There is a spiritual presence which can aptly cushion our every fall, bringing comfort and subtle meaning to our lives. However, we’ll not feel this gentle comfort unless we attune ourselves to the others in our company. It’s within another’s soul that we sense the beacon of light which illuminates the way we’re traveling.
—Anonymous
IT WAS TIME for Becky and me to stir up the seas together. After two rest and resupply days, I was ready to begin paddling again—and excited to have my dear friend accompany me. Since I had 260 nautical miles under my hull, Becky was concerned that she’d never be able to match my pace and that she would hold me back. For months she had been paddling tenaciously, trying to whip herself into shape. I did my best to assuage her fears and focused on the fact that we were now a team. This leg of the journey was no longer a solo endeavor—we were sisters of the sea, after all. I had no intentions of leaving her behind.
This section had the potential to be the most dangerous leg of the entire trip because a good chunk of it is essentially not on the “inside.” First we had to get ourselves across Queen Charlotte Strait, or the “Queen’s Pond” as the locals referred to it. Named after the wife of George III, this large, often moody, body of water concerned us. Its long fetch, the distance traveled by wind or waves across open water, provided more opportunity for problematic conditions. With a fetch to the south of nearly forty miles and a fetch to the north of over a thousand miles, our eighteen-mile crossing was not to be taken lightly. The next 25 miles would entail paddling an exposed coastline, including working our way around the infamous Cape Caution—my third crux and the trip’s true rite of passage. Windswept trees warned mariners to take heed of this coastline, where large ocean swells often galumphed unimpeded for thousands of miles across the mighty Pacific until they finally collided with the Cape.
Our progress across Queen’s Pond soon reached a crescendo. Ominous swells eight to ten feet high rolled under our hulls, lifting us skyward like a nautical roller coaster, as they marched their way south down the strait, a continuum of rolling energy. We paddled a few wave sets apart on these hilly seas, with no illusion of a safety net. In all reality we knew that if one of us capsized, it would be an arduous task for the other to effect a rescue without going in the drink herself. Becky would occasionally disappear in the trough of the wave she was riding, and I would lose sight of her for long seconds. Now, with another paddler beside me, for the first time I had a mind-boggling sense of scale—and a sobering sense of vulnerability. It seemed more foreboding having the frame of reference of another kayak near me, rising and falling with the mercury-colored water.
“I think they’re getting smaller,” I yelled to Becky, but my words were swept away by the galloping wind.
“What?” she yelled back.
“THE WAVES—I THINK THEY’RE GETTING SMALLER,” I repeated, trying to maintain a veneer of calm and suppress my jangled nerves. She just shook her head, clearly annoyed with my flawed optimism. Later she admitted that she wanted to wring my neck. She knew the conditions were deteriorating and although not scared for her life, she was intimidated.
Halfway across, we snuck into the lee of a group of islands to take a much-needed breather. A fishing boat with a weathered white hull and black trim was anchored nearby and the two men on board waved us over.
“Would you like some fish for dinner, ladies?” one fisherman asked, holding a meaty, partially filleted, just-hauled-out-of-the-ocean cod by the tail.
“Ummm, sounds great!” we said in unison, flashing the fishermen big toothy smiles. He finished filleting the cod on the boat’s deck, stuffed it into a large plastic sack, and handed it overboard to me. I quickly popped my sprayskirt and placed it between my legs in the cockpit. With the water temp hovering around fifty degrees, my kayak was a spacious floating cooler, keeping anything that touched its cold hull nicely chilled.
The Queen wasn’t letting Becky and me out of her moody grip until our bows touched ashore at the appropriately named Shelter Bay, a surf-free zone on the mainland tucked behind a small cluster of islands protecting the foreshore. In camp, I unwrapped the fish and realized it was enough to feed four or five hungry paddlers. I whacked it in half with my diver’s knife and threw the other half back to the ocean. Better the crabs devour it than some nosy bear. Between our two small cook pots, we managed to whip up a scrumptious supper al fresco, centered on the fresh catch of the day. Tonight’s menu was sautéed cod, brown rice drizzled with olive oil and dusted with parmesan cheese, and a green salad. I assembled the salad in Becky’s helmet, lined with a plastic grocery bag, and placed two individual servings of blue cheese dressing next to it. Becky’s coffee cup served as a makeshift vase and she filled it with a rainbow of wildflowers, resting in sea water. I augmented her creative touch with a few seashells, and our centerpiece was complete. We poured two glasses of fine boxed red wine and settled into our soft camp chairs, level with the ground, to enjoy our feast.
The next morning, day nineteen, we paddled side by side in light winds out of the southeast. Becky’s silver hair sparkled in the sunlight, and she sat tall in her bright yellow kayak, her slender figure ensconced in a blue drysuit. We paddled under steep granite cliffs, rimmed in white, their lower portions littered with colorful bursts of sea anemones, starfish, sea cucumbers, and other intertidal life, all simultaneously hanging on to the ocean topography and reaching out to the rising tide. A lush, fecund forest towered above us, its deep green contrasting with the smoky-white layer of featureless clouds suspended overhead. We were relaxed and cheerful; the ambiance that pervaded the flat, friendly water all around us was a welcome reprieve from yesterday’s white-knuckle-butt-pucker paddle.
The only place we encountered rougher waters that day was crossing the entrance to Slingsby Channel, a short stretch of water that Jim had warned me about. Patches of foam, indicating turbulent water, met us at its shallow mouth. The colliding combination of the tide ebbing back to sea and the northwesterly swell fluffed up the water like a master chef stirring her pot. The world beneath our hulls went silent as we glided through the billowy foam, much like a skier glides through soft, powdery snow.
Soon the two-mile-long sandy crescent-shaped beach of Burnett Bay came into view. Its long arc of brilliant white sand was hard to miss. If it had been located in a warmer clime instead of the remote windswept coast of British Columbia with its fifty-degree waters, it would be stuffed with resort hotels.
We anticipated a surf landing on the north end of this unprotected, wave-battered beach and had brought helmets for this very reason. Fortunately, we didn’t need them. Two sets of small, lethargic waves lapped the shallow foreshore, then melted into the sand, allowing us to coast in sans drama. We’d paddled fifteen unhurried miles that day, compared to the eighteen arduous miles our first day together.
