Pure magic.
On my way up to backpack the North Coast Trail, I stopped to camp at Telegraph Cove. I knew I would be back a couple weeks later to launch the kayak and paddle for nine days deep into the Broughton Archipelago. During the day, I sat at the dock and watched the tides and the speed of driftwood floating down Johnstone Strait. I observed boats coming in and out, listened in on the VHF radio channel used by local tour operators, visited the whale interpretive center, and paddled down to nearby Blinkhorn Peninsula where I tried spotting whales rubbing their bellies on the rocks in Robson Bight.
A few days before that, I picked up 3 large paper marine charts from a nearby boating shop. Together, they covered the area I hoped to explore and when not in use, got rolled into 3 ft-long scrolls, secured into a rigid paper pipe with the help of a couple rubber bands at either end.
Between the charts with their water current and topographic information, paddling maps with advice on how and when to approach various campsites, the distance-measuring tools of BC Marine Trails' online maps, and Volume 3 of The Wild Coast kayaking guide book, I had charted a course that would bounce me from island to island northward across busy straits, wildlife-rich sounds, and remote villages.
I just needed to align it with a good tidal and weather opening. Finally, I settled on a date and time, and positioned myself for launch.
What ultimately happened was unexpected and... pure magic.
Day 1 was a big day. I needed to cross Johnstone Straight, paddle up the west side of Hanson Island, through the Plumper Islands, and then cross Blackfish Sound. There, on the southeast side of Swanson Island, would be a tiny island, called Flower Island, with a kayak-friendly beach and some flat spots fit for a tent.
Before entering Johnstone Straight, I engaged the big button on my radio:
"Caity-Pop Kayak to Victoria Coast Guard."
"This is Victoria Coast Guard, go ahead."
"I'm a solo paddler ready to cross Johnstone Straight from Telegraph Cove to the west side of Hanson Island. It should take me 30-45 minutes. What does traffic look like?"
"No reports of vessels coming through during that time. Please let us know once you've completed your course."
"Copy. Thank you."
Right out the gate, three orcas swam slowly past me, their shiny jet-black dorsal fins prowling through the water, which was otherwise calm. The local tour guides, I learned, called them "black and whites," and I had never been so close to any before. They were quiet, and moved together gracefully.
"Caity-Pop Kayak to Victoria Coast Guard."
"This is Victoria Coast Guard. Go ahead, solo paddler."
"I've cleared Johnstone Straight."
"Copy. Thanks for letting us know."
Although I launched in sunny, 60-degree weather, I chose to wear my dry suit. It's made from waterproof material with built-in water-tight booties and tight rubber gaskets around my wrists and neck. Its purpose is survival. Because, while it was warm and sunny above water, the water itself was a cool ~42 (ish) degrees F. If I were to fall in, I'd have about 5 minutes before hypothermia set in.
Despite lots of practice spilling myself from my kayak, righting the boat, hoisting myself across the stern, slinging a leg across, inch-worming my way—low on the boat—up to the cockpit, dropping my butt onto the seat, sliding one leg at a time inside, re-fastening my spray skirt and then manically bilging out water, I hadn't practiced in these conditions.
According to the charts, the current in Johnstone Straight could reach 2 knots. Compared to the 5 knot tidal current in nearby Blackney Passage, 2 might not sound like a lot, but when you consider the average paddling speed is 3 knots and the time it takes to cross the distance of Johnstone, it's not unreasonable to take extra precaution.
In fact, it's imperative to do so. In the time it took me to cross Johnstone—in really ideal slack conditions—a breeze whipped up a baby chop which competed with small watercraft wakes, and a dense fog rolled in from the west. So much so, that I paused twice in the Plumpers, taking moments to re-up on energy and hydration and clock the fog.
Once it cleared enough for me to see full across the sound, I turned on my deck fog light and donned my extra-bright LED headlamp and began my last big crossing of the day. Not one boat came my way. Phew.
I skirted Swanson Island's south side and eventually arrived at Flower Island. It was low tide and I couldn't wait to get my drysuit off. Although it was only about 1:00p, there were already six other kayaks on the small island's beach. After emerging from my kayak, I waved to two men and asked what the camping situation looked like.
"How many in your group? one asked.
"It's just myself"
"Oh, then you're good. We're about at max, but there's definitely space for you."
Woohoo! I began the incredibly awkward removing of my dry suit. Okay, a quick aside about dry suits: I absolutely hate mine. Within minutes of even putting it on, I was sweating so much I could feel the sweat running down me and pooling inside the built-in booties. Indeed, when I finally got it off, I could wring my sweat from the socks I was wearing inside the booties.
The neck gasket is so tight I couldn't turn my head around to scan boat traffic from the rear. And when I managed to stretch it enough to clear my mouth, nose, and eyes, it grabbed onto my hair, ripping out a large clump.
The thing is so big on me—despite having it customized—that I could fit no less than three legs into each leg, and have real concerns about the extra material getting caught in my narrow cockpit, possibly trapping me inside in the case of a capsize (I have practiced wet exiting and self rescuing in my drysuit.... and it is possible... but again, that was during ideal conditions).
