrows knitted together in concentration.
That day he had driven ninety miles on icy roads from his home in Eureka to my riverside cottage to help me with some of the trip’s logistics. I respected Jim’s advice and appreciated his calm demeanor and breadth of experience. A plethora of expedition knowledge and expertise floated around in Jim’s brain and I planned on gleaning every last ounce of that information from him. We had all day to pore over the charts, yet I was anxious that it wasn’t enough time. I nervously thumbed through the list of questions I had scribbled on a yellow notepad. For the next eight hours on that late January day in 2010, Jim and I worked methodically through those questions, and the entire one-dimensional route. Fat snowflakes piled up outside and a bitter cold wind formed small wavelets on the still open areas of the ice-encrusted river that sluggishly flowed in front of my cabin.
THE 32 CHARTS that captivated our attention that day were the same charts Jim had used on his trip eighteen years earlier. His generosity had saved me well over a thousand dollars, and his knowledge and past experience with the Inside Passage saved me umpteen hours of trying to figure this stuff out on my own. Most of the charts contained his personal annotations—lightly penciled commentaries of particular importance—many of which were derived from his own Inside Passage mentor and close friend, Audrey Sutherland, the “grand dame of expedition paddling.” Just as Jim, with his experience and knowledge of the Inside Passage, was my inspiration and go-to person, Audrey was his. The queen of going simple and solo, Audrey had started paddling in her fifties and remained a hardcore paddler well into her eighties, logging tens of thousands of miles in British Columbia, Alaska, and Hawaii. Prior to Jim’s solo 1992 trip, she had requested he mail her all his charts. Within two weeks, they were back on her protégé’s doorstep, neatly organized and annotated. Suitable campsites, fresh water sources, refuges, areas where prudence should prevail, lurking dangers, and stern precautions were duly noted, lightly handwritten in a sharp-pointed pencil. The initials A.S. always followed her notations. I was honored that soon those charts would guide me.
I learned years ago to never call a nautical chart a map unless, that is, I wanted to sound like a landlubber. Charts are nautical roadmaps of the water, designed specifically for marine navigation. As if conspiring to confuse a lone paddler, the nautical chart and the marine compass speak different languages. Due north, whether depicted on a globe, a map, or a nautical chart, is shown as true north or geographic north—a representation of how the mapmaker sees the world. I was heeding the rules of magnetic north—how my deck-mounted compass sees the world, as the direction from my location to the magnetic North Pole, which sits off-kilter from the top of the world. The compass works because the earth is essentially a gigantic magnet, with its floating needle always swinging toward that massive, slowly moving lodestone. I’ve always wondered why someone couldn’t just dig up the magnetic North Pole and replant it on the top of the world. It would make certain things so much easier.
Seafarers call the difference in the readings between true north and magnetic north variation—landlubbers call it declination. Thankfully, a simple element called a compass rose, superimposed on the chart, does the math for you. Nice touch, chart makers.
STUDYING THE CHARTS and reading everything related to the Inside Passage revealed what I considered four “rites of passage,” or crux areas I would encounter—four chunks of open water that I would paddle through that had the potential to be dangerous and that, quite frankly, scared the hell out of me. The first was Boundary Pass, which divides the San Juan Islands from their Canadian cousins, the Gulf Islands. The US-Canadian border runs through the middle of this four-mile, open-water crossing, which is smack in the center of a major shipping lane. Beamy freighters, barges, container ships, tugs, cruise ships, ferries and any conceivable pleasure craft frequent these waters. To compound the freakout factor, Boundary Pass is notorious for considerable current and wind.
My second crux area, the Strait of Georgia, carves a gaping hole between Vancouver Island and the mainland, encompassing over a hundred miles of open water. I was warned that “Ms. Georgia,” as I called her, could dish up an attitude in the blink of an eye, and I didn’t plan on ignoring her reputation.