Feeling empowered by our successful landing, we struck Xena: Warrior Princess poses—one neoprene-bootied foot planted firmly on our stern decks, paddles held triumphantly overhead, exuding our best look of defiance, and snapped photos of each other, giggling and reveling in our silliness.
Illustration by Jim Chester
I HAD A TREASURE to share with Becky—a treasure referred to in certain paddling circles as “the magical cabin.” It stood humbly alone in the forest, at the end of a serpentine trail, not far from where we stood, waiting to accommodate those who would respect and honor it. Soon after landing at Burnett Bay, Becky followed me down the trail and after a few moments we stood together and admired the magical cabin from a distance. Proud and enchanting, with a patchwork of new and weathered cedar shakes on the roof, it beckoned to us. We ducked our heads and stepped inside.
A small wooden bunk bed filled the length of the back wall; a compact table and wood stove graced opposite walls. Two half-burned candles sat cemented to the wooden tabletop in a puddle of cooled wax, and a handful of mouse-eaten books were stacked in the windowsill. An improvised shelter outside served as a kitchen area, and a discreet outhouse was a short distance away on a spur trail heading south. Most notably there was no graffiti. This place was too magical and mystical for that nonsense.
This tiny cabin was built in 1985 by Randel Washburne, a kayaker, for kayakers. As paddlers began to stumble upon this gem, mostly via tips from other paddlers, many inquired about the story of the building, wishing to know who built it and if this person minded others using it. In 1987, Washburne scrawled this note and hung it on a nail above the stove:
NOTICE: This cabin was built by a kayaker for anyone who paddles, rows, or swims along this coast. As builder I have NO proprietary feelings here (guess I enjoy the building as much as staying)—this place is everybody’s. I haven’t been back here for two years. The stovepipe is in its last stages of life, so be very careful and keep a small fire. Pass the word south for someone to bring up four lengths of 4” stove pipe and an elbow when they come here! Take the pipe down (new pipe, that is, don’t disturb this) and cover the hole when departing and it will last much longer.
Audrey Sutherland, Jim’s IP mentor, and the grand dame of expedition paddling, clearly had a soft spot in her heart for this cabin. I’d noticed her lightly penciled annotations on my charts ever since leaving Anacortes, but the eleventh chart in my 32-chart lineup had a particularly lengthy comment. Squinting in the cabin’s dull light, I read Audrey’s annotation from chart number 3551 as Becky peered over my shoulder:
Tiny magical cabin, 6x8’ built by a kayaker with tools carried in kayak. It’s for the use of kayakers who treasure and care for it. A.S.
Audrey had penciled in a perfect square, indicating the cabin’s position. Two other notations mentioned small streams and wolf tracks.
We’d found nirvana in the forest and began nesting, as women will often do. Our lively chatter filled the forest while we made several trips back and forth to the boats for our food and gear. I threw my sleeping bag on the upper bunk, placed my headlamp on top so I could find it when darkness fell, dug out my flask of dark spiced rum and poured us both a snort. Due to space and weight limitations, we had to skimp on some gear, but rum, take-apart acrylic wine glasses—and chocolate—were nonnegotiable items on all our adventures. I smiled at Becky as we toasted the magical cabin and our good fortune, our plastic glasses ceremoniously thudding together. Luscious dark rum met our lips, and we both sighed deeply. With beverages still in hand, we ducked our heads under the low-hanging doorway and stepped back outside into an enchanting rainforest.
High winds, big seas, and unfriendly surf kept us in and near the magical cabin for the next three days. What a wonderful place to be stormbound! We took long walks and long naps, caught up on reading and journal writing, and simply enjoyed our surroundings. We had no choice but to wait for our window of opportunity to contend with our next crux move—the cat-and-mouse game around the infamous Cape Caution.
The name is in fact historically rooted and venerably sourced by none other than Captain George Vancouver. In an “Aw shucks, I was afraid this would happen” moment on July 6, 1792, his ship was “suddenly grounded on a bed of sunken rocks.” It was a Monday afternoon proving that Mondays apparently were no better in 1792 than in 2010. In the ensuing melee between ship and ocean, Vancouver’s Discovery was laid on her side in the outgoing tide to the extent that, as Vancouver wrote in A Voyage of Discovery “… the starboard main chains were within three inches of the surface of the sea.”
Fortune smiled on the expedition though. “Happily, at this time, there was not the smallest swell or agitation, although we were in the immediate vicinity of the ocean. This must ever be regarded as a very providential circumstance, and was highly favorable to our very irksome and perilous situation,” Vancouver penned. They were faced with “…nothing short of immediate and inevitable destruction …” until “…the returning flood, which to our inexpressible joy was at length announced by the floating of the shoars, a happy indication of the ship righting.”
“Oh dear Lord, get me to Tuesday,” Vancouver doubtlessly muttered. “And … note to cartographer … call that place Cape Caution!” This prominent headland is damnably shallow—less than forty feet deep over a mile offshore. Any wind, waves, or ocean swell coming in off the vast expanse of the Pacific collides with this shallow ocean topography. The result is a witch’s stew, a concoction that can boil up yet another nasty little ingredient: fierce winds. Winds going around a corner are called—not surprisingly—corner winds. Corner winds by dint of physics are up to 25 percent stronger than winds in the same vicinity not trying to race around points of land. Cape Caution is a corner.
The cape itself, a low rocky headland bare of trees, is nondescript. There is no Hardy Boy cliff topped with a lighthouse casting its searching beam out to sea between sheets of rain and flashes of lightning. Neither is there a lighthouse keeper, sporting a yellow slicker and sou’wester hat, clinging to storm-tossed iron railings. No, there is just a stocky metal tower that serves as an automated navigation light. Decidedly uninspiring.
Nonetheless, caution is advised and Becky and I knew that getting around the cape safely required some strategy and patience lest we find ourselves perched like a weather vane on top of the navigation light. So we waited. And we ate.
