Welcome To Campbell River. This aged Beaver CF-GBV is mounted on a pylon and marks the entrance to town.In the colours of British Columbia Airlines, this beauty has survived the years and lumps and bumps without any apparent modifications.
Back in the jungle again. You know the tune, sing it Willy. The home front had enough of me, and I of it. Without much contemplation here I am back in Naka Creek with the whales and other urban refugees, and as it turns out, some international ones as well.
As I left town a great wall of smoke rose rapidly from the south, America is burning I hear. To add an apocalyptic touch, someone turned hard right and rammed head-on into two rows of vehicles waiting for a traffic light. There was a heap of carnage, a muddle of arriving emergency vehicles and a herd of geriatrics in spandex on bicycles running in dithering circles waving their arms. We make movies in Ladysmith. We’ll call this one ‘No Fault Insurance.’ You can be part of the problem or part of the solution. I let the wall of smoke chase me northward. It found me by next morning.
By the next day the smoke from US forest fires surrounded us.BUMP! Floating just on the surface this old loader tire would definitely grab a sailor’s attention if they hit it.
I arrived at Naka Creek, my favourite place on Johnstone Strait just in time to see three southbound cruise ships returning from another Alaska jaunt. I remember meeting these gleaming behemoths in these waters when I worked on the tugs. It is an incongruous sight in the deep dark of an upcoast night. I imagine the passengers trying to dance their arses off after yet another gourmet buffet dinner all the while oblivious to the incredible natural world sliding by in the dark, but then endless miles of wilderness is not really what they came to see. It makes a lovely background for the ‘binderdundat’ mug shots they’ll proudly show back home in Donkey Shin Kansas or wherever their bombers takes them. By the time they’re home they will be crawling with viruses they’ve found on the cruise or the homeward flight but that strawberry creme flambe was worth it all. Laugh damnit, all humour is cynicism.
My old bush ape eyes spotted a strange fungus on this pine tree over the water’s edge. It proved to be a single remaining insulator. There must have been hundreds at one time carrying telephone or telegraph wire. Yet another coastal mystery lost to time.
My prefered spot was taken by an expedition vehicle with German license plates. It was one of those monstrous offroad boxes with the big wheels, too big really to squeeze along many of our roads. Still, I fancy them and wanted to chat with the owner. He pulled away and left. Incredibly another German RV pulled in to the same site a short time later. Soon the new neighbour befriended me. He and his wife were from Berlin. Their motorhome was built on a Citroen cab and chassis, powered with a Fiat diesel. The rest of the unit was built in Slovenia. It had a German license plate. How exotically European is that? With over 160,000 nautical miles of sailing offshore catamarans he, and she, who works as a wedding videographer in Quatar, had some interesting yarns to share. Avowed vegetarians, they declared that they ate “nothing that had parents or eyes.” And so the day passed with something else to consider.
An Adria, a European beauty. He couldn’t find any 240 v trees to plug into.Gotcha! Berry pie a la road. Ursus Thumpus. Mounds of bear droppings on the road prove an excellent year for wild berries. Hit too many of these you’ll need some front-end repairs.
On Monday morning the day comes with overcast smokey skies. A dry rasping call of a solitary crow announces the stealthy arrival of his cousin, a brilliant blue Stellar jay. Fog rolls and curls along the water. It is quiet, it is peaceful… until an hours-long yuckfest developed on the beach and overwhelmed everyone else. Other campers clearly do not come for the same things I do. Tranquility, solitude, the music of nature; I prayed for rain. It did not come. I launched my dinghy and left. I powered north into the flooding tide and switched the engine off to simply drift and dream. The water was calm and the thin sunlight soothing. Soon I could hear voices. I could see nothing but eventually a flotilla of kayaks appeared from the far shore. The wilderness tranquility they came to absorb eludes them. Despite my persuasions, peace is not part of the urbanites agenda. The reason they see few whales and little wild life is beyond their grasp.
Out of the sunset a brilliance doth approach.So where are the regulation navigation lights?‘Grand Princess’ In the daylight they look like this…still out of place.Yuk. Yuk Yuk, Yuk. Yuk. Getting away from it all.My beloved window. It is why I bought this old camper.
A call home on my mobile that evening informed me that an emergency was unfolding. I needed to return south quickly. I broke camp and stowed everything in the trailer. My friends had left earlier and so I went to nurse a beer alone on the beach as the last of the sunset faded. There was a roar, a blaze of light and grinding of gears. I refused to turn and acknowledge this latest intrusion. Yet another expedition vehicle! And yes, once again, more Germans! This machine was a monster military green box with a huge Mercedes emblem on the grill. As the growling diesel shuddered into quietude a thick German accent shouted at my back, “Are you vatching ze orcas?” Oh sigh! Isn’t GPS with backroad maps a wonder?
I left at 04:30. In the impenetrable darkness, fog swirled in heavy banks. Visibility was down to twenty feet in places. Over the mountains, into the valleys, across narrow bridges, around switchback corners I finally arrived on the main road out and began meeting loaded logging trucks with their bright lights. Their dust mixed with the fog. There is no headlight that deals with that. By the time daylight arrived I was back on the pavement, southbound for home by noon. All’s well that ends.
JacksonVinny meets AyreCovid Beetle or government drone?
Soon the rain and darkness of autumn will settle over this island. Perhaps I can go into the woods and be alone then.
“Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not.” ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
Nothing like the peace a nice little camp fire brings. The wind break marks my preferred spot on the beach at Naka Creek CampReady for another night. The axe shows the wear of over fifty years of proud ownership. I bought it at the Squilax General Store, on the side of the Shuswap Little River BC
Sunday morning, Naka Creek. I sit inside my camper with a fresh, stout black mug of coffee beside this keyboard. It is chilly. I couldn’t be bothered to stoke up my propane furnace so instead I wear a heavy flannel shirt. Outside a low overcast races before a westerly wind and balls of drizzle wash over my campsite. I had the happy foresight to stow things away while it was still dry. Soon I’ll be on my way.
The view from my bunk.
Across Johnstone Strait a sail advances in the murk, westbound into the wind. It is bucking against the wind and tide. When the tide turns fully and the ebb begins to run in the boat’s favour, but against the wind, the seas will rise and those lumps will continue to hold him back. The boat is fast but for every six miles it tacks the position on the chart advances only a mile. I used to do that long ago, just to feel manly and salty but I eventually gave it up and motored directly toward my destination, having decided to bring a gun to the knife fight. Still I ache to be out there, cold and wet though it may be, it is in some people’s blood to suffer for the religion of the ocean. I am one. I think this boat is a participant in the R2AK motorless race to Alaska. Whoever is out there bashing along deserves full kudos for their drive and spirit. Puget Sound to Alaska is one bloody long way, I’ve done it often enough in a tug boat and even that was wearisome. Travelling the coast in my own sailboat was a dream. There was a time when the globe was being discovered by Europeans. This coast was explored entirely by wind power and muscle alone.
Then came the night again.
From where I sit I can see northward to Blinkhorn Pennisula, beyond famous Robson Bight and marking the entrance Beaver Cove. Past that are the radio towers of Cormorant Island and Alert Bay. In the far distance are the shoreline humps near Port Hardy, where the island shoreline turns sharply to the northwest. I know these waters with their labyrinth inlets and archipelagos. I ache to own a boat once again so I can vanish into secret anchorages.
The hard slog northward racing in the R2AK. The expanse and distance of our coast is overwhelming. At this point, after several days enroute, the race is not yet a quarter complete.The big easy, southbound. One salmon says to the other “Look at all the canned people!”
Advancing from behind the sailing boats and passing quickly out of sight ahead is a gleaming white motor yacht. I wonder how many barrels of fuel per hour it burns. Powering along, level, warm and dry I wonder at other perspectives on manliness. Then I nod off, my thick old fingers on the keyboard produce two pages of ppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp’s. Time for a walk. I clamber up to the secret waterfalls which are as beautiful as ever. I muse that on my last visit here my beloved companion, Jack the dog, was with me and I plunge myself into momentary sorrow. He will always be with me and I try to cheer myself with recollections of all the happy moments. He loved this place. Once again I can see him rolling happily on his back in the long grass and daisies as well as the smug look on his face when he had returned from running off on his own to visit other campers and their dogs. He never made an enemy. Today I have some lovely neighbours and new friends. I am grateful.
Our secret waterfall. It is about eighty feet high.The fool’s caravan. “Got a horse in there?” “Naw, just a friend.”Nuts!The view from my camper side window. The crows were picking my old corn cobs out of the fire pit.Here’s a story. How does a very old brake shoe end up in the gravel on the beach?A burger tree. Actually it is a fungus. When baked dry then lit to smoulder, the smoke makes an excellent insect repellant.An organic nose flute. Just more fungi growing on a stick. It is amazing to see what is under the leaves.Organic camping, becoming one with the earth again.I wonder about the child who rode this. Grown now, with children weary of tales about Naka Creek.The Mack AttackI’ve been driving by this truck for nearly forty years. I reason that one day this North Campbell river landmark will be gone. A simple photographer’s tip is to take the photo while it’s there.From when men were men and their arses were sore. Note the lack of stereo, air conditioning, air bags and upholstery. You hooked one arm through the steering wheel and used both hands to shift those three levers in unison with much double-clutching. If you blew a shift you had no gears to hold you back on a hill. The brakes would soon overheat and the pedal sank to the floor.. What a feeling!Be still my redneck heart. Ain’t she a beauty? Someone has done a wonderful job on this restoration. I wannit!
The weather evolves from winter-like conditions to a flawless summer day in a few hours. I change costumes and emerge with my fluorescent shanks sticking out of old camo-patterned work shorts. How have military motifs ever become high fashion? That bemuses me, the old poster boy of the thrift stores. I’m “stylin’.”
Home again it is time for tinkering on my little circus caravan. Minor repairs, some upgrades and I’ll be back into the woods somewhere on this magic island.
Ayre my new little dog put on a very happy face for my return home.
Let’s have a moment of silence for all those North Americans who are stuck in traffic on their way to the gym to ride the stationary bicycle.h Earl Blumenauer
(Written Somewhere On Vancouver Island Beside Johnstone Strait)
The eagle marked the spot where we would camp for the next week. I chose it for the incredible view, which is also where it caught incredible wind.
