Tofino to Hot Springs Cove
Two years and two days. That’s how long it took to return to Tofino. Only this time, it wasn’t the end of an adventure, but the beginning.
On August 3, 2022 I completed a 9-week bikepacking trip that crawled the spine of the Continental Divide and out to the west coast of Vancouver Island. On August 5, 2024, I found myself back in the same tiny surfing village on the tippy edge of Canada—this time with my kayak, backpack, and bike in tow.
This trip would be different; although I have a shortlist of places and activities, I don’t have a set itinerary—or even a set timeline. There are different forces at play now. My main goal is to only use the car to get to launching places where I can set out for overnighters via bike, backpack, or kayak. While my core gear is the same for all three sports (think: tent, stove, and sleep system), the kayak takes the cake for the most gear-intensive mode of transportation (bilge pump, paddles, charts, PFD, spray skirt, wetsuit, drysuit, etc). It looks like REI threw up all over and inside my little Subaru.
After months of preparing from afar and a couple weeks of observing and experiencing the ocean's many moods in Tofino, I was finally ready for my first solo overnighter: Hot Springs Cove.
It would be a 3-day paddle to get there, winding around largely-uninhabited Pacific Ocean islands along remote channels and narrow passages. I’d have tides to plan around, unknown waves and swells to contend with, and would need to be confident in new skills like reading marine and tidal charts, VHF radio protocols, and potential for self rescuing, should I get knocked out of my boat.
In the days before, I monitored the weather and tidal forecasts and consulted others on my plan, including my local paddling instructor and my friend Saoirse, who has a wealth of experience sailing in the area. With their input, I finalized my intended course. Then came launch day.
Saoirse, who you might remember from a previous blog post, was kind enough to host me again at his place in Tofino, and joined for the first day paddling. Even though I have some solo kayaking experience (including four days across Flathead Lake and nine days down the Green River of Utah), kayaking in the ocean is still new to me. I knew enough to know I still had a lot to learn, which kept me in a precious balance between humble and eager.
Pushing away from the beach that first day still felt like jumping off the deep end, but having Saoirse there with me was akin to wearing floaties. Wise, cautionary, encouraging floaties that also packed charcuterie and a bottle of Cabernet (thank you, Saoirse!).
We caught an afternoon slack tide and after encountering a cloud of fog about halfway through, emerged at the beach at Chetarpe. It was an easy, soft landing on a sprawling white beach that faced west and offered huge driftwood logs for use as benches and tables. Saoirse got to slicing cheese and summer sausage, and we cheers’d to a successful day.
In the morning, he sent me off again with a push and after nervously turning and waving and yelling five versions of, “goodbye,” my anxiety morphed into excitement. On my own now, I went through my mental checklist, put hands on everything that was at my disposal in my cockpit, triple-checked my course, checked my heading, checked the time, and got to paddling.
A precarious against-the-current wind picked up around lunch time and although I was well ahead of schedule, decided to stop and camp at that nights's intended campsite on Obstruction Island. But not before crossing the channel with my kayak weathercocking harshly to starboard and getting rocked by the parallel-running waves.
A quick aside about names: the names assigned to areas usually provide some clues about what to expect. For example, if the weather turns sour and you need to get off the water, Shelter Bay is probably a better option than Calamity Point. Obstruction Island, it turns out, virtually plugs the channel, causing boaters to skirt it via narrow passages on either side. A hook-shaped cove at its south end makes for a safe place to go in case of wind. That also happened to be my intended first night campsite.
I paddled into the small obstructionist island's sheltered cove but couldn't make out a campsite—or even a reasonable place to put a boat. I analyzed the rocky outcropping then looked at my chart. I looked back at the rock and then at my GPS, hoping it could lend some fresh insight. Nope.
I got out and dragged the kayak partially onto the barnacle-covered rock, cringing as I heard their razor-sharp points shaving off strips of plastic from its belly. Even fully empty, I wouldn’t be able to pick it up and carry it, so I found a jagged rock a few yards away and tied a rope from the bow toggle and looped it around.
There was only one flat-ish spot to pitch the tent, and once I got that set up, I hung my wetsuit, PFD, sun shirt, and other wet gear over a dead tree. While eating a dinner of two frozen bean burritos and a chocolate bar, I watched otters play in the water. Fish could be heard jumping out of the water, although I only ever caught the rings of ripples they left behind.
Then the fog rolled in, and the clouds, and the rain. It rained for eighteen hours. Every few hours I’d don my rain jacket and trek over to check on my kayak as it went from being partially in the water, to being fully free-floating, to being a good twenty-five feet from the water's edge, to somewhere in between.
The next morning I made me marine radio debut:
“Sécurité sécurité, this CaityPop Kayak. I’m a solo paddler entering Hayden Passage heading northwest, hugging Flores.”
For a third day, I had my VHF radio on and actively monitoring three channels:
16: The main Canadian channel monitored by the Coast Guard and other watercraft.
68: The main channel used by the First Nations people who inhabit villages on many of the islands that are only accessible by boat or float plane. They’re often the first to respond to calls for help.
12: The main channel used by whale watching operators… if you want to know where the whales are, hang out on channel 12.
The passage was a breeze. But dang, then I turned the corner and was headed directly into the wind. My speed slowed to around 2.5 knots, but I still arrived at that night's intended campsite early. The next slack was only a couple hours away, so I made a hot meal, watched the tide ebb to its low point, and hopped back in, calling in another sécurité before making the long exposed crossing from Half Moon Beach toward Sharp Point, and into Hot Springs Cove. I stopped short of the public dock to admire a ton of plum and ochre-colored sea stars.
At the end of the dock, a native man waved. His name is Parker and he manages the rugged BC Provincial Park. Parker and I ended-up spending quite a bit of time together and it was fascinating to learn about life out there. Daily, tour operators would drop off boat loads of tourists to soak for a few hours before whisking them back to Tofino. Occasionally, kayakers and boaters would pull up and stay for a day or two. The best time to soak was at dusk and dawn. Hit it on a clear new moon, and you've struck absolute gold.
The small undeveloped campground was right on the water, and from the dock began a long wooden boardwalk through an old-growth forest to the actual hot springs, which were at the tip of the peninsula, near Sharp Point.
Words can't even describe it.... pure unadulterated magic. I soaked for a good long while, and was back again early the next morning. That time, dense fog rolled in and I could hear the high-pitched beeping of the bell buoy at Sharp Point, and the longer, lower tones from a bell buoy further away.
There happened to be a kayaking tour group that paddled to Hot Springs Cove and had coordinated two water taxis to take them and them back to Tofino (one for their boats and gear, and the other for themselves). There was no room on the gear boat, but they were INCREDIBLY kind to offer that I could put my kayak on the second water taxi and ride back with them!
I'll leave you with this last thought:
Sea kayaking requires 3,582x-more planning than any other sport I've done. Tides, swells, land access, wind, weather, moon phases, boat traffic. Any one can mean the difference between a leisurely paddle to a sandy beach or a soggy slog to a barnacle-covered-rock of a campsite.
A couple days before leaving Montana, I purchased a cheap waterproof point & shoot camera. I literally can't see through the viewfinder with my sunglasses on and the lens is perpetually spritzed with saltwater. Today I downloaded the pictures for the first time and the crooked, blurry images are absolute gems. I couldn't have captures these fleeting moments any more perfectly.
The truth is that, on the boat, nothing is ever "level" and even on sunny dry days, I am wet. Cheers to more adventures!
Cheers!
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