Inside Out — Future Water Paddlesports

We have arrived in Port Hardy, BC three weeks after leaving Prince Rupert. It feels like it has been much longer than that. We have travelled through some very distinct and different environments, moving from the steep shores of Grenville Channel on the inside, through the middle channels of the north coast, all the way to the sweeping sand beaches on the outside of Calvert Island, and the exposed reefs around Cape Caution.

Black bear fishing for salmon at Verney Falls.

The change in the landscape has been stunning. Most of the inside and middle passages were composed of steep granite shores with tight forests clinging to the tops of the rocks right up to the tide line. The currents run fast in those passages; one section of Grenville felt more like a river with the current carrying us 4+ knots in addition to our paddling speed. That day we tied our kayaks together and made a raft for a floating lunch: we drifted about a mile while enjoying a sunny mid-day meal.

The biggest challenge in those inner channels was finding suitable campsites. Beaches are few and far between, with most having large, nasty sharp rocks and boulders at lower tides and no place to put a tent in the woods when the bigger spring tides arrived (right when we were there, of course). It is quite difficult to guess how high 4 more meters of tide will be when setting up camp. There were multiple nights where I set an alarm for the middle of the night in order to check on the tide level as it got close to high tide. Waves lapping the shore sound incredibly close when you are laying in your tent, even when they are still at a distance. Camp sites where the tent could go in the woods became very precious to us, worth paddling a few extra miles to find during the tallest tides.

The tide rose right up to the tent at this site.

The next week was spent traversing the middle passages of the north coast. We shared one campsite with other people for the first (and so far only) time on this entire journey. We had stopped at a small islet in Surf Inlet and decided to take a rest day. Mid-day two kayaks approached, a family out on their annual three-week trip on the coast. It was fun to hear how they had been doing this with their children since they were 5 and 3 years old, and the kids were now 19 and 17. They knew the coast well, carried simple gear, and their skills seemed to keep them quite comfortable out there. I felt what they did year after year was more impressive than our journey.

Sunset over the calm middle passage.

As the afternoon went on, a larger group of kayaks approached. I realized that I recognized the leaders, it was Justine and JF from Skills.ca. They were with a large group on a 20-day journey around Princess Royal Island. As the group got to work finding camping spots in the woods we got to catch up with these folks we had not seen since before Covid closures. They were so generous, giving us some fresh veggies and a big fillet of salmon caught that morning to cook up with our dinner. It was so much fun chatting with them and the group I forgot to take a photo of them all!

Fresh-caught salmon for dinner.

We moved on from there early in the morning and were greeted by our biggest weather challenge yet: fog. This is a feature of the coast this time of year, with the guidebooks and locals quick to tell you to expect fog, that it will form most nights and then break up by mid-day. While we found that to be mostly true, what isn’t mentioned is just how dense it can be or how long it can last.

A morning with “good” visibility.

Often the fog would thicken around us as we paddled. One morning I looked toward Robin, who was paddling about 20 feet from me, and realized that she was half hidden by the wisps of fog coming between us. There were a couple occasions where the fog became so dense that the horizon line completely dissolved, giving us the sense of being suspended in space on a puddle of water just big enough for a kayak to float on. There are stories of fog this thick causing people to paddle in circles, or even experience vertigo, and I can see how: you genuinely have no reference point other than your own sense of balance.

Luckily we both use deck compasses. This allows us to maintain consistent courses when traversing foggy areas. We carefully lay out a heading, distance, and time to cross on our charts before moving from one point to another. Paddling through the grey abyss with only the tick marks on your compass to follow is a unique experience. Suddenly sound becomes a very important guide for you. On one totally socked-in crossing we left some gentle swell breaking on rocks on one side of an inlet that we could not see across. It grew very quiet as we got to the middle of the crossing, only the sound of our breath and paddles dipping in the water. The fog became thicker, totally erasing the horizon. Suddenly we heard several loud exhalations of whales spouting to our right. They sounded as if they were so close we could have been hit by the spray, but we could not see them at all, only the impenetrable wall of grey.

We kept on our course and after 40 minutes we finally heard the sound of swell on rocks again. It was a relief, knowing we were near land once more. The fog let up a bit as we approached, enough for us to see the rocks and shore before arriving. We ended up right where we thought we would be, but it did not feel like we would while in the middle.

