September 26, 2001

Barkley Sound, Canada

Five of us embarked on an abbreviated foray into Barkley Sound from the Toquart Bay launch beginning Monday a week ago. Our plans for a six-day trip were cut short by a dismal forecast mid-week, but the trip was worth all the border-crossing paranoia (unjustified) and travail of a marathon 14-hour shuffle from home to Vancouver Island. Moments of sanity prevailed, in the wake of the events happening on the east coast of the US. (Editor's note: the date of this essay is Sept. 26, 2001)

A breezy, rainy night ashore gave way to a mild, misty morning, and tide-man Greg of Bellingham marked the spot on the sand where the waters would arrive as we transferred gear from vehicles to yaks. My son and his mother complemented Greg, along with a new paddling buddy, computer guy Chris. This was Chris' first trip to Barkley Sound, and a fine paddler, cook, and card-player he proved to be.

After a 10 am launch, glassy waters greased us over the short five miles to Hand Island, occupied by a garrulous father-son duo, the first of only a dozen paddlers we saw that day. A short food break and we eased westward through the Brabants, doing paddle-by investigations of the campsites on Dodd and Willis, deserted except for a guy cell-phoning home from a large log. Outside Willis and onward through the chain linking Turret and Lovett, bouncing over small swell, and finally sliding ashore on Clark, home to just six other paddlers.

A cool breeze goosed us into swift tent erection and kitchen construction, with the cribbage beasts soon asconce a log, training newbie Chris in the probabilities of double-double runs and his nibs. (Chris won two of the first three matches he had ever played, defeating the "experts" in the end by twenty counters! The experts were not pleased.)

Tofu stir fry and Nutella away, we were soon snoozing, some from too much boozing.

Tuesday dawned foggy and damp, our neighbors announcing a "rest" day, and the VHF telling of a series of gales coming our way in two days. With weather like that in our future, we beat feet out of camp by ten and slipped across Coaster Channel, dodging foam slicks enroute to the lair of the pinnipeds. And lair they did -- some 1500 California sea lions and a couple dozen gigantic Stellers, all lounging and rolling about, some on the rocks of Wouwer and Batley, and a few in the waters alongside us. Three motorized tour boats cruised the grounds, their engines drowned out by the cacophony of barking, groaning, and bellowing.

Chris and I dodged boomers and swells to check out a lagoon on the south side of Wouwer, eventually joining the others on a pebble beach on Dicebox for a quick lunch and gabble with some nice Folboters from Corvallis, OR. As the surge rose to sweep us away, we edged over to the west side of Effingham and out to the south, admiring cliffs and sweeping views to the Deer Group. Ian, Belinda, and Chris had never been outside Effingham, and they were agog. Greg and I were stunned by its beauty, all over again. The Folboters, who had beat us off the beach by a bit, did the cliffs both directions, saying, "This is our favorite spot here!"

Greg, Chris, and I did an arch-paddle, and doodled around small boomers, while the other two took a more stately approach outside the shore hazards, and soon we were beached on Gilbert, noshing food and donning paddle jackets -- preparation for the return across Coaster Channel and its 12 knots of wind and beam seas. The crossing was a struggle for Belinda, sans rudder, but eventually was won, our reward an enormous batch of brats and sauerkraut prepared at Greg's hands.

Glogged by dinner, the VHF hit us again with gales in our future. One more day of decent weather, then the nasties would descend. Our group decided to slip out Wednesday, in trepidation that we would miss a wedding on Saturday if we got windbound. Others arrived as we left, some very surprised to hear of the coming gales ("What's a gale?").

Wednesday's paddle out had to be one of the finest ever. Lazy gunkholing and smooth shell beaches, easy, smooth seas and tail winds behind us, sliding by beautiful, deserted coves. A reward for visiting this area on the "shoulder" season. All were entranced by a small, secret shell beach in the Lovett-Trickett area, and we lounged there for a short hour, grokking at the views. Too soon, Hand was on us for a last break, and we smiled serenely across to Toquart Bay. As we hit the beach, the wind rose slowly, a harbinger of rain that night on the drive home.

A 2 am border crossing at Blaine was completely uneventful, and unbelievably quick. Sleep in Bellingham renewed us ... or was it our three short days on the water?
---
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 9/26/2001.
Republished here with permission.