PREFACE: HOW THIS BOOK CAME TO BE

Number of strokes required to paddle
the Inside Passage: 1,440,000

“You should write a guidebook,” Tina, my wife and paddling companion, suggested.

Paddling—like walking—stimulates the imagination, loosens the tongue, and invariably generates creative conversation. On this morning we’d already exhausted practical topics—the day’s objective, course and strategy, even what to have for dinner—and had tired of our well-worn stock of more imaginative themes: our dreams and aspirations, relationships and old gossip, public policy and architecture.

“No,” I automatically retorted.

Tina answers every proposal with a no, and I’d acquired the odd habit. Not that we actually mean no. It probably started out as a protective adaptation to growing up in a large, contentious family. Now it’s instinctive and seems to be just a displacement response to gain time to contemplate whatever had just been suggested. Every two or three days between Olympia, Washington, and Prince Rupert, British Columbia, the topic would resurface. As the full impact and magnificence of this most wonderful of adventures sank in, the idea of a guidebook grew from a modest, practical application of our research and experience to a celebration of the journey of a lifetime.

“I should write a guidebook,” I declared one day.

“Great idea,” Tina concurred.

Why write a guide? In a word, because I wish I’d had a comprehensive guide before undertaking my own Inside Passage trip. My own research, though extensive, time-consuming, and in-depth, was often unfocused or unproductive. Much of it I did not retain—it was too unmanageable and meant little without a sense of place. Moreover, a glance at a contiguous Inside Passage map will quickly overwhelm even a systems analyst. The complexity of landmasses and water passages rivals a Pollock painting. In order to chart a dependable route, navigational guides and maps require not only a thorough study and integration before embarkation but also comprehensive editing for on-board pilotage. A full set of topo maps; charts in varying scales; specialty maps (such as Forest Service and special interest maps); Sailing Directions, Pilots, and Coast Pilot books; small-craft and kayaking guides; tide tables; and other essentials are an unwieldy bunch to stow and grapple with in camp on a daily basis, much less on the water. Daily navigation prepping is very time-consuming. Finally, add bird, fish, plant, invertebrate, mammal, historical, and various other interpretive guides along with more general resource materials to the lot, and I was pressed to find room for extras such as tent, food, or sleeping bag.

Just north of Bella Bella, at the top of Reid Passage, on a cold, drizzly afternoon, we ran into a Canadian kayaker, traveling alone, making his way south. He exuded confidence but was hungry for some company. After exchanging pleasantries we immediately got down to business: picking each other’s brains for route and campsite information. The coast of central British Columbia is the most isolated, wildest, and steepest section of the entire Inside Passage. He carried only 1:250,000 series topo maps, well annotated throughout. Campsites were traded like nuggets of hot gossip. But when he described his route south out of Prince Rupert we became alarmed.

A glance at the map makes Grenville Channel—the most direct route along the east side of Pitt Island—jump out and rattle you. It is so perfectly straight and uniformly narrow for nearly 60 miles that you wonder just what is going on. Our friend had assumed the worst: precipitous walls, no landings, unmanageable currents without eddies, an endless wind tunnel subject to hellish chop. So he steered clear of it and went down Principe Channel along the west coast of Pitt Island. It nearly doubled his distance. We hadn’t planned on an extra four days to Prince Rupert. With some apprehension we decided to double-check his assumptions and premises as best we could, given our limitations on the water. In situ exploration is a necessary complement to biblio, telephone, and Internet research, but it has its disadvantages. In a kayak, far from informants and sources and with little chance of making any informed connections, successful research can be elusive. But perseverance, often its own reward, this time yielded pay dirt. We concluded that the Canadian’s detour proved unnecessary. A guidebook minimizes the need for on-the-fly research.

Sometimes there seems to be an inverse relationship between the amount of gear one lugs and the degree of expertise and knowledge one possesses. The irony is that most of the kayakers we met were trying to simplify their lives and valued going light, yet due to a reliance on either inadequate gear or improperly thought-out strategies, ended up with needless complication. Perhaps this guide can help one find a balance.

In 1997, Sea Kayaker magazine ran an article about a Texan on his own Inside Passage quest. Though not too experienced, he had all the latest equipment, some of it donated. His commitment was wholehearted: He had both quit his job and gone into debt. But he had bitten off more than he could chew. Bad weather, bear encounters, too much solitude, and a melancholy disposition conspired to end his trip. The Inside Passage is inconceivably overwhelming. There are real, objective dangers out there. The trick, as with taxes, is to avoid them, not desperately attempt to dodge them while thick in their throes. Once in the jaws of danger, though, successful mitigation is the only solution. This guide ought to help—on both counts.

Guidebooks are sometimes criticized for eliminating a sense of adventure by providing too much information. Rubbish! Certainly some people like to challenge their ingenuity by venturing into the unknown clueless, but most want some idea of the scope and portent of their endeavor. Knowing the location of the next campsite, point of interest, resupply opportunity, potential danger, or alluring side trip allows the paddler to make the best use of precious time. A guidebook is a tool, plain and simple. Use it when you want it, stash it when you don’t. A guidebook that withholds information is like a saw lacking teeth or a ladder missing rungs.

Less prosaically, I hope this book puts within the reach of many an aspiring paddler a once-in-a-lifetime trip that might otherwise seem unreachable. Nothing compares to the total immersion of one’s very being into the endless meditation of repetitive paddle strokes, come rain or shine, swell, chop, or glassy seas. The mantra is broken only by the explosive puff of a whale; the unexpected flourish of a leaping salmon; the scrutiny of an eagle, penetrating and vigilant, like a B-52 on the hunt for prey; the kraw-kraw of a raven; a solitary loon’s ghostly lament; or the shy curiosity of a seal. Surrounded by impenetrable, snow-clad mountains, constant navigational challenges, and the minutiae of camping, the mind, by concentrating on the mundane, becomes flooded with the sublime.