Poor cell service. No internet, no news, no e-mail, no Twitter. Sunny, but with a cold westerly wind blowing down Johnstone Strait. Jack and I are camped at the mouth of a River near the top of Vancouver Island. A monstrous dryland log sort separates us from Johnstone Strait and the foaming waters reared by the blasting wind. There is a lovely little campground provided free of charge by the timber company. Spiked to a tree a sign says, “If you clean up your mess maybe you’ll come again.” Blue collar eloquence; the area is pristine. Below us is a fantastic dreamlike maze of huge Sitka spruce interwoven with clear shallow gravel-bottomed streams. There is thick underbrush and a shoulder-high carpet of ferns. The area is thick with slugs. Within a half-hour of setting Jack’s food dish down it was crawling with the slimy beasts. I don’t care who used to eat them, eeech! I am stumped for how to take photos or video which accurately portrays the feeling of this beautiful place. Salmon spawn here and there are reports of grizzlies in the area. The roads are liberally dotted with huge mounds of bear scat so I make lots of noise and stay in open areas. Does a bear crap in the woods? Yep, and twice as often on the road. It’s a manyberry thing. Unless….. a Sasquatch festival? Now playing: The Mugwumps.
Along the way, you’ve got to stop to smell the daisies.A shy one, but soon to open.There’s a powerful beauty even in something as common as a daisy
We drove in around nine pm. There was plenty of light and plenty of game. Elk and deer ambled the road in several places. After two nights in that place we then found the roadway to heaven. Now I’m sitting in the dark only twenty feet from the ocean’s edge looking northward up the last miles of Johnstone Strait. There is a brisk cool westerly breeze which has eased from a near-gale at sundown. I’ll let my photos describe this place which I’ll leave un-named. If you are a kindred spirit you’ll find it on your own which makes the magic a little richer or, if you like, I’ll tell you one on one if you ask. It’s that kind of place. Other campers here, who have been coming for decades, have sworn me to secrecy. I see why.
Says it all.
Next paragraph, twenty-four hours later. Another blazing yet soft J.M. Turner sunset. The wind is finally easing, for the moment. I’ve known it to blast relentlessly for over two weeks non-stop. That’s a long time to be stuck on a tug boat with a few other blue-collared guys. Tensions rise and tedium inspires bad tempers. Bound to our log tow, one time for two weeks, we were committed to nursing it through the storm until we could deliver it safely far south down the coast. That would take ten more days if all went well. Six hours on watch, six off, day in day out, that tedium brings out hidden bottles and then hell breaks loose. I’ve seen a fist fight over who installed the toilet paper roll backwards! It’s funny now!
I drove out of the woods and found a meadow filled with flowers and a campsite on the beach.Ghost Tree. The rivers are pristine.Missed it!Vancouver Island has many beautiful rivers, accessible to anyone who wants to find them.
But tonight here is peaceful. A young brother and sister are playing on the large roots of a beached tree thirty feet away. It’s lovely to hear the sound of their happy voices against the rhythm of waves gently lapping on the stone beach and a joy to see two siblings who like each other enough to get along amicably. Their joint imaginations as they turn the big roots into their castle, decorating it with kelp, is uplifting. Sometimes there is a rattle of the round beach stones rolling in the pull of the waves. The day began with a pod of humpbacks swimming close to shore, now it ends placidly. Money cannot buy bliss like this.
Ever the trooper, Jack is always up for the next adventure.“Dear mom, I’ve bought a trailer. It needs a few repairs.” Remnants of a time when this place was a logging camp.The Altar. A windbreak at a campsite fire pit. Visitors seem to keep adding bits.That’s us on the point. A grand view with lots of wind.How’s this view for Canada Day?
This paragraph begins on July first; the year half spent. Instead of being in a crowd celebrating our nationhood in a sweating Covid mass with loud music and the aroma of food stalls, I sit alone at my Honda table by the edge of the sea. The wind rose again this morning. When I opened the door on the trailer we were shrouded in fog. Now that fog has become a roll of low grey cloud over the strait and I watch a wall of rain advancing slowly toward us. I am wearing all the jackets and vests I have. I was astute enough to bring a water-proof storm coat with me. It seems like winter. Still, I’d rather be here. That’s a grand feeling.
Where the river meets the sea.My office; where I wrote this blog. Camera ready. Jack keeps watch. There were plenty of whales, I got no good images. So…I’ll go back.
Jack is away making his rounds. Most of the campsites have filled. Those folks have children and dogs. He comes back regularly to check on me and let me know he’s having a fine time and, perhaps, to assure himself of my blessing to wander. God forbid I wander off! He’s just reappeared with two gorgeous Australian collies. They voraciously sample his food bowl while he sits by, the gracious host. With all these people around there are no lurking predators and I know he does not go exploring beyond a short radius. He knows his limits and his joy is mine as well. I want every one of his senior days to be as rich as possible. After making his rounds he wants to get back into bed in the trailer. (Which I’ve decided to name ‘Boxtrot’) I join him and pull an extra blanket over us. The day wears on and we hibernate. Rain lashes the far shore of the strait. The neighbours cut and split more firewood. On the horizon to the west a sail catches a glint of sunlight. That may be the brightest moment of the day. And so it was. At day’s end, the wind is still blasting. The horizon to the west is a bright gleam of sunlight and there are now patches of blue between the ragged clouds; whatever that means. It’s all good.
On our sixth morning we awake to a pristine sky. Now a rising southeast breeze stirs the ocean. Without the roar of the wind I can hear a choir of bird songs echoing through the surrounding woods. The bitin, g bugs have returned with a vengeance. A red squirrel scolds and a pine martin scampers along the beach with a freshly caught crab in his mouth. Jack has found a patch of sunlight under the trees and he snores gently in his bed of spruce needles. I sip my first coffee and ruefully consider that groceries are beginning to run low. I don’t want to leave but it will be homeward tomorrow.