Anywho, I hate my dry suit. But I also don't want to die.
Okay, back to the story. It took complete, nonstop work and engagement to safely paddle, so unfortunately I don't have pictures. I saw so much wildlife though! Dozens of humpback whale sightings... their ephemeral vapor blows never ever got old. Even thinking about them now excites me.
At camp, I got to know the four men who were out on a trip together from Vancouver and two women from Portland. We compared our Greenland paddles and one of them gave me one of his foam rollers, promising me it would drastically improve my ability to move my boat on my own during the inevitable long tidal hauls to come. I was so touched! And he was 1,000% correct. That adorable hot-pink chunk of foam lived on the stern of my deck and saved the bottom of my on several occasions, and allowed me to successfully move my boat across rock and barnacles in order to land and launch at varying tides.
I walked to the south side of the island and sat on a large piece of driftwood, overlooking Blackfish Sound into Blackney Passage. The intensity of wildlife was almost overwhelming. I kid you not; in one frame I saw seals fighting over a salmon with gulls trying to get in on the fight, a pod of about 50 dolphins jumping and playing, and multiple blows of whales sparkling in the afternoon sun. Ho. Ly. Shit.
The next morning I awoke to thick, beautiful fog and after more lovely conversation and breakfast it was time to catch a clearing and late morning slack, and explore the nearby First Nations cultural sites.
I made a bit of a loop-di-loo around a group of islands, admiring ancient orange pictographs and white shell middens. The flooding tide opened up narrow passages just deep enough for me to sneak through in my kayak. One was so particularly beautiful... the light was just right. The outlines of towering mountains provided a backdrop behind crystal-clear water, gorgeous rocks and emerald trees. It was so special I dropped a waypoint on my Garmin and named it heaven. I'm not religious, but like the idea of spending a lot of time in such a lovely place.
Later, I pulled up on a beach and turned on some music while I ate second lunch. I had only seen two boats all day. There was no one. I cranked up some funky bangers and sang my little heart out!
[Also, just for the record... starting on day 2 I chose to wear my 2mm farmer jane wetsuit, sunshirt, and gore-tex raincoat... and that's what I wore every day for the rest of the trip. During lunch stops, I'd peel the wetsuit off and let it dry and warm in the sunshine. My dry suit stayed packed away in the hatch, reserved for use during large crossings and/or bad weather.]
From there I paddled alongside three humpback whales, who all but escorted me to my second night's destination: White Cliff Islets. They were a bit out of the way, requiring paddling past the protection of the outer archipelago islands and into the wide open Pacific Ocean, but a few weeks earlier, a former paddling guide promised it would be worth it.
It was.
Having arrived at high tide, I scouted from the water and decided to land directly on the east side of one of the small rocks. I tied off the yak to a large piece of driftwood and continued scouting for a place to put my tent. Once I'd found a suitable spot, I began unloading the hatches.
No words could ever do justice to my time on this islet, which I experienced 100% solo. I ended-up on the island for 2.5 days due to fog and tide delays (pull my leg, eh!?) and saw fewer than 10 boats during that whole time. Instead, I watched seals and sea lions and several humpbacks that arrived like clockwork around 10:00a, circling the islet until dusk. I watched as they worked together to squeeze schools of fish together and then scoop them into their giant mouths. The swarming birds were always a telltale foreshadowing that out-of-water whale activity was about to happen.
During the days I explored the intertidal pools and beaches that were exposed at low tide and scrambled up and around giant rocks, opening new vantage points. And at night, I fell asleep to the sound of waves lapping against the rocks, the snorts of seals and the squawks of bald eagles, gulls, and kittiwakes.
Even after having just paddled through heaven, this was next level.
I will simply leave you now with some pictures. Just know that they don't begin to do the whole experience justice. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can remember how it feels to have been a guest of the sun and fog and water and rocks and wildlife there on the islet. I am forever grateful.
And here's a happy little pic of me :)
The "delays" on White Cliff forced me to scrap much of the rest of Plan A, which included paddling to the north end of Broughton Island and visiting the general store at Sullivans Bay Marina. So, I pulled back out my charts and maps, and a fresh weather forecast from my Garmin and began assembling Plan B.
The forecast, showing incoming rain and wind up to 22 mph, prompted me to snag a last-minute, late-season reservation in a small floating cabin at the Paddlers Inn in Echo Bay (I would later, based on the forecast, decide to book a water taxi directly from the Paddlers Inn back to the mainland, saving having to paddle solo back across the wide channels and straights during rain and wind). But I still had 3 days of good weather before checking into the floating cabin.
I decided on the following: White Cliff --> Owl Island --> Fox Group/Island 66 --> Paddlers Inn
Again, the paddling was absolutely gorgeous. And the further north I pushed, the fewer boats and people I saw. Most days, I could count the boats on one hand.
Well dangit, I've once again exhausted my time sitting at a coffee shop mooching off their wifi and will need to come back to properly finish this post.... but here are more pictures :)
And my absolutely darling cabin (complete with wood-burning sauna)... where I stayed for 3 nights and saw bioluminescent waters light up in the dark of night for the very first time!!!!!
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