On paddling days, breakfasts typically consisted of something quick and cold, so we could get on the water and put in some miles. On rest days, whether intentional or imposed upon us by Mother Nature, we could indulge in a warm and nutritious start to our day. Extra bonus: not burning off the calories in the first hour. On our first morning at the magical cabin we dined on rehydrated hash browns and powdered eggs scrambled with bacon bits, dehydrated veggies, and melted cheese, washed down with dark coffee in which floated lumps of powdered creamer. Only on land-bound days like these could we enjoy the luxury of a second cup.
It started to sprinkle just as we were finishing breakfast, so we retreated into the cabin. I settled into a paperback book I had brought along for days like this, while Becky sorted through some of her gear.
“Okay if I turn on the weather radio for a spell, Suz?” she asked after a while.
“Sure,” I replied, listening with one ear as I perused I Heard the Owl Call My Name. The weather report dictated that we would stay put. Thirty-foot seas dominated the cape and huge breaking surf had rolled in like a locomotive train, reminding us who was in charge.
Later, beachcombing, we watched forty-knot winds shear off the tops of waves, sending spindrift high into the air. Whirling winds flew through our hair, and sand stung our faces. We climbed onto enormous stumps heaved up on shore from previous storms, attesting to the power of the Pacific Ocean, and attuned ourselves to the otherworldly aura of Burnett Bay: a two-mile patch of wildness rimmed with Doctor Seuss-like trees and dense clusters of vegetation resembling Japanese botanical gardens that withstood Mother Nature’s ferocity. We refilled our water bladders, took scads of photos, and stumbled on wolf tracks. According to the journal entries in a stash back at the cabin, there are always wolf tracks on this sickle-shaped beach. One citation noted grizzly bear tracks on the south end, and another mentioned bear tracks just outside his tent.
Lying in my top bunk that night, with the wind howling and the surf raucously pounding the beach, I wondered whether a grizzly bear could get into this cabin if it really wanted to. I knew the answer, but drifted off to sleep anyway.
When morning came, there was no need to check the weather report. Gale force winds blew stiffly outside the cabin, and Burnett Bay was a froth of white. We were cabin-bound for another day. As wonderful as the magical cabin and Burnett Bay were, I was growing restless again. I reprimanded myself, then ran my usual self-help tape in my mind. Patience, my dear. Read your book. Write in your journal. Revel in those long walks. Relax. Surrender. You are exactly where you need to be for this adventure, this coast, this body, this life.
AFTER BREAKFAST ON OUR THIRD DAY AFTER t the cabin I climbed back into the upper bunk, a process more closely suited to a six-year-old, and snuggled deep into my sleeping bag. It was May 25, day 21 of the trip. Still wearing her pajamas, Becky sat cross-legged at the small wooden table and read aloud various entries from the cabin log books, notes, and cards left by other kayakers. It was remarkable to sift through these chronicles and read about the adventures of those traveling before us. Like a child being told a bedtime story, I listened to Becky’s voice as our small fire crackled in the wood stove and the wind whispered through the trees.
June 12-16, 1988
Paddled from Port Hardy via Deserters Group. Having a cabin is wonderful! I brought the lengths of 4” stovepipe and a cap, but didn’t know about the elbow so it is still a makeshift. I’ll take down the top section when I leave and cover the hole. A fire is laid ready to light in case you arrive cold and wet. There’s a lighter and some tea in the cupboard. I laid a new floor, scrounging 2-by lumber from the far reaches of the beach. It isn’t nailed down. The owner should approve first. For nailing, there is a vertical strip of 1-by at 2’ intervals. There also is a layer of black plastic on the ground under the 1-bys to keep out the damp. If nailing in, shove it all toward the door to close any cracks. The door was binding and I put a spacer under the top hinge and waxed it. Now it neither squeaks nor binds, and the sliding bolt fits better. Cleared some brush, planted some ferns, stacked lumber, and brought in firewood. The stream to the north is a good little one. Not much rain as glad not to be dependent on catchment.
—Audrey Sutherland
Audrey visited the cabin again in 1990, adding more flavor to the log books:
May 22, 1990
En route from Port Hardy north, going toward Ketchikan, going as far as the boat, the body, and the weather permit. Today 30 knots from the SE. Yesterday 25 knots from the north. Tomorrow? Great to read all your notes. New elbow installed and spare under the bunk. The strange piece of plywood on the woodpile is a mast step/foot brace. Decided it was more liability than asset. Use that nice 7-ply mahogany if you can or feed it to the fire. That dead tree by the back right corner is a worry. Could two strong guys with ropes pull it down and over away from the cabin? I didn’t dare try. This place is always the high point of the trip. “Once upon a time there was a tiny magic cabin in the forest and …”
—Audrey Sutherland & Kayak “Diodon” (the balloon fish)
Becky read another entry that further piqued my interest:
June 30, 1992
Greetings Cabin Denizens. We surfed our kayaks in here yesterday under a bright, blazing sun. Our friend Jim had already arrived earlier in the day due to us being gobbled in the ebb just past the Fox Group. This cabin is really funky—yet another reason for us to stay an extra day …
—Jason
It would be nice to spend more time here but the northward urge is pulling us on! I could easily find myself happily stuck here for weeks if I didn’t have the idea of a trip to Alaska stuck in my head. The cabin is telling me to mellow out, but I’m curious to see the rest of the coast. Luckily everybody who has been here makes me feel welcome to return. I’ll see you soon!
—Robson
I quickly realized it was my Jim the authors were referring to. Jim’s 1992 trip was mostly solo, but I remembered him telling me about running into a young threesome of paddlers named Robson, Jason, and Christy.
Jim’s entry soon followed:
July 1, 1992
A landlubber from Montana on a vision quest via kayak on the sea. Hello to you all, past and future. A rare privilege indeed to be here, at this tiny desk, in this wonderful cabin, in the shadow of Cape Caution; the sound of the surf and wind as one … For the moment, I have companions — three friends who graciously allowed me to share their camp at Shelter Bay, and fed me, too; a happy chance encounter in the cosmos […] It’s hard to leave such a place. For me it’s as though I’ve finally found “home” after so many, many years of looking. I will leave a part of my soul here and will return to the “unreal” world clutching a bit of this place to my heart—a sort of talisman against the “craziness” out there. Thank you little cabin and all of you, my companions on this journey of life! Thank you Audrey for the tip on this place.