Yesterday I went for more firewood from a nearby abandoned logging sight. Jack despises the din of chainsaws and promptly disappeared. I went off in a panic-riddled search only to find him eventually sitting exactly back where I had been working. He was soaked in hydraulic oil. Apparently he had hidden beneath the only logging machine still there. There is a hose and tap harnessed to a nearby spring so with a bottle of dish detergent Jack had to endure a cold bath. While doing that I met a former skipper I’d once worked with on the boats. He was camped nearby; funny little world! In the evening my camping neighbour rushed up to me asking if I knew first aid. His wife was splitting kindling and had amputated the end of her thumb. A small drama (Not to her!) which serves as a reminder about how quickly things can happen and the need for thoughtful prudence; especially when you and your buddy are two old dogs. Fortunately I was able to assist and after a trip to a distant hospital, they were back in their tent before dawn.
Splendid waterfalls are not uncommon but often hard to access.“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.” 10 pm, looking up Johnstone Strait.A perfect fit. Two crossed logs chaffing against each other on each high tide.An ancient casting, made when this rock was molten.More beach art. The root was about eight feet high.A very mature plum tree, a souvenir of days long past.The tree was full of robins and ripening fruit. another reason to return. There must be another tree nearby for pollination.Waiting for whales…still.Camp Runamuck perfected.
In the time that I’ve written these last two paragraphs the wind has risen from a zephyr to a half-gale. It stacks waves against the rising tide. It’s beautiful and I wonder how long before I see the bright colour of someone’s spinnaker charging up the coast. (There was one late in the afternoon.) I’ll sit placidly, sipping coffee and waiting for whales. Breakfast over, dishes done, chores complete I’m back at my table pecking away. While sitting here I’ve started reading a new (to me) book. I try to buy books from the bargain bin in my favourite book store and sometimes find a real treasure. I’ve begun ‘Fishing For Stars’ by Bryce Courtenay.’ I liked the title. It’s brick-thick with seven-hundred pages of small print. The first paragraph is like a poem and begins: “Some things from the past stay fresh in the mind of an old man…” He goes on to describe being at sea in a gaff-rigged cutter named ‘Madam Butterfly.’ I was hooked. On the forth page I read: “Mine has been a fortunate life in so many ways, but in the end we live more in our head than we do in a place and lately there’s some alarming stuff happening in my head.” That’d be me!
The soggy bottom boy. Soon the bears will be sitting and waiting for salmon.
I think it’s time Jack and I went for a walk. I’ll give my impression on this novel once I’ve squeezed it for the last drop; six hundred ninety-five pages to go.
An ingenious fusion of two vessels which become a very seaworthy little boat.One more for the road. It is a spectacular island where I live.
Back from our walk, I’ve decided to declare this a do nothing afternoon. We walked to the far side of a lovely stream not far from here, explored and waded back across through the icy water. Jack swam and is clearly delighted in today’s little adventure. Now he’s asleep in his day bed. He is a master of do-nothingness. I’m trying to learn the art. Next blog I’ll post a link to my next video, made about this recent trip.
Tudaloo!
“Our mind is of three categories: what we know, what we don’t know, and what we don’t know we don’t know. Not knowing is unfortunate; not knowing that we don’t know is tragic.” – W. Erhart.
Deepwoods blog. The table comes from the back of an older Honda CRV. It was the trunk floor and spare tire cover. Intended to double as a traveller’s table it is rugged and stable. Jack deals with the bugs.
I’m sitting at my beloved old Honda car trunk table in the woods north of Campbell River swatting at mosquitoes and black flies despite a brisk breeze. This blog has begun first day out on our next jaunt. I’ve left my computer mouse behind so I’m poking away with my banana fingers and hoping for the best. So far the only other thing I seem to have forgotten is the butter. Jack is fine, peacefully laying on his bed beside me wiggling his ears at the bugs. On our postprandial walk we met a lovely black bear, probably a two-year old. It crashed off into the thick brush of course and I was reminded that old Jack is no longer the feisty beast he once was. Neither am I. We’ve had a long day. With the bugs being so friendly we are about to lock away the groceries and retire for the night. One of the nice things about getting old is that you can fall asleep anywhere, any time. At least until the middle of the night. Then, after determining that it is indeed the “golden age” you can’t get back to sleep until after first light which, of course, is why you can fall asleep any time through the day.
In the morning, after a night of absolute quiet we stepped out into the cool early morning light with clouds of black flies hovering silently. Too stunned to go into feeding frenzy, they’ll soon be at it as the day warms. We’ll move on. With my morning coffee beside me I sift through my notes and see two T-shirt logos I’ve written down. On elderly man slowly walking his old dog had a shirt which said “In memory of a time when I cared.” The other comes from a music video. The drummer’s shirt said “Let’s get together and make some poor decisions.” Right then! With the day’s business meeting concluded, the bugs have broken out the antifreeze and are attacking in squadrons. Breakfast quickly, we be gone!