The third crux was Cape Caution, an ominous headland perched above the northern reaches of Vancouver Island that faced an uninterrupted sea horizon—all the way to Japan. Just uttering the place name conjured up images of scenes from The Perfect Storm. Appropriately named, the cape is exposed to everything the Pacific can and will dish out. This is open-ocean padding with the potential for huge swells and raging surf. And, just to access this area, I would first have to cross Queen Charlotte Strait, another serious body of water with a bad-ass reputation.
The fourth crux was where two large bodies of water collided at the Alaskan border: Dixon Entrance and Hecate Strait. Why they were referred to as “the punching bag of the Pacific Ocean” became apparent when I studied their immensity on my chart. As if to appease myself, I drew a dotted line representing where I intended to cross from British Columbia into Alaska. I wrote in whimsical letters, “You’re in Alaska!” Of course, it was smack in the middle of the punching bag.
Skedaddling across Boundary Pass, playing hopscotch across the Strait of Georgia, clearing the prominent headland of the infamous Cape Caution, and putting Dixon Entrance and the Alaskan border behind me would all be necessary evils. Jim warned me that any or all of these known challenges could be pussycats or roaring lions when the time came, and that other less ballyhooed places could take me by surprise. The best strategy was to be prepared for anything at any time.
APPROXIMATELY THIRTEEN WEEKS LATER, traveling the same route I’d driven hundreds of times to reach the sea, Jim and I hammered over two mountain passes, headed west in my ten-year-old Subaru Outback. Generally those rendezvous were aimed at getting a quick saltwater fix. But this one was different, celebratory. We were heading to the starting line—the same beach that Jim had launched from eighteen years earlier, a beach I would take my first strokes from in two days.
The Rocky Mountains disappeared in my rearview mirror; soon the Cascade Range would loom in the distance, and beyond that, the Pacific Ocean; within that, the Inside Passage. My first resupply box jostled in the back of my car, along with all the accoutrements I would need for this adventure. The other boxes were each choreographed to arrive at their intended destinations at the proper time. Logistically, I had broken my trip into seven legs strung between six resupply points—ports of call that I would paddle into to retrieve a box of supplies that would hopefully be waiting for me, care of general delivery, at its respective post office. I’d calculated the distance between each resupply town and then figured how long it would take me to paddle that distance, duly noting such variables as bad weather, illness, or even injury. These six boxes contained essential items for the next leg of my journey: charts, food, toilet paper, and, of course, chocolate. During the last few weeks of packing up I’d nearly worn the cardboard flaps thin, repeatedly opening and closing them, demanding a visual on something I was already fairly certain I’d seen in that box at least twelve other times. Finally, I had to trust that ninety days of food and gear would be where it needed to be when it needed to be there, and sealed the six boxes shut with sturdy strapping tape. It was a ginormous act of faith.
A missed or misplaced resupply box would be a disaster. To circumvent this, I personally contacted each postmaster to let him or her know about the box and to confirm the proper mailing address.
POSTMASTER: This package contains essential food and gear for an Inside Passage kayaker. Please hold for her arrival around __/__/__.
I had typeset the words in a 48-point font and printed out six sheets on bright white paper. I taped these, along with large address labels, on the top of each box and neatly printed my name and cellphone number on all four sides.
Jim read a tattered copy of Moby Dick while I drove, and my mind wandered to all that I had done to prepare for this journey that suddenly loomed so close. I thought about how single-minded I was in my commitment, progressively lengthening my training paddles, early morning runs, and evening power-yoga sessions. I thought about all the books I’d devoured about the Inside Passage and how I stayed up late under the blue glow of my monitor, sleuthing websites and blogs, gleaning any information I could from those who had gone before me. I had schooled myself on weather, tides, currents, and navigation. For months, I had futzed with gear, waded through more websites, and tended to other seemingly endless logistical tasks. In doing all this I believed that eventually I would be incorrigibly, utterly prepared.