—Jim & kayak “Ghost,” Eureka, Montana
1993 (month unknown)
“Cabin Builder” returns after five years absence! Can’t believe it’s been so long. I am pleased to find the place in such good shape and to see that so many people have enjoyed it through the years. Traveling solo, it feels really companionable to read the log and see the touches, big and small (Audrey’s especially), and offerings left behind. Anyhow on my way from Bella Bella to Port Hardy via West Athelone, Goose Island, Triquet Island, and West Calvert … Don’t know when I’ll get back up here, so I’ll write some ideas for building a simple breakdown [stove replacement] one to bring up in a kayak.
—Randy
April 25, 2002
Two Kiwi kayakers traveling from Victoria to Juneau and back. We realize that those are the destinations but it is the journey that is most important. Here at Burnett Bay we have started to find the true wilderness we were seeking. Although the last week has had strong northwesterlies and has hampered our progress, we were unable to resist the charms of Burnett Bay and spent a wonderful two days enjoying the sun, exploring and trying to interpret the animal tracks in the sand: deer, wolf and what appeared to be cougar tracks following one set of deer tracks. Reading through the journals reveals a who’s who of sea kayakers, some of whom have written books that inspired our trip – Audrey Sutherland, Byron Ricks, and Randy Washburne. Thanks for this treasure in the woods.
—Garth
“You might want to read this one yourself, Suz,” Becky said, handing me the tattered journal. Taking it carefully in my hands, I took a deep, slow breath, quickly scanning the words before reading them aloud.
July 1996
Greetings again little cabin. You and I first met in July 1992. I was headed north to Alaska. After a most interesting summer that year, I’d in fact made it to Juneau. This year, I am traveling south and on only a 10 or 12 day journey from Finn Bay to Port Hardy. I have my wife Susan with me this time. She was only an undefined dream back then. Now she is reality and it’s my sublime pleasure to share with her some of my magic moments and places I’d experienced. We’ve been to Fury Island, Cranstown Point, the Golden Sand Beach, around the Cape, and walked this beach, experiencing the pleasure of place and one another. You, little cabin, are wonderful as always. Never change. Always be here, for the next time! To all our fellow paddlers, rowers, etc, it is a great pleasure and honor to meet you here through these pages once again. And, to one special one who also loved me, maybe still does, you’ve been on my mind since the moment I set foot on the beach. Your spirit pervades the place and everywhere where the wind meets the sea and the sea meets the land.
—Jim & Susan Chester
I was that Susan Chester. At one time, Jim and I had been married. On New Year’s Eve 1992 I sat in the back seat of Jim’s Toyota Tercel wagon, directly behind his long, weathered neck. My bald tires and rear-wheel drive lummox of a vehicle were no match for the snow-packed passes of the Canadian Rockies. Fate had decided that I would carpool with Jim and two others, all of whom I was meeting for the first time, from Eureka, Montana, to Banff, Alberta, for five days of backcountry hut skiing. At fifty years old, he was fresh off his solo Inside Passage trip from the previous summer. I, on the other hand, was a greenhorn kayaker, living in landlocked Montana, and had no clue as to what the Inside Passage was. As far as I was concerned, it was an esoteric chunk of water “out there” somewhere on the West Coast, and Jim, having paddled it, was way out of my league. But as I learned more about his passion for adventure, for the magical waterways of the Inside Passage, for the Great Bear Rainforest, for life and all that is right, I was mysteriously taken by this man.
Three years later, as a harvest moon climbed above the Canadian Rockies in northwest Montana, we exchanged vows beside a small lake, while friends—mostly dressed in shorts and sandals—looked on. Together we failed miserably at five years of matrimony and pulled the plug just days before the 21st century roared into our worlds. Though we bonded on many levels, it wasn’t until we divorced and became separate entities, tied only by friendship and our ineradicable knowledge of each other, that we became closer. A platonic intimacy that couldn’t be skewed by sex. We broached the subject all right, and mutually decided that door would remain tightly shut. “Unless, of course, you change your mind,” Jim couldn’t help but add. After all, he was a man. But we both knew that an act that may seem innocuous at the time could have toxic consequences in the end. Still, we continued to tell each other everything, confessing past, present, and even future sins, hopes, and desires.
If I’d had a crystal ball to peer into when I first met Jim, I would have been shocked to see myself, eighteen years later, armed with his wisdom and experience, strength and support, his charts and his good luck talisman, paddling north to Alaska prior to turning the big Five-O myself.
LATER THAT DAY, THE SEAS flattened out. The barometer rose steadily, and the sun shone intermittently. The surf no longer sounded like a freight train, the wind no longer howled through the trees, and cavernous thoughts of fear no longer lurked in the recesses of my mind. That fear had relocated itself front and center. I was mindful that the cape loomed just four miles to the north. We couldn’t see it from this beach, but we knew it was there waiting, quietly, moodily.
“The weather report should be updated by now,” I said to Becky as we finished our walk and cautiously worked our way over the massive piles of driftwood that blocked the trailhead to the cabin. Our boats were pulled up high on the logs—and tethered—out of reach from a boat-stealing high tide. I retrieved the marine radio from my PFD pocket, stashed deep in Chamellia’s cockpit. Our spirits soared as we listened. Wind predictions were scaled down to ten knots, seas only one to two meters. Our window of opportunity was finally about to be pried open. In my mind I could hear Jim’s voice loud and clear with his advice for rounding the cape. “Go with the flow, when everything is traveling in the same direction—the wind, waves, swell, and tide. Go early. Swing ‘er a mile wide.”
“I think a celebration is in order,” Becky said, cradling her flask of rum in both hands.
“Is it rum-thirty already?” I smiled. We had more to celebrate than just our meteorological fortuity—it was also Jim’s birthday. We toasted Jim and discussed our plan for the next day. Weather windows, skill, and good luck were one thing, but both Becky and I were firm believers in positive visualization. We jointly envisioned a safe landing at our next campsite, the cape behind us, elated, triumphant, and pressing that “SPOT OK” button. Our friends back home would be watching and cheering, and Jim would be clicking the reply-to-all button and messaging the group about a job well done.