The Cable Cafe in Sayward. Cleverly built of logger’s cables it is unique. In years past, I’ve enjoyed some wonderful meals here. The pies were incredible.It was also once a logging museum.Sit on that puppy for twelve hours every day in the woods. That is a road grader in the background. It was what they had!Yeah? Fetch you! Nice stick.Happy Jack. He loves to explore any place new. There’s still a gleam in his eye.Serial # 428. Empire was one of over 150 foundries in Vancouver meeting coastal needs of every description.This was a wood-fired, steam-powered yarding machine, used to skid logs out of the woods. When an area was logged of all the timber, the yarder engineer would move the huge steam winch (or donkey) by hooking its cables to stumps ahead and skidding the contraption on those log runners to a new location.So what do you do with a hollow stump out back?You build the ubiquitous outhouse…complete with extra toe-room.Devil’s Club. Aptly named, these nasty plants have leaves two feet wide and everything is covered in vicious thorns which love to hook deep into your skin, then break off and fester.Cable art
A few hours of meandering brings us to a vast concrete pad at the end of a logging road on the edge of Johnstone Strait.With our camp barely set up, a pair of humpback whales swam past, heading north. I am very familiar with these waters, having tug-boated and sailed up and down this strait for many decades. I’m looking across to the Stimpson Reef Light and remember all the dark nights either towing logs or smashing into nasty seas. That light was a tiny dot on the radar screen slowly making its way along the sweeping green scan line. Yes, I miss it.
Tonight we have an abandoned log sorting ground to ourselves. One could park up to thirty RVs here with respectable distancing but I’m content with things the way they are. Sadly, after all the frustrations of packing this little boat up here there is no place to launch it. The foreshore is a steep jumbled mass of boulders, logs and abandoned machinery. With the wind I think is coming, perhaps it’s a good thing. This strait is notorious for its quick and deadly seas. There’s an old WWII gunnery fortification a short way down the shoreline I’ve long wanted to visit. But it has languished without my personal visit for almost eighty years. Windy Point will be fine for a while yet.
End of the road. We had all this to ourselves.That’s me in the corner.
The marine forecast is for wind and rain which is fine… no bugs! Having worked in the great northern bug country these ones here are amateurs in comparison but still, who needs them. They’re here for a reason, but none of those reasons are mine! The cyber voice droning out the marine forecast offers admonishments about dealing with “Covid One Nine” and assisting the RCMP in their efforts to prevent the spread of the virus. Isn’t a boat an ultimate isolation unit already? Who are the people that think this stuff up?
I sit by my fire, wishing I’d brought a winter coat along. Then I think of this same spot at the same hour in mid-January. It would have been dark by three pm and the snow or sleet would be blowing horizontally. I crawl into my little trailer where Jack has already been warming the bed. A rain shower drums on the lid and we both drift into a deep sleep, cuddled like the old pals we are.
Morning dawns still bug-free thanks to the damp breeze blowing along the strait. There’s low cloud and I’m wearing all my jackets. My little generator drones on, charging the batteries on all my cameras and gadgets. I marvel at how dependant I’ve become on all of this stuff, stuff, stuff. There’s no point in reviewing the minimalism I’ve known and practised, obviously I’ve evolved beyond that, or perhaps “been seduced” is a better term. I can actually shut the generator off from my bed, simply by pushing an icon on my cell phone! Hopefully the breakfast drone will be making a delivery shortly, I pushed that button twenty minutes ago! I do know that trying to work this computer without my mouse is a challenge, downloading images is a right horror, there’s no hope of editing them.
The day passed idyllically. Jack is not up to much hiking anymore so after a couple of kilometres, and several mounds of fresh bear droppings, we prudently decided to lounge beneath the home tent. I watch the ever-changing tidal currents shift and bend and swirl, an eternal fascination. The amount of traffic on the strait amazes me. There is seldom much time with no boats in sight and others when there may be half a dozen to see all at once. I have made a conservative estimate of about one hundred fifty commercial vessels as well as several yachts. Due to Covid one nine there are no cruise ships or tour boats this year. There are a lot of fishing boats heading north right now, there must be some openings in Alaska coming up.
The camp inspector. This lovely spot was occupied by someone who had parked their trailer in the middle, taking up the whole area for themselves alone. We were set-up three hundred metres away…all alone. Early worm gets the bird!WTF? There was a trailer here yesterday! If my phone hadn’t rang I was considering a move to here and settling in for a spell.There was even plumbing with sweet, cool clean water.And succulent, tasty salmon berries.A first glimple of the sea while descending to the log sort. A fringe of old growth timber remains. The logged-off area was not replanted and left to fend for itself.Left to reseed itself this second-growth area desperately needs thinning if it is to become natural forest or managed timber. There are thousands of hectares of re-gen forest like this all over the coast. The original timber still standing is of excellent size and quality. Hopefully it will be left untouched.Second growth forest becomes a dead zone without thinning. The new trees need light to grow and to allow the forest flow to evolve into the vibrant plant zone which supports the adolescent trees and wildlife.
Even though I’m not on the water at the moment, I feel like I’m home. As I write, on the opposite shore, a tug with a log tow rides the flood tide southward, hoping no doubt to make it into Sunderland Channel before the tide in the strait turns against its progress. With skill and luck, it will be in position to catch the first of the next flood into the Wellbore Rapids. Eighteen miles in twelve hours hours, it doesn’t sound like much, but when towing log booms, that distance can seem like an odyssey. A few miles south of here, where you turn out of the strait is a place called Fanny Islet. It is a check point where marine traffic control is advised of commercial vessel’s progress. One dark nasty night I was aboard the ‘Kaymar’ with one-hundred-twenty sections of log bundles, an entire forest packaged into a raft about the size of a hay field. We had our entire towline out, if we slowed from our speed of one knot, that line could snag on the bottom. Then the radio call came. “Mayday, Mayday, oh fuck we’re sinking!” We were the only other vessel anywhere near and are bound in all ways to assist. It was a long and interesting winter night. We missed our tide at the Wellbores.
