July 1, 2001

Day on Mayne Bay

After three days of near-constant humanity I was ready for some 'lone time ... so I betook myself home from camp the long way.

I have paddled between Hand Island and Toquart Bay many times, almost always selecting the same, direct route, anxious to reach my truck with its promise of sweet eats, fresh water, and the elongated sigh that is the conclusion of a trip. This time I gunkholed the bay which forms the eastern side of my usual route. There were some old things, some new things.

As I eased ashore on a small-pebble beach, stretching my hamstrings back to sanity, the small, quick mammal escaped out of the corner of my eye and eased into shoreside salal, its loping gait suggesting mink. Watching and waiting, my eventual reward was a full-on view of the biggest, fattest one ever! Healthy guy, working the wrack, not overly worried about me, but ambling away with purpose, nonetheless.

This beach is one of two which look "campable," but is most likely private, if the odd sign indicating "5" suggests a minimum wake condition. Likely, because a hundred yards up-bay is a realtor's "For Sale" sign next to concrete rip rap marrying a wave-swept rock to the shoreline. The concrete "beach" locates a substantial float and a scruffy gravel road, the latter leading to a newish cedar-sided dwelling, rugged but luxurious. From a distance, it is plain the house followed a cut block of timber, the likely source of the income to build the house.

I'd camp on those beaches, but not on the one half a mile away, for the movable jet-black rock spied from off shore. Those movable rocks are often bears, and this was a big one, ambling and overturning rocks. The bear was nonetheless a sufficient steward of the land, replacing rocks near where he found them.

Others were not good keepers of the land, and had taken a little hook cove to its knees, running a double skid road into its gut, leveling the tip of the hook for a logging platform. Good protection for the log barge, and a great spot for the crane and loader. Wonder what it looked like before the bulldozer . . .

Further along, small islets dotted the opening to an elongated inlet, charted to have a big structure on a float, the probable source of runabouts skimming the surface on fishing excursions. I left them to their inlet, scattering small rockfish babies and pubescent ones as well, drifting over their backs above deep algae and scummy rocks. A biology lesson in miniature. Around the bend showed the first of three micro beaches, maintained by shell, strongly contrasting with dark rock. One: suspended cleanly above the average tide, as if on display. Another: decorated with odd debris, perhaps hydraulic fittings, pumps, hoses, and a long, mysterious, stainless stinger.

The best beach: near lunch, atop a tent-sized rocky platform, which tomboloed the shell fragments to the mainland. From the platform, I could see boats skim back and forth to Toquart Bay campground, a mere mile distant. I was invisible, distant, in thought and sight.

Around the corner another mile, and still on the agenda, but for another trip, Pipestem Inlet, steep-walled and garnished with nasty oysters. Too much island, too little time.

Shove off and punch back to the take out, to re-enter the world of voices, dogs, campers, for-hire yak trippers, and chain saws. I welcomed them, for the contrast, and joked with the just-back paddlers as they jabbered about the sights they had seen on their day trip. Their fresh, shining faces shine brightly from their new adventure. My face is shining inwardly, renewed.

Time to head home. Thank you, Mayne Bay.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2001 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 7/1/2001.
Republished here with permission.