Burnett Bay had been good to us. After dinner I strolled back to the kayaks to stash a few items, feeling more prepared for the morning’s launch. I noticed wolf tracks less than twenty feet from my boat and watched a cruise ship slip by about two miles offshore, with a large Coast Guard cutter close behind. Earlier that day we had seen the blue-hulled Alaska State Ferry go by. These were all good signs that others were out and about.
That night, I slept restlessly in my narrow upper bunk, which was not much wider than an ironing board. Sporadically, I’d pry open one eye to see if it was daylight yet and strain both ears to listen for surf. I awoke at 5:15 a.m. and immediately walked the trail to an open area to assess Mother Nature’s mood. Thick clouds hung over calm seas; light fog drifted slowly toward me. The tide was out and still dropping, exposing a glistening sand mirror reflecting the clouds and jagged shape of the coastal forest. The two-hour pack up, entailing carrying our kayaks and gear nearly the length of two football fields, put us on the water at 7:30.
With apprehensive sidelong looks at each other, we pushed off from the sandy beach, swallowing back the lumps in our throats, leaving the magical cabin behind, and paddled into what seemed like a false, disquieting calm, toward Cape Caution. We spoke in hushed tones—not wanting to awaken the sleeping giant who had the power to turn our world topsy-turvy—and paddled almost directly under the navigational structure crowning the most westerly point of the cape. It seemed nearly disrespectful to be paddling so close. Our patience paid off; the big bad cape ended up being a total pussycat. We snuck right on by.
NORTH OF CAPE CAUTION we paddled through ivory spume laced with viridescent seaweed, like fresh grass clippings sprinkled atop new snow. Large incoming swells tickled the tops of submerged reefs and exploded violently, opening a cauldron of hell below and erupting spray high above. These suspicious pockets of saltwater energy are called boomers, and along this tangled coast they leapt all around us, window-shading into breakers, then cascading white and frothy against the rocky bluffs, dripping down like milk from a baby’s face. Preferring our skeletons intact, we hurried through this gauntlet, dodging these minefields as best we could, focused on keeping a buffer between the rocks and our boats. We danced among a myriad of boomers and reefs at Hoop Bay and rode tidal surges that kept company with our adrenaline surges and pushed us along at nearly six knots as we eyeballed the ocean floor careening much too fast beneath our boats.
We were in the thick of wild country, a veritable Eden for wildlife. Both grizzlies and black bears roamed the beaches and pawed at huge boulders, barely noticing us as we paddled by. We didn’t see any of the coastal wolves that travel in packs throughout this temperate rainforest, but felt certain they saw us. We did see dolphins, sea otters, sea urchins, and, finally, whales. Humpbacks. Together we enjoyed leisurely paddles along a rugged, dramatic coastline, caressed with sunshine and light winds. The rising tide gently pushed us north, over beds of eggplant-colored mussels, vibrant green anemones, and orange sea stars. We paddled away from the more open waters of Hoop Bay, Smith Sound, and Kelp Head, and crossed the fishing mecca of Rivers Inlet. All five species of salmon fatten up in these nutrient-dense waters; legendary chinooks have topped the scales at sixty pounds. We worked our way toward the numerous smaller islands, channels, and coves of Penrose Island Marine Park and came ashore at the angelically beautiful Fury Island. White shell-midden beaches lined Fury Cove, and had it not been for the frigid water and a north latitude of 51˚29’, we would have sworn we’d paddled into a tropical paradise. When the tide calmly engulfed the dazzling white crushed clam shells, it transformed the water from a dark blue to a deep turquoise.
We pitched our tents at the top of the midden, with open views to the west into Fitz Hugh Sound and into the quiet easterly lagoon created by Fury Cove. Tall stands of red cedar and hemlock graced the interior of the island, lending it a prehistoric feel. Grizzly Bear, an eye-catching fifty-foot schooner, all wood construction and emerald green trim, floated in the small harbor. As the tide lapped toward our bare toes, we lapped up vodka and orange juice, graciously supplied by Tom and Rena, Grizzly Bear’s liveaboard owners.
They both wore mukluks (soft, knee-high boots indicative of sea-faring adventurers), jeans, and long-sleeved fleece shirts. Rena’s thick brown hair danced in the breeze around her tanned olive skin and deep-set dark brown eyes. She had an air of refinement, incongruous with the rough-around-the-edges exterior some liveaboards maintain.
“You know, those tents of yours will be underwater with the midnight tide,” Rena casually mentioned, her Canadian voice carrying just a hint of French. She sensed our disbelief. “Every last spec of the clam shell beach was underwater last night.” That night would bring a full moon—and with it a fifteen-foot tide. We decided not to take any chances. Off into the woods we went with our nylon homes.
Later, Tom got to asking about my route further north. He and Rena often chose life afloat over a terrestrial existence and lived on their sailboat for years at a time. They knew these waters well. Tom, with his obvious passion for all things nautical, struck me as an old salt who still lived with one foot in the maritime past, a modern-day mariner, transplanted from another time, another ocean—perhaps born a century or more too late. A handsome, silver-bearded man with a headful of matching bushy hair, he pointed out a glut of places on my master chart that he thought I should visit. Intrigued, I watched his finger trace long passages, bays, and indentations in the coastline as he spoke of hot springs, waterfalls, and the Kermode spirit bear. Rena gathered firewood and kept our adult beverages thriving.
Just as Rena and Tom were retiring for the evening, a small yacht pulled into our quiet harbor and anchored fifty yards from Grizzly Bear. Yachties, sailors, kayakers—all sharing the same chunk of real estate, dipping into similar magical experiences for a speck of time. We were all mortals of the sea, here for similar reasons: a love of nature in her raw and natural beauty, and a desire to live simply and peacefully.