A line tug bound for Alaska passed a while ago. They are huge tugs, powered with massive EMD diesels, the same as used in rail locomotives and their resonant throb pulses in the gathering darkness long after they have passed from view. It is a reassuring and somehow lonely sound all at once. The barges these boats pull are the lifeline of Alaska. They are huge and travel between the various ports of Alaska and their southern terminus in Seattle. In some of this coast’s thick fogs, although you have them plotted precisely on radar, these massive scows loom out of the gloom looking like half a city. Even though Johnstone Strait is an average of two miles wide, it seem like a ditch when meeting in poor visibility. Of course, you seldom meet in the widest places.
There is a magic light which, for a few minutes, bathes Johnstone Strait some evenings.
The next day is blustery and dark with frequent rain squalls. I’m wondering what to do with this day. It’s too miserable to sit under the marquis tent and Jack is restless. Then unbelievably the phone rings despite the weak and intermittent cell service. It is the doctor’s office, they want me to come in for an appointment, more test results. Remember the bladder thing? Unfortunately there was no breakfast from the sky and I know there will be no prescription delivery drone. Here I am now, back at my desk in Ladysmith. The weather is forecast to soon improve. Yep, we’ll gone again.
The Adams River in the pouring rain. Running parallel a few miles away is the Eve River.
“ We don’t inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children.” Native American proverb
Good Bye Ladysmith Life is a journey and a new adventure begins
I like to mention occasionally that the amazing coastline of British Columbia runs Northwestward to Alaska and ascends through four hundred nautical miles of latitude. Within that distance we have over seventeen thousand nautical miles of shoreline. There is an intricate labyrinth of islands, islets, and inlets. It is as if someone has dumped a monstrous jigsaw puzzle out and nobody gives a toss about fitting anything together. There is a writhing network of very long dead-end inlets, or fiords if you prefer, and also interconnected waterways of seething tidal waters that are studded with hungry reefs. Prudent navigation and local knowledge are essential.
A Cumulus Eclipse The gods seem to smile as I head northward
As you travel up the coast by boat the geography and forest vegetation change rapidly with noticeable new features. The water becomes clear, cold, jade green and rich with marine life. The presence of people diminishes quickly once north of the Strait Of Georgia and those who do live there often have characters of strength and individuality. I feel at home and whole once clear of the South coast and its complexity of sprawling population in the prime retirement zone of Canada. The ordeal of the boat trailer as described in the previous blog underscored my growing inclination to find a simpler world. Pre-seniors like myself compete fiercely for menial employment which rewards a lifetime of experience for token remuneration.
Careening on the beach for bottom maintenance among the wrecks of Dogpatch in Ladysmith Harbour. The N or King is a former WWII mine sweeper which also had an illustrious career as a fishpacker. It seems nearly every other fisherman claims to have crewed on this boat at some time.
At the same time I have uncovered a job possibility as a marine technician in a place called Shearwater which is on Denny Island located between mainland Canada and Haida Gwaii. It is a beautiful area, tiny within a huge archipelago of pristine wilderness. You can travel an entire day without meeting other boats and little, if any, evidence of human presence. I tied up some loose ends, pooled my limited resources and sailed away. Jill, my long-suffering wife, gave me tremendous support despite the demands of her very demanding career. For the time being at least she’s got me out of her hair with only Jack the dog to trip over at the end of the day. Meanwhile I’m steeling myself for the transition between being my own man and jumping to the edicts of someone else.
Boats Of Note Seafire is on the left inside the break water, then a not-so-shining example of why we pay the big dollars to ride BC Ferries and disguised immediately above the power pole is the tug ‘Bandera’ southbound with a log tow. I’ve spent many weeks of my life aboard this boat. It is where I had an accident which drastically altered my life and saw the installation of half a plastic heart. “Bionics rule!”
Because I was northbound the wind, of course, was from the Northwest, on the nose as usual. I visited with friends in Silva Bay then headed across the strait to crawl up the mainland coast into the wind. I was disgusted by the explosion of condominiums and suburban development and happy to heading away from this insidious cancer. After a night anchored by Vananda I stopped in Powell River for fuel. Despite a massive downsizing in the forest industry the town struggles on. The locals are very friendly, the views are spectacular and real estate prices are quite reasonable. I asked one fellow for directions to an auto parts store and was promptly offered a ride. The community is like that. I left a black streak on the hull from the fuel dock fenders and while scrubbing it off, the young lady on duty offered me warm water for my hands! I decided to break for a last meal ashore and found myself enjoying the best burger I’ve ever had in Carter’s Cafe On Marine. It’s just a few steps up from The BC Ferry terminal and public wharf. Run by two lovely ladies the cafe is a spot I’m happy to recommend.
The wind eased as I motored on and with a gale warning still posted I was determined to cover as many miles as possible. For some reason marine weather broadcasts love to employ the term “Quasi-stationary”. Quasi, of course means nearly or almost and the determined use of it is certainly quasi. So I travelled northward under the influence of a quasi-stationary front.