The perfect crushed shell beach.

Paddling in the fog tests more than your navigational skills: it tests the trust you have in your own abilities. When you are in the middle of a foggy crossing it is easy to start second-guessing your plan. Thoughts start running through your head… Did we account for the current correctly? Did we measure the angle properly? Have we stayed on the heading? It seems like it has been a long time… shouldn’t we be there by now? Time can stretch and distort in strange ways when you have no visual cues, and minutes feel much longer. You have to trust your plan, trust the compass, and trust the clock. Sticking to the plan is often harder than making the plan in the first place.

[As an aside, right now I can hear several of the paddlers reading this saying, “Why aren’t you using a GPS?” We do carry one with us as a backup in case something goes awry (and of course our smart phones have that capability as well). Still, I much prefer navigating using a chart, compass, grease pencil, and clock. I think there are many advantages to these methods, but that discussion will have to be the subject of a different and more detailed post some other time. One thing I can say is that after many hundreds of miles padding through thick fog, and also at night, I have yet to have a reason to turn the GPS on. The old ways work just fine, thank you.]

In my opinion, skill trumps technology.

The fog was with us for twelve mornings as we came down the passages and out to the coast. One of the biggest tricks it pulls is when the sun comes out above you around mid-day, giving the sense that the fog might burn off soon. No luck: you can see blue sky above but the sunlight only makes the fog glow brighter. Then you need to put on sunglasses and still can’t see anything in the horizontal plane. We started calling this “sun-fog.” One day we pulled up to a beach for lunch and the sun-fog came in so intensely we were stuck on the beach for an extra hour until the fog cleared enough to see the surf on rocks guarding the bay. So it goes on the ocean.

Waiting on the world to change.

The fog did break most days by 1pm or so, and we had brilliant sunny blue-sky afternoons with a northwest breeze at our backs. The afternoons felt care-free as we cruised down the exposed shores of Spider and Calvert Islands with nothing but the vast watery horizon of the Pacific off to our right. Quite a contrast to the mornings.

The coast on the outside looks very different than the inner channels. Where it is rocky the rock is stripped bare from the wild waves hitting the shore. Although the seas were fairly calm and summery when we passed by, it was clear just how ferocious the ocean gets at times, with the rocks clean and bare 40 or more feet above the tide line. In other places there are sand beaches that stretch for miles and miles, the waves grinding the underlying rock into powder so fine that it stays with you in the creases of your clothes for days after moving on. We had a few surf landings and launches on those sandy stretches, working on getting the timing right and sometimes getting a wave to the chest. In the rocky sections we practiced cutting behind groups of rocks to find some respite from the swell.

Bigger than they look: three to four foot waves on the outer break, just over our heads while sitting in the kayaks.

As we made our way in and around the rocks and kelp beds on the outside we ran across countless sea otters. Sometimes they were alone, and sometimes they were in large rafts. At one bay we camped in, there was a permanent raft of otters floating around the bay all day and night. They seemed to come and go, with their numbers shrinking and swelling at times. At a peak I counted a minimum of 28 of them together (it was hard to tell exactly how many heads and big hind feet there were). We were stuck in that bay for two days waiting for the fog to clear so we could cross a shipping lane back to the mainland. It was fortuitous, though, as we just kept watching the raft as the days went by. Better than television.

Raft of snoozing and grooming otters.

We are taking a couple days in Port Hardy to clean up our gear, wash laundry, and resupply our food. We have decided to head out to the west coast of Vancouver Island for the last leg home. It will undoubtedly take us longer to get back to Orcas going this way, with the swell and other hazards of the coast making the paddling more difficult. Still, we cannot resist the rewards of this route: beautiful coastlines, truly remote environments, and the solitude that only comes when you travel to difficult to reach places. We’ve built up our strength and tested our skills as a team on the outside during this last stretch, and it feels like we are ready for the challenges of the third month of this journey. At times we are tired, sore, and oh-so-ready for our bed back home. But, we are also ready to soak in all the beauty and wonder out there. We’ll let you know how it goes.

Some stats so far:

We have gone 732 nautical miles (842 miles, 1356 kilometers)
We have about 415 nautical miles to go.
59 days so far. 44 days paddling, 15 days on shore for weather or rest and resupply.
Longest day 32 nautical miles (59 kilometers).