I’D TUCKED A SMALL BOTTLE OF SHAMPOO into my toiletry kit for the rare, hot shower. Becky and I had hoped that our self-imposed layover day on Fury Island, with a side trip to Buck’s Trophy Lodge, would be such an occasion. The next morning, each armed with trial-sized containers of thick golden shampoo and small camp towels, Becky and I hugged the shoreline of Penrose Island where we aimed to duck into Finn Bay, a large indentation at its north end, and find civilization. We weren’t stopping at just taking showers either. We’d also packed a dry bag full of grimy clothes, our Canadian currency, and our garbage. I’d read in my guidebook that the Finn Bay Resort and Buck’s Lodge were the last of the Rivers Inlet fishing resorts, boasting many amenities. In our minds danced visions of silky clean hair, freshly laundered fleece, an empty garbage bag, and bellies full of fish and chips—and beer.
But instead we sat at Buck’s Trophy Lodge, on a wooden bench, beneath a placard on the boardwalk that read “BULLSHIT BOULEVARD,” with no humans in sight. Turns out we were a few weeks ahead of the season and the lodge was still shut tight. Only two forlorn calico cats, left to their mousing, kept us company. Still sporting grungy hair, dirty fingernails, and over-ripe armpits, we ate our humdrum lunch together, laughing on Bullshit Boulevard. Our consolation was trusting that we could properly freshen up at Namu, a former cannery town about a two-day paddle away.
When we were done eating, we wandered around the floating camp, peeking through locked glass windows into homey guest cabins, a tackle shop, and a laundry room. A dozen fishing boats with Honda outboard motors sat dry-docked, side by side. In the main lodge, tawdry plastic palm trees decorated with strands of chili pepper lights, a pool table, and a cast iron wood stove occupied a large, open room. A hot tub and sauna, to provide relief to the sore arms of anglers who had battled giant salmon for hours—and paid good money to do so—sat forsaken in the corner. In the back stood an oversized varnished bar, where we imagined a few oversized paunches had bellied up. An adjacent room housed a commercial-sized kitchen, brimming with propane tanks, chest freezers, and Formica counter tops. We fantasized about the aroma of cheeseburgers and fish and chips that would permeate the air when Buck’s came to life, when scores of sport fishermen would spend their vacations here, living the beauty and wildness of coastal British Columbia for a short week, maybe two, if they were lucky, sharing their fish tales on Bullshit Boulevard. We, of course, would be long gone by that time.
NORTH OF QUEEN CHARLOTTE SOUND, the Inside Passage winds 250 miles through the Great Bear Rainforest, the largest intact coastal temperate rainforest in the world. Becky and I paddled beneath old-growth western red cedar, western hemlock, and Sitka spruce forests where cougars, wolves, bears, and Sitka black-tailed deer call home—a home that boldly fills twelve thousand square miles and 21 million acres.
While I was researching for my trip, I had learned that bears come in three colors in this fragile ecosystem: brown, black, and white. The white Kermode bear, also known as the spirit bear for its role in First Nations’ lore, is often erroneously thought of as an albino bear, but is actually a black bear with a double recessive gene, which renders its coat white. Both the mama and papa bear must carry the recessive gene in order to produce the white cub. An Oreo-cookie litter often results, with both black and white cubs born from the same pregnancy; one in ten cubs born in the Great Bear Rainforest is white. Resembling a small polar bear, and found nowhere else on earth, the highest populations are found on Princess Royal Island and nearby Gribbell Island, an area I would be passing through soon after Becky and I parted in Bella Bella.
The Kermode bear symbolizes not only what is great about this magical place, but also what is threatened. In my research, I had learned how profit-driven trophy hunting of bears and wolves was upsetting the web of life in this forest. But that is just the tip of the iceberg. The wild salmon population, a vital link in the food chain of a healthy rainforest, was threatened both by overfishing and fish farming. Scientists believe sea lice and other parasites, often rampant in the concentrated environs of fish farms, infect the migrating juvenile wild salmon, enroute to their spawning grounds, which then die in huge numbers. This eventually results in bears and wolves, standing side by side in riverbeds, awaiting their much-anticipated seasonal fall buffet, often going hungry or even starving to death.
I also learned that this area is under threat from a proposed oil pipeline that would ultimately put up to 225 supertankers per year on the narrow arteries of the IP. These colossal ships, some as long as the Empire State Building is tall, would carry up to two million barrels of the world’s dirtiest oil from the Alberta tar sands through this portion of the Inside Passage. This jarred my memory back to 1989 when the Exxon Valdez ran aground and dumped eleven million gallons of crude oil into the sea in Prince William Sound. Years later, an orgy of greed focused on short-term “benefits”—and the next election—evidently still hadn’t learned from past mistakes.
There are simply some places where oil tankers should never go—the Great Bear Rainforest is one of them.
BECKY AND I FELL IN LOVE with the Koeye River, where we camped at its outlet on Heiltsuk First Nations’ property, pitching our tents alongside a sun-bleached longhouse, embellished with First Nations’ graphics. Bold black and red shapes formed whales, wolves, ravens, and eagles on exterior walls of the building, embodying, I assumed, specific meanings and purpose of which I was ignorant. The Koeye, a massive watershed that dumps into Fitz Hugh Sound, lies directly across from Hakai Passage, the opening between Calvert and Hunter Islands, two large landmasses responsible for deflecting the ocean swells from hitting the mainland.
To the west of the longhouse, in a clearing on a point guarding the entrance to the Koeye River, sat an L-shaped lodge. The lodge served as a base camp, along with three riverfront cabins, for the indigenous children of nearby Bella Bella, healing retreats, and eco-holidays for the public. The caretaker was away for a few days, but his two bear dogs enjoyed our company—and our beef jerky. That night they slept in the sand beside our tents; the lighter one guarded Becky, and the darker one guarded me. We were, after all, in dense grizzly country, and they had a job to do. I named them Cocoa and Puff to complement the color of their fur.
Sea Diary
May 30, 2010, day 26, Koeye River
Lying in my tent, 10 p.m., catching up on some journal entries while a crimson sunset lingers outside my door. A cruise ship just floated by about a mile offshore, lights all aglow. It resembles a floating city, loudspeakers blaring, informing the thousands of tourists aboard about the remarkable area they are passing through.