Carter’s Café. Great food served by lovely people.Their Neighbour
After a long night in Church House where the night wind against the tide from Yuculta Rapids held old ‘Seafire’ broadside to the elements. The anchor chain dragged and rumbled across
Yet another sign in Powell River… too close to the bone for me!All she needs is love, and a new engine. What a little beauty!
the rocky bottom and I was up early to tackle the rapids ahead. The Yucultas, Dent and Green Point Rapids slid behind in a few hours and after The Wellbore Rapids I was bashing into the promised rising Westerly wind. Sometimes, it takes up to three days to move a log tow through these notorious tidal bores. I found a calm anchorage in one of the two Jackson Bays within Topaz Harbour and set about clearing a blocked fuel line from the starboard tank. That took until midnight and after a candlelight dinner of Dollarama couscous, at first light, about 04:30, I was on my way northward.
Ten PM sunset over Sonora Island from Church House anchorageA few hours laterNow THAT’S a leaf blower! A Hughs 500 helicopter and a Turbo Beaver at a private home on Stuart Island, Yuculta Rapids
The Westerly winds which blow down Johnstone Strait can be quite vicious. The seas are horrible when the tide is ebbing against that sort of blow. Westerly winds tend to build during the day and then ease as the sun sets but I was determined to make it to Port Harvey where I could go many miles out of my way to trace a tortuous track northwards which would bring me out slightly north of Port Hardy on the mainland side of Queen Charlotte Strait. I’d need to cross to Port Hardy for fuel and groceries before pressing on. Despite a forecast of 30 knots of wind on the nose I continued on past Port Harvey until the end of Johnstone Strait at Blackney Passage. The wind was easing so I continued on past Alert Bay ending up anchoring for the night in Beaver Harbour, only a few miles from Port Hardy. I was elated with my progress and nostalgic for the days when I plied these waters on tugboats.
Mermaid Bay, Dent Rapids This is where log tows are tied while their tugs wait for a favourable tide through the next set of rapids. All the boats erect a sign, hopefully higher than all the others. I’ve spent many long nights here.The “Ugly House” Milly Island near Port Neville on Johnstone Strait
It has been fifteen years since my work boat days ended but memories flooded back. I recalled how in Lewis Channel a skipper named Cliff (who could never catch enough fish or take enough crabs) had managed to lasso a deer swimming across the channel. In Teakerne Arm we arrived at 02:00 to pick up some log booms. There was a fishing boat tied to the booms and when it became clear that they were losing their moorage spot there was an angry, staccato tirade from the Asian family aboard, prompted by an elderly matriarch. They were determined that they were there first despite our explanation that we had tied our booms there days earlier. We resolutely connected our booms to the rest of our log tow and with a cheery “See you in Vancouver” headed south. The fishing boat soon untied and went its own way.
“Tings all over” Taking some lumps along the way
Towing logs through the Wellbore Rapids at daybreak we came upon a middle-aged lady in a kayak. She had been camping on a stretch of beach when rousted by bears. It turned out that she had paddled from Seattle to Alaska and was on her way home. I remember her when some yachter boasts to me about a minor passage as if it were an epic voyage.
Beautiful downtown Alert Bay. Once home of the world’s tallest totem pole it was also in the Guinness book of Records for having the most taxis per capita
On another trip I was in the wheelhouse as the mate bantered with another boat in the proximity of Milly Island in Johnstone Strait. There is a house built on the island and one of the mates was braying on about what an ugly structure it was. Suddenly the home owner spoke out on the VHF. “Look buddy, your tugboat ain’t no thing of beauty either!”
Beachcombing. To progress against wind or tide hugging the shore is a game of nerves and intimate local knowledge of every rock. It is not for the faint of heart. Many log tows make their progress this way, even in the dark.
I rather like the sight of the house and its posture of independence, especially after that particular conversation.
A long way home…and we’re just getting started. Looking south down Johnstone Strait.
Just south of Milly Island is Kelsey Bay. The boiling tides in that area will make passage extremely difficult to the point that one night a deckhand and myself renamed the place, “Suction city.” We fought the tide rip that night for hours. Mu experiences in these particular waters inspire as much respect as the dreaded Seymour Narrows. Across from Kelsey Bay is Yorke Island which hides the amazing secret of a massive artillery fortress. Perched on the top of the island it nestles in the trees where it was built during WWII to fend off Admiral Yamamoto and the boys, should they arrive. Even many seasoned watermen aren’t aware of the huge installation. The old fort is probably most famous locally as the site of a hippie commune in the sixties. Peace Man!
Morning, Beaver Harbour near Port Hardy
Immediately north of Yorke Island is a bald rock called Fanny Island which is a large bald granite rock clearly visible and marked with a flashing light. It is a well-known check point for commercial marine traffic. One very dark but calm night, while passing nearby with a log tow, the VHF burst into life. “FUCK!. I mean Mayday, Mayday! HOLY FUCK WE’RE SINKING!” A fishing boat had hit Fanny Island. Encumbered with a massive log tow we couldn’t rush to assist but I turned on all our deck lights and summoned the engineer to break out the pumps. While the stricken vessel limped the long mile across to us I relayed the Mayday to the Coast Guard. A Coast Guard inflatable arrived an hour and a half later, its three crewman looking like orange popsicles after their high-speed winter night cruise up from Campbell river. They relayed another pump from a passing tug. We’d already rigged a collision mat over the puncture in the boat’s hull and had two pumps going to keeps things afloat. That effort, I surmise, was perhaps aided by the thick layer of empty beer cans bobbing around in the flooded engine room. Once sufficiently warmed by our galley stove the coast guard crew officiously announced that they would take charge of the sinker. We were only too glad to comply.
The “Inseine” dock, Port Hardy fish plant.Mixing work with pleasure boats. Some of the moorage in Port HardyThar be monsters at these docks! I don’t know what the hell it was, but I sure wish I could swim like that!The collection. An admirable contempt for authority in Port HardyMy kind of house. Adequate, sturdy, simple and right beside the sea.Goletas Channel, northbound from Port Hardy. Did the Spanish explorers, who named these waters, wonder if this might be the beginning of the fabled Northwest Passage?
Now entering Queen Charlotte Strait, I recalled how this reef-studded body of water is sometimes known as the “Rock Garden” by skippers who have made stormy transits in the dark of this ragged corner of the North Pacific. There is ample material to write about. I’m preparing to publish a sequel to ‘The Water Rushing By’ which is now available from Amazon as either a p.o.d. paperback or as an e-book from Kindle.
A cruise ship in Queen Charlotte Strait. One salmon says to the other, “Look at all the canned people!”
Port Hardy clings to life after the decimation of the local mining, fishing and forest industries. Eco-tourism and, like it or not, aquaculture seem to have become the cornerstone of the local economy. Buying some provisions, one of my items was a vacuum-packed pork hock. I joked about how big a pork hawk must be if it can haul a pig away. The cashier didn’t miss a blink, “Maybe they’re even big enough to pack you away!” I stopped for lunch in a local bar and restaurant and noticed a sign admonishing clients not to smoke within the proximity of the establishment. Including a list of possible massive fines, it warned that “Jails isn’t a comfy place!” At the marina where I was moored, the clerk in the liquor store worried about how I was dealing with the “Heat.” It was a scorching twenty-two degrees with a cold, damp breeze blowing in from the sea. It was also worried that there was too much wind to leave to dock and then as I pulled away, I had to wait for a passing fishboat named “Eastern Sunset.” Strange, very strange. I moved on and spent the night in a popular little bight called God’s Pocket, then headed into the grey beyond early next morning.
Downtown God’s Pocket.Thassit! I’ve always wondered where Devil’s Pocket is.
THE G SPOT A log tower’s mark in God’s PocketTHAR!… Yep you’ve got it! Grey whale ahead.Dive, dive, dive! Now you think you saw him, then you begin to wonder.
Queen Charlotte Sound is bounded on the North by Hecate Strait which is the body of water separating Haida Gwaii (still charted as the Queen Charlotte Islands.) On the Southern end of the sound is Queen Charlotte Strait and various other areas also bear Charlotte’s name. To further thicken the stew, the passage between Bowen Island and Horseshoe Bay, near Vancouver, also carries her name. When King Edward III married her in the eighteenth century her maiden name was Sophia Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, Electress of Hanover. She bore randy old Ed fifteen children so perhaps that is why this area, with all of its islands, is so eagerly named after her. Thank God we don’t have to employ her entire long handle each time we refer to this area. What a mouthful that would be on the radio!
Something missing? A Grand and elegant US-registered yacht. Too bad he didn’t have any money left over to buy a Canadian courtesy flag. It is an ultimate nautical rudeness to not fly the ensign of a foreign country when in its waters.
My crossing was uneventful and typical with the open-ocean swell shuddering in under local tide slop and spastic bursts of wind. Rolls of light fog and drizzle welcomed me to the mid-coast. I gazed out onto the broad grey, open curving horizon and ached to head that way. My mind began to clear and I began to scrawl quick thoughts in my journal. Journal? Now there’s a good sign, it’s been a while since I did that. Where I can read my writing I find lines like “He spent money like a sailor and played guitar like an African” or “drowning in the waters you walk on.” Dunno what either one is about but someday it may blossom into sensible eloquence. Writing and photography, I find, require being able to grab to the glory of the moment and saving it for future edification. At least with a camera, there’s not a lot to interpret later on.
Scarlett Point light, Balaclava Island. Now a rare manned light station. I received a hearty wave from someone in the house on the right.
How about this? It was scratched out somewhere north of Egg Island.
I feel the ocean swell’s rise
As my happy boat begins to glide
This passage fills me with pride
Because I’m doing what few men do,
Exactly what I want to.
Land’s end The northern tip of Pine IslandGrowlers in the Rock Garden. Queen Charlotte Strait is not a place to be sleepy in the dark or in heavy weather, or both.The open horizon Beyond Nawhitti Bar The urge to head that way was hard to resist, Mexico is just down there, three weeks away.The crack out back. Egg Island from the north. The original light station was swept away by a Tsunami without trace several decades ago. Sleep tight.Addenbroke Light Station Fitz Hugh SoundMotor-sailing northward in Fitz Hugh Sound. The clear warm day was most unusual.Southbound. The Alaska State ferry ‘Columbia’ passing NamuIn one of a thousand secret anchorages in northern waters. Can you smell wood smoke, hear drums, see dugout canoes?A natural totem. It’s still daylight after ten pm. Looking out to Hakaii Pass.
Once into the shelter of Calvert Island the remains of the day turned warm and clear and calm as I motor-sailed northward up the broad waters of Fitz Hugh Sound. At the northeast tip of Hecate Island I found a calm secluded anchorage just at the edge of Hakai Pass. The ancient trees lean out from the worn granite where they cling tenaciously, their brine-burned branches festooned with moss and hanging kelp. It is my last night before arriving in Shearwater and the frantic frustrations of a new job and settling into a new community. For the moment, no-one else on the planet knows where I am.
Haida MoonStill Waters Nobody knows where I am and it’s all mine!
Bliss.
“The sea finds out everything you did wrong”…. Francis Stokes