This “lady of the sea” struts about in front of me, a buoyant land of milk and honey—and for one brief moment I am jealous of their decadence. By shifting my perspective I realize that I am the lucky one here. The cruisers only see the big picture. It’s a beauty all right, but what they miss is the micro view. The details. By virtue of my kayak, I’m privy to an intimate perspective not seen from bigger craft. The pervasive aroma of the cedars and spruces offers no redolence to them. They cannot breathe in the stillness of a starry night. They cannot study the imprint of a wolf’s foot or tickle the underside of a sea anemone. Do they pine, I wonder, to lie on their bellies on cedar boughs, peering up at a bald eagle, camera perched, lens zoomed? Click—they missed it. They are missing the intimacy of the interface between land and sea, they lose a sense of detail, a sense of scale. Nor do they feel the coolness of the seawater as it trickles through fingers while washing a dish up after dinner. Or feel the utter satisfaction of delirious exhaustion from self-propelled power. How unfortunate, I thought, to not intimately tune into the rhythm of the sea, to experience the deep ebb and flow. I understand, however, that the only way some people can experience these magical places is to travel onboard these larger, self-contained vessels. I don’t wish to diminish their experience by reveling in mine. Each traveler will come away with a distinct vision, and leave their own unique thumbprint on the Inside Passage.
But I cannot even begin to share, to explain the beauty of this area I have the privilege of paddling through. Words cannot express the sights, the sounds, the smells. The whales, wolves, bears, eagles, loons, the people, the spirits permeating these ancient forests, the mountains, and, of course, the water. It’s all so magical. I feel so very fortunate.
Cocoa watched my every move as I packed up the next morning, and followed me up and down the beach as I loaded my kayak. I petted him gently, looked deep into his eyes, and asked that his spirit stay with me and keep me safe. I could tell from his expression that it would and thanked him by giving him my last piece of jerky. It was hard to say goodbye to Cocoa and Puff. They ran through the forest and out onto the point as we paddled away, watching us until we disappeared on the horizon. Each time I looked back over my shoulder, they were still standing there, watching, waiting.
IN LESS THAN TWO HOURS we paddled into the nautical ghost town of Namu, a defunct cannery, full of ghostly élan, like a dusty mansion with all of great-grandma’s furnishings in place. Giant, dilapidated piers hung out over the water. They once served as a welcome mat to a bustling community with a booming salmon industry and large cannery operation. But in 1980, BC Packers closed their doors and walked away, leaving the community to dissolve back into the sea in its own time. First impressions were uninspiring, but if you looked long enough, I thought, you could feel the nostalgia of a lost era, the sense of history behind the dilapidated clapboard facade, the hustle and bustle of the old cannery, and the traces of the people who made their living here.
“Ahoy!” yelled Theresa, one of three caretakers, kneeling down to grab hold of my deck rigging. We tentatively paddled up to the rotten dock and I wondered if the whole thing would give way and tumble into the sea. “Welcome to Namu!”
With brief formalities out of the way, we clamored out of our boats and stretched our legs on the slippery wood. Fallen from years of neglect, the sagging roofs, rain-soaked planks, peeling paint, and rotting rope were evocative of an aging woman who has let herself go.
“Watch your step,” Theresa said repeatedly. We followed her around the property, her index finger pointing out various notables, as if on a docent tour. Her reminders did not go unnoticed; hazards lurked everywhere, including loose planks, gaping holes, crumbling walls—and dog poop.
“You can pitch your tents on the dock,” she explained, “or for an extra fifteen bucks, sleep on a bed in the old Namu Cafe. There’s no electricity or water. No sheets either, but you gals got sleeping bags, right?” We nodded. “There’s flush toilets just down the dock,” she added, pointing to a shabby building not much larger than a telephone booth. Sold.
I unfurled my sleeping bag on top of a stained black and white striped mattress lying lumpily on a rusted frame. Vintage 1972 or thereabouts. Large rusty pots sat on the floor, strategically placed to catch the drips from the leaky roof. I looked out across the piers and Namu Harbor through a large picture window, surprisingly still intact.
“Whales have swum right up under those windows,” Theresa said, “so keep a keen eye.” She told us the story of how Namu was the namesake of the killer whale Namu, the second orca ever displayed in captivity, who was captured nearby in 1965. She explained how the whale had gotten snared in a drifting salmon net, close to shore, and how the fisherman who owned the net sold Namu to the Seattle Marine Aquarium, transporting him in a floating pen all the way to Seattle, where he would be incarcerated, star in a movie, entertain tourists—and die, probably from loneliness, within one year.
Becky hung her damp paddling top on a cracked counter stool, eyeing a similarly rusty bed frame next to a gray marbled Formica countertop with teal trim. Although a meal hadn’t been served for years at the old Namu Cafe, silver napkin dispensers still held rectangular paper napkins, and half-full salt and pepper shakers sat beside them. Sugar packets filled a glass jar, and an electric cash register, still plugged in, rested under the counter where I imagined the cook shouted “ORDER UP!” on numerous occasions. Three dry erase boards showcased the menu, and a suspended chalkboard announced the specials of the day: pizza by the slice for $2, split pea soup and green salad for $4, fish and chips for $5. We craned our necks to read the slanted handwriting, salivating in unison. Confident our lair was ready for the evening, we walked back down to the lower dock to check out the cooking arrangements.
“How does crab sound for dinner?” Theresa asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” we answered enthusiastically and simultaneously.
“Well, there you go,” she said, pointing to a large bucket swarming with live crabs. “Fellers just dropped ‘em off. Don’t come any fresher than this.” With her thumb and forefinger she snatched one out of the bucket, cracked it violently against the dock railing, discarded the shell and innards back to the sea, and threw the meaty legs and bodies into an empty bucket. One, two, three large crabs awaited us for dinner that night! All vestiges of gentility were thrown overboard with the crab shells. We consumed every last morsel, dipped in melted butter with shallots, garlic, rosemary, and parsley, the herbs freshly picked from Theresa’s garden. We feasted for over an hour. Finally, butter dripping from our elbows, our shirts covered with crab meat and shell debris, we waved the white pig-out flag and surrendered.
Later, while Becky wandered about the property, I dug a chocolate bar out of my day hatch and ate it under the bunkhouse roof. Rain sprinkled lightly all around me. Except for the hum of Theresa’s generator, all was tranquil and calm. I stuffed the crumpled wrapper into my pocket and walked through a nautical time warp; past the gutted cannery and former warehouse, past the doddering downtown, past the machine shop, past rusted propane tanks and rotted rope. I wound my way up the elevated wooden sidewalk along the hillside and above the sea, to my retrograde bed with the stained striped mattress, and a peaceful night’s sleep.
THE COMMUNITIES OF SHEARWATER AND BELLA BELLA lay about thirty miles to the north of Namu. On a quickly dropping tide, Becky and I paddled past thousands of sea anemones clinging to cliffs that were plastered with starfish, purple urchins, and sea-salted barnacles. A rainbow of color splattered sheer rock faces, as if someone had tossed a bucket of tie-dye paint against the cliffs. The mushroom-like bodies of bright orange lion’s mane jellyfish pulsed up, then down, beneath our hulls, and nearly transparent moon jellies, resembling white parachutes, lethargically floated with the current. A forest of long, hair-like tentacles cascaded from the underside of their jiggling somas. Forty-ton humpback whales graced us with their poise in Fitz Hugh Sound, spouting and displaying their large tail flukes for us to admire. We drifted and watched, cameras raised, waiting for the next spout, the next glimpse of a whopping tail fluke, or a stately, glistening black body as it surfaced.
Soon, a sharp dogleg to the west revealed our entrance into Lama Passage. We intended to camp at Serpent Point at the east end of the passage, but large mounds of bear scat spoke volumes that it might be best to push on. It began to rain, and we scanned our charts—and the shoreline—for other options. Other potential sites farther up the channel didn’t pan out either; Westminster Point and Canal Bight both appeared dangerously close to becoming a shallow saltwater pond come high tide.
So we kept paddling, and in a light mist on the last day of May, we pulled into Shearwater, my third resupply port and the ending point for Becky’s leg of the journey. It was eight p.m., twelve and a half hours and 29 nautical miles after we left Namu that same morning. Rumpled and ravenous, we tethered our kayaks to the dock and walked up to the only lodging option in town, the Shearwater Hotel. A pathetic pair, we stood dripping wet at the lobby counter, two puddles slowly forming beneath our pruned feet.
We promptly learned that each room featured one twin bed—and went for a whopping $107, plus tax. Janice, the receptionist, a plump woman in her early forties, listened intently as Becky and I discussed who would sleep on the floor. Taking pity, she reached out, took my ice-cold hands in both of hers, and sighed heavily. “You girls desperately need a hot shower and a warm meal, and I can’t bear to think either of you’d sleep on the floor after what you’ve been through!” She fished around beside her desk for a moment, and soon a pudgy outstretched hand with pink fingernail polish held out two keys to two separate rooms that shared a bathroom. “That’ll be a total of $107, plus tax,” she winked. We didn’t argue. And, since the kitchen was closing in forty minutes, we didn’t shower either, in spite of an 11-day hiatus from proper personal hygiene.
After retrieving a few crucial dry bags from our kayaks, we changed into dirty but dry clothes and ran through the raindrops to the only pub in town. Two pints of dark beer and approximately 2,000 calories later, we retreated to our rooms and flipped a Canadian coin to see who would take the first shower. I lost. While Becky showered, I futzed with my gear more to stay awake than anything else. Before long, a thick pink plastic curtain stuck to my body as I stood under a stream of warm running water—deliciously clean, non-salty, warm running water. The hot and cold knobs squeaked as I twisted them to the off position. Standing with a towel wrapped around me, I could hear Becky snoring through the thin walls. Within minutes, I collapsed into my own deep sleep.
The next morning, after a lengthy phone call to Jim, I made plans to paddle north in two days. Solo again. The joint venture had come to an end. Sharing this leg of the journey with Becky was a delight and a privilege, an honor that heightened and deepened my experience and made me even more aware of the beauty and awe of it all. Rewinding our journey together, I visually embraced the scenery, the wildlife, the spirits that abounded out there, the people we had met, the kindness we were privy to. It was all so staggering. I thought about the inner and outer strength one acquires from doing something of this nature day after day. We’d paddled in different boats, but were united by the same sea. Although we’d traveled the same section of the Inside Passage together, our respective journeys were sometimes oceans apart. Yet, to sit next to each other on a rock at lunchtime, to marvel at the scenery together, to soak up the sun, or shiver side by side in our soggy paddling gear—two buddies anticipating the next camp, a hot meal, and our respective tents—broadened my experience. Although I thought of my journey as a solo, enjoying the camaraderie with Becky reminded me how much I cherished our friendship—and how much I missed other dear friends back home. Our time together was the perfect break for me, an intermission of sorts, which recharged me and helped refocus my intent. When I set off solo again, on my thirtieth day, I’d be paddling into the second half of my journey.
That night, I wedged myself in a corner of Shearwater’s marine store, sitting in front of an old Hewlett Packard PC I’d rented for five dollars an hour. Facing a cement wall, with the ocean at my back, and a tall freezer stuffed with TV dinners three inches from my right elbow, I muddled along on the glacially slow Internet connection. As gale force winds built outside, I typed an email blast to my loyal followers, recapping the last leg of the journey and touching on upcoming hopes and expectations. I told them that tomorrow, weather permitting, I would paddle north toward my next destination—the large seaport of Prince Rupert. That Becky would take the ferry back to Port Hardy a few days later. That I anticipated a poignant departure whose only consolation was knowing that her beaming face would later greet me in Bellingham, where she would scoop me off the Alaska Ferry, the blue-hulled vessel that would transport me back to the starting gate, rewinding my entire trip in three short days. With gratitude, I thanked my followers for their encouragement and support. I wrote about the things I missed most and about how I vowed to not take these amenities for granted.
My not-to-take-for-granted list:
But, I continued in my email, I wouldn’t trade this lack of amenities for the world because here’s what I get in its place: