Cold Weather Paddle on Willapa Bay, WA

Rick's terrific story reminds me of another cold water paddle, but one with an entirely different flavor. It's burned into my memory, and an experience which surfaces regularly in bull sessions about paddling. Those who have camped on Long Island in Willapa Bay (SW Washington) in winter will appreciate it.

My long-time paddling partner and I set out from the Refuge launch ramp on a brilliantly sunny morning -- January 1, 1995 -- into a brisk east wind, which turned into a 20 knot tailwind as we rounded the southern shore of the island, heading west towards High Point. We were surprised at the intensity of the wind, as there had been only a 10 - 15 knot downriver breeze in Astoria, and we have always thought of the eastern side of Willapa Bay as relatively protected from the drainage winds common to the Columbia River in clear winter weather. It was more of a following sea than we had ever been in, and Gary had to brace quickly several times to avoid capsizing, with his Orca (broad, fat stern and microcephalic bow), though I was not having much difficulty in my Wind Dancer, with its higher volume bow. Gary was even surfing involuntarily, at times.

After rounding the point into the lee of the island, we serenely sailed upisland to our favorite campsite. A garguantuan stir fry and a couple bottles of wine put a couple of old guys into a pretty mellow mood, with an intense fire made possible with Gary's splitting maul to deter the chill ... Hmmm, the wind WAS picking up ... Oh, well, it can't blow all night AND all of tomorrow.

WRONG! After rattling our cage and the alder/spruce forest around our ears all night, the east wind was even more intense the next morning. Even from our vantage point some 2 1/2 to 3 miles away we could see constant spuming and spindrift ripping around the southern end of the island at High Point, obscuring everything across the Bay. In the lee, life was pretty nice, but the freight train wind in the distance had an emotional impact like a pack of pit bulls on the sidewalk outside your door.

We set off, slowly working south in the lee, making our way to High Point, where we slid ashore and hid in sun-filled rocky crevices to watch the wind's fury. After a couple hours, it abated some, with no more continuous spindrift, so we sprinted around the corner into its maw -- WHAM! We both paddle unfeathered, so it had a full purchase on us and we were barely able to make any headway around the point. After fifteen minutes of near maximum effort, we pushed forward around the Point into some lee and began working our way along the southern shore. (Some may wonder at our judgement. Well, we were adjacent to a hospitable shoreline where we could land any time. The wind would have pushed us onto shore in the event of a capsize, we were equipped for cold water, and could have stayed on shore for another day if we had to. We felt strong.)

We stroked and stroked, sometimes gaining a little ground, sometimes blown backward despite pulling with our maximum effort. Gary had a tougher time of it. For some reason, my yak fares better in strong head wind situations, so soon I was a couple hundred yards ahead of him. He stopped on shore and rested once. I paddled continuously, breathing hard even, which paddling never demands of me. It is one nautical mile along the south shore of Long Island, a stretch which is a pleasant fifteen minute paddle under "normal" conditions. This day it took me two and one half hours of hard effort to travel it. When I hit the lee, I was exhausted, spent, beat. I went ashore at the nearest place to watch and wait for Gary, who arrived fifteen minutes later. It was sunny, nearly windless, and brilliant, with dramatic sidelight illuminating the cedars and sprucers on the Island. Sunday drivers were passing by, nodding and waving pleasantly at my slumping figure on the shoreline. All I could think about was how tired I was as the adrenaline faded away.

Later, from the sea conditions, we estimated that the wind had been a 30 to 35 knot gale, with gusting to 40 knots which drove us backwards. We also realized that these conditions are common in winter down here in clear weather, with the NOAA weather broadcasts warning of easterly "drainage winds" through "gaps" in the Coast Range. We haven't been back to sample those winds again, but I'm glad we had the experience. It humbled me. It made me respect the wind. I learned that even familiar, "easy" water can be a demon under the right conditions.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1996 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on WaveLength mailing list in Jan. 1996.
Republished here with permission.

Becky's Birthday Paddle

Willapa Bay, Southwest Washington

Well, we didn't exactly go to Aldrich Point to paddle. My friend Becky's birthday coincided with Sunday, so she got to pick the paddle. And she chose the east side of Long Island in Willapa Bay. When we arrived at the Refuge headquarters ramp, the sun was just beginning to warm the air to a humane temperature, even though it had been up for hours. So we laid our yaks next to the rising water and slowly filled them -- so slowly the yaks were floating when we were ready to launch. Lunch, water, clothes, radio, chart, ego, scattered thoughts. No ripples on this water.

Off to the north, moving against the current past wiggling oyster poles of PVC, grebe after grebe -- some little guys, but mostly the big Western variety. Mallards off to the left, wanking in the mud at the edge of the tide, and a line of geese silhouetted against the green of the island. Scum line, scum line, then the loons! Lots of Pacifics, shy and scattered, and two big Commons, slowly eyeing us as we worked our way past, moving away in leisurely loon time. At only three yak lengths away, they filled the objective of the binoculars as we parted.

Paddle, paddle -- what ARE those two guys in the skiff up to? Anchored near the Peninsula to the east, running north, then south. They're gone now and it's quiet again. To lunch near an elk-stomping and -pooping ground on the island -- french bread, butter, Havarti dill, apple, Hershey's dark and water. Listen, listen, here comes a canoe chock-full of guys returning from Sawlog Slough, two paddlers and one center sitter, jabbering away down the channel with gear piled high. They never saw us. Launch again in ripple-free water.

North again to the Naselle River and Stanley Point, rounding grassy duck hunting blinds and to the top of the tide to a fallen-down ruin at the edge of the forest. A walk up the hill to an old cattle chute and corral, weird vegetation under a high canopy of elderberry, one new three-foot stump alone in the center of untouched moss -- why did they take this one tree, and how did it leave without marking the ground or leaving branches? Space aliens acquire a spruce?

Time to go. Fighting the tide AGAIN! Why don't they move that damn Refuge ramp up tide so we can get a ride? Sore shoulder, toes and arches asleep, chasing loons back. Lots of new "get outa here" signs on the bank for the hunters and 'shroom gatherers. We stole looks at the land anyway, but did not touch it. Now calmer, relaxed, worn in the back and butt.

Happy Birthday, Becky!
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1996 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on WaveLength mailing list in Oct. 1996.
Republished here with permission.

Last Day of Summer

The sun and balmy air lead us on -- hoping for a last-of-summer overnight paddle on the Columbia River. We got it. Becky and I rolled out of town at the amiable hour of 11 am and launched at Aldrich Point an hour later, trading gossip with duck hunters at the ramp -- getting their shacks ready for the opener next week. Our launch time hit the tail end of the ebb, which swept us across the river and down a mile or so to Jim Crow Point, less than an hour's paddling/drifting in the sunshine, an 8 knot easterly breeze at our backs. "Gap" outflow winds to 15 knots were predicted, so we were a little leery of getting trapped across the river on the WA side. Skirting the eddyline below the point, we slid ashore, astounded that no one else had preceded us.

The previous night's high tide (an 8 footer) had outlined the safe camping area, and we debated whether to pitch in the "front yard" of the frequently-visiting steelhead fisherman, who had made a roomy shack from dryer felt inherited from the local pulp mill. Five inches of rain fell here over the past week, renewing the sand, logs, and our sittin' spots. We set to, pitching tent, laying out cooking gear, and yarding yaks above the tide line. Then time to lay in the sun, swim a little, watch the River traffic (no freighters!), hit the Guinness some, maybe a couple of corn chips, and, yes, please pass the sunscreen, I AM feeling a little red!

After a little afternoon entertainment, it was time to fire up the vegie-slicer and the wok, as the wind dropped and the temperature hit 80 (this is fall?). Yumm! Seasoned mashed potatoes topped with stir-fried cajun pork strips and vegies! Too much to eat, can't tolerate the thought of dessert! Loll around, dodge the freighter and tug wakes, try to raise a tacking sailboat on the VHF, as it drifts towards dusk. At dark, a monster tanker obliterated the lights on the opposite shore, ghosting by quietly downbound, the VHF announcing preparations for a pilot exchange an hour (and 15 miles) hence, off the Astoria waterfront.

Midnight bladder breaks revealed a brilliant half moon and a heron grokking along overhead. Morning came on with 10 plus knots of downriver breeze, over our heads and off the point, with the eddyline really cranking! Breakfast was slow, with double hits of coffee as we watched bait fish flash in the shallows and a tern patrolled overhead. The VHF was out of entertainment. Some dragger offshore had 16 nailed with an open mike -- we could hear the noises of his reel and hydraulics work the net back aboard.

Time to shove off -- this wind is brisk! Quartering against it and the heavy downriver current, we worked our way across the shipping channel to Woody Island, taking the downstream end to avoid the wind. A stop at the float house where the kitty lives revealed her owners were home -- processing comb honey from hives set on the islands! A brief rest and slog, slog through the shallow channels, reaching the launch point in twice the time the reverse trip took yesterday!

83 degrees at the weather station yesterday. When is winter?
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1997 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on WaveLength mailing list in Sept. 1997.
Republished here with permission.

Easy Pig Trip -- October 1997

The weatherman said the wind and rain would blow itself out on Friday, and progress to sun on Sunday. So we four Astorians embarked on a two-day sea kayak trip on the Lower Columbia River. First-timers Link and Mary assembled the Folbot while Becky and I packed up the singles on the grass in Clatskanie, OR, after which we drifted and paddled 2 miles down the Clatskanie River (a slough, really) to the main stem of the Columbia. Along the way we hand-picked apples from our cockpits at the site of the old railroad bridgemaster's quarters (burned down last year) and wig-wagged at pickups bustling along the dike overhead. Lots of new rock on the dikes -- only two years after the big floods of the winter of 95-96.

Gill-netters in net sheds at the end of the Clatskanie River were loading web onto their boats, chattering about mesh and sturgeon drifts. It's kinda sad to see these seldom-used once-upon-a-time salmon boats from Quincy and Mayger and Pillar Rock and Clifton and Bradwood, themselves once-upon-a-time ports of call on the River. Then out into the side-channel of the main stem River, slow current a reminder of summer past, upriver dams barely leaking leftovers from spring snowmelt of a hundred days ago. Onward, lazily paddling in the sprinkles -- what? -- Becky said it would NOT rain. Oh, she says this isn't rain, just a healthy mist.

There are new signs on Wallace Island -- once the site of a feral pig colony engineered to be the central material for luaus by a long-gone entrepreneur -- *Day Use Only* *National Wildlife Refuge.* Guess pigs aren't endangered, though those pigs have all died. Past Wallace, the downriver breeze ruffles the Folbot-ers, dodging their own paddle drips and muttering about the wind and the "mist," as they huff and glide over the shallows to North Dead Wild Pig Island (NDWPI), a mile-long dredge-spoil creation forming the southern side of the narrow shipping channel. (No, that's not its real name. We call it "North Dead Wild Pig" in honor of Wallace -- the true "Dead Wild Pig Island.")

Sturgeon and steelhead fishers love NDWPI's northern shore, laying lures into the current behind the pile dikes. NDWPI has "migrated" downstream recently, owing to extreme floods two years running (El Nino?). The upper end has lost at least 80 lateral feet of bank (was 5 - 7 feet above nominal river level), which has reappeared as shallows "filling in" the covelets and hollows along the N shore, and as a fattening of the downstream "flats" ahead of the downriver pile dike. Nature at work!

We like the downstream end, flatter and sheltered by cottonwoods, with the occasional madrone (arbutus), a struggling spruce or two, and openings of coarse sand "moss meadows," delicately anointed with nuggets of goose poop.

Sunset magazine just ran a piece on this area of the Lower Columbia River, and they called these forced marriages of mud, rushes, scotch broom, cottonwoods, and dredge spoils, "wild islands." I don't think the editors of Sunset know about the pigs. Probably they were politically incorrect pork, anyway!

As the rain-producing atmospheric trough moves inland, we arrive at NDWPI. The wind switches to the west, ruffling the surface of a tarp quickly erected over a substantial two-table, four-bench, campers layout. We used to crouch in the sand on logs and stir our fry in the dirt here, but powerboaters have made a luxurious (and clean!) camp. It almost seems as if they planned to "live" here. Our best approach is to ignore their summertime residue and frolic in the fall and winter on their location. (In the spring, nesting geese put the Island off limits.)

Soon, the late-launchers (Gary and Roberta) arrive, having made better use of the ebb out the Clatskanie channel, and full-time lying, drinking, and bragging begins. Roberta, especially, is enchanted with the river shipping traffic, deserting the cooking area to watch freighters, tugs, and barges wash on by. A couple hours later, chips, dip, and wine have disappeared down hungry gullets,and it's time to stir up our OWN dead pig -- fried in the wok with greens, red vegies and jalapenos, and laid onto some really tasty instant seasoned mashed potatoes. This is too spicy for the Native American in our midst, who prefers well-cooked beef, carrots, and some really delicious boiled potatoes. Some of us steal bites of his spuds!

Mary wins the food crown with fresh-made crepes filled with huckleberry compote and cream cheese topping. All of our stomachs groan. We suspect overeating is responsible for vivid dreams of gnomes chucking rocks into the swash, counterparts to the regular freighter traffic.

Morning arrives calmly, bringing a leetle strip of brief sun as it pops up under the stratus. More food is cooked and eaten, all on the cholesterol list -- we're all too old to eat this way!

Time to pack up and hurry, hurry, up the Clatskanie channel to catch the flood, sweeping us past the apples again, to the float and ramp. Soon the Folbot is duffled away and other yaks are stacked on top of the pickup. Lunch in Westport at the Berry Place: buffalo burgers and freshly baked huckleberry pie. Some of us were purists and did NOT have ice cream.

Is this paddling just an excuse to eat? Gotta find a pig ...
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1997 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Wavelength list server, October 1997.
Republished here with permission.

Memorable Meal on Willapa Bay

Like others, my most memorable meals are associated with an "event" more than with especally exotic/tasty food ... but there waaass this ONE time. It's kind of a long story:

Marcia must have bought her Orca (one of the original Eddyline designs: microcephalic bow; huge, flat stern -- the automatic broach machine in a following sea) in '84 or '83. I didn't even know what a sea kayak was, then. But, in '86 she took me and my then-wife out to the local boat ramp to paddle the behemoth. It was cool, and inspired enough confidence for us to commit to a memorable week-long guided Baja expedition with Tim and Larry "The Kayak," over the Xmas break. Marcia moved to Corvallis, OR, and I sort of lost touch with her.

Fast forward to the summer of '93, two years after Marcia had sold her ENTIRE sea kayaking kit (yak, two paddles, all the specialized outfitting gear, multiple dry bags, etc., etc.) to my long-time buddy Gary, for $400! By this time, Marcia had taken her boat, with her spaniel Lacey on the back deck (or, in heavy weather, in the cockpit!), ALL OVER the Pacific Northwest, by herself: San Juans, Barkley Sound, Desolation Sound, all over the Columbia River, and, very often, on Willapa Bay, WA, to her most favorite campsite on Long Island.

Lacey was getting long in tooth, and Marcia's "gift" had gotten Gary and me started paddling yaks down here, so Gary, my SO Becky, and I scheduled a special "nostalgia" trip for Marcia and Lacey: we borrowed another yak and freed up the Orca and all of Marcia's gear so she could trek out to her favorite spot, one last time. This was to honor and recognize the lady we called "the matron saint of Lower Columbia River sea kayaking."

We really did this up brown: a trio of roses and a glass of Chardonnay were handed to her, as she stepped ashore at her old spot; we had planned a mega veggie stir fry tailored to her food preferences (you don't want to know); set up her tent; catered to her every whim; took her and the aging dog on a hike to the cedar grove; yada yada yada.

We were having a terrific time, telling lies, getting a little sloshed.

As we were finishing the mid-afternoon snack (freshly-made guacamole and chips) and the first bottle of wine, we heard an annoying little whine on the water -- a small skiff was approaching, vectoring across up the Bay. Ah, well, some yahoo out for a spin ... the falling tide will take care of HIM pretty soon! No ... they're coming ashore here. My god, it's Mary and Link! What's this stuff? A huge cooler? Crepes? Freshly sauteed apples in sauce? What's Mary doing with that stuff? Oh, yeah, she's warming the crepes, heating the sauce, ladling the stuff out onto crepes in front of our faces, and flambeeing the whole thing with brandy! Huh? Ice cream, still hard from the dry ice, on top? I think I've died and gone to food heaven! Groan ... I'm so stuffed I don't think I can even roll over!

Thank you, Marcia.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1997 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on WaveLength mailing list in Oct. 1997.
Republished here with permission.

Round the Island

Three of us circumnavigated Long Island in Willapa Bay yesterday -- the first annual Winter Solstice Willapa Paddle. A rare combination of perfect tides and calm, beautiful weather made this an easy, joyous trip.

For the uninitiated, the Willapa is a largish salt water enclosure just north of the Columbia River -- one of the last relatively pristine bays on the West Coast of North America. It is an incredible nursery for oysters and other bivalves (two species heavily farmed (ranched?)), a wasteland of thigh-deep mud at low water, and transient home to hordes of migratory shorebirds and waterfowl on the Pacific Flyway. Long Island is roughly seven miles long and two miles wide, running mainly north-south, with the only feasible launch at the south (up-bay) end, and the north end closer to the mouth of the bay.

This means that to circle Long Island, without fighting tidal currents, one has to catch an ebb tide with monstrous holdup (no "lower" than 4.5 feet) so the down-bay mudflat on the north end of the island will be covered with enough water. An error here adds four miles to the nominal eighteen!

George (a new paddler), Kathy (major boardhead and mother of three), and I (the "old bull" of the crowd) hit the water at the crack of 1030. We had anticipated an easy dawdle up and back the east side of the island. Moving steadily northward with tidal assist, spying the odd bird (a common goldeneye) and the usual winter crowd (grebes, loons, widgeons, mallards, and cormorants), we began to debate the prospect of a round-the-Island shuffle. Kathy, the fittest of the three, does real work for a living (she is a landscaper), and George has been doing a lot of paddling the last month or two, so we opted for the long venture. [My excuse? Intense cabin fever!]

To our surprise, we were able to round the top of the Island in much less than two hours and headed for the beach to wait out the low. A nice visit with locals on a back-and-forth shuttle from Nahcotta made lunch social as well as nutritional (smoked sturgeon on jalapeno bagel with a Snickers chaser -- cross-cultural, no?). Major gossip was exchanged and bladders were relieved ... equally satisfying, but to different quadrants of our physiologies. As a squall moved through, we hit the water again, moving south along the west side of the Island. Assisted by gentle following seas and a tailwind, I stroked hard to keep up with Kathy and George jabbering away like magpies squabbling over roadkill!

Shorebirds in close choreography flight complemented brant chuckling and grazing in the shallows. Scooting across oyster beds and spying on commercial clam harvesters, we slid down the west side, pausing briefly to admire the strong side-lighting of the setting (!) sun as we hit the south end of the Island and headed for home.

Tired but happy puppies, George and I hooted our way to the ramp, while Kathy fretted about arriving late to gather in her daughter from the babysitter. Funny how those worries surface only as civilization returns. Sorer but satisfied, I arrived home to Christmas baking and a warm and sensual reception ... next year, I'll get Becky out on the Willapa at Winter Solstice. Water Druids, we be.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1997 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on WaveLength mailing list in Dec. 1997.
Republished here with permission.

Martha Gets a Boat

It did not look good. Fifteen knots of steady SW breeze, working against the tail of the flood, roiling the waters off the Refuge ramp, pushing chop and froth along the channel. But, there stood Martha, looking hopeful, just-completed Pygmy Coho on the gravel, in the drizzle and wind. Hi, there, nice to meet you face-to-face, finally. Boat looks nice. What do you think about this weather? Yeah, I believe those folks in the Jocassee and the two Kiwis setting out are in for a surprise when they get around the corner into the wind! Well, give us a chance to get organized, and by then maybe George will have shown up.

Fifteen minutes later, there's George, Solstice on his pickup, grin on his mug, jaws already beginning some ribald joke. OK, we'll get loaded up and see what the weather does. (The wind picks up; the Jocasse and the Kiwis are joined by a canoe, ferrying Scouts and adults back and forth across the channel.) Hell, if they can do it, so can we!

Another half hour passes, and the boats are packed with slippery-wet gear. We shove off, Martha marvelling at the stability of her new craft, as we admire her handiwork. Into the breeze, to the edge of the point, grasping pickleweed. OK, let's sit here a while and see. Ten minutes later, I think the wind has dropped. Let's go! Yup, definitely a break. Martha is not so sure, but her boat surges ahead, like a new bird dog.

Half an hour later, we are around High Point, out on the exposed water, and there is so little chop we giggle and grin at our luck! For once, the weatherman was right -- front passed through right on schedule! The Kiwis and Jocasse are pulled up on shore at Pinnacle Rock CG, drying off, pitching tents, as we glide by. Martha in the lead, now, spotting loons and gadwalls.

Sandspit CG is an hour away across a smoothing sea, and abandoned as we slide ashore on cobbles. Clouds are lifting. Nobody here except tons of elk sign -- have they been eating beach grass? Tents go up, tarp pops over the decrepit picnic table, and ... the eating begins! Martha stands open-mouthed: Don't you guys ever stop eating? (We notice she has no trouble keeping up.) Time to laze around and listen to her stories of the Harris's hawk -- falconing the hedgerows down in the Willamette Valley for voles, mice, and the occasional rabbit. Wind drops to nothing, and the Bay empties, bringing gulls and herons to walk the muddy edges, sneaking the odd fingerling or clam or worm into their gullets. More loons in the distance, mournful. A redtail buzzes overhead, and warblers (Martha's specialty) flit in the brush at campside, chasing dying berries and insects.

The Scouts arrive on foot, some five-plus miles of road-walking from their put-ashore point, adults eying our beer, and pitch tents just above the high-water mark. George tells them stories of floating away in the night, and we admire their naivete.

Stir fry, tabouli, pasta salad, and cookie (crumbles -- victim of intense hatch-packing). Martha: Don't you guys every stop eating? (She is slowing down.) A fire from abandoned 2 x 4's smolders to life, the cord holding the lantern up melts, sending it to the deck, still lit, and more stories of the hawk follow.

Becky has a rough night, the beginning of what will turn out to be a two-day struggle with sinus pain. We eat fried potatoes and smokies as day creeps over the bluff behind us, and George whomps up more granola than a horse would eat. Slow morning, while Becky sleeps off the pain, and we gather gear quietly. By eleven, the Bay is getting full again and all is ready but her tent, so we roll her out into a camp chair onto the gravel, and shake the dew off.

The Scouts head out, walking the shoreline to Smokey Hollow, intending a visit to the Grove of Ancient Cedars enroute back to civilization and a stop at the Astoria Mac Shack, their reward for putting up with the adults for a weekend.

Launching onto lake-calm waters, we head south, reversing yesterday's paddle with a difference: our Folbot double has only one paddler: me. But that's OK, George and Martha are content to dawdle and gab as I punch away at the water. More loons, singing in the distance. Surfbirds on foot-square chunks of rock, peeping as we creep up on them, finally bursting into flight. Around the Point, across the southern end of the island to the ramp, fighting a little head-current. The Kiwis and the Jocassee are loading up as we hit the ramp. Becky drifts in and out of consciousness, and finally rolls out of the boat onto shore, walking to the pickup and assuming a head-back position on the passenger side. A couple in a Nautiraid slip ashore nearby -- and tell of their sweet night amidst a herd of grazing elk on the east side of the island. I admire the 10-year-old boat, wooden longerons and wooden frames holding the hull out.

Martha's boat still looks gorgeous, and none the worse for the wear. She thinks she will build another, maybe a stripper this time. She can't figure out how to fill her spare time unless she has a project. I'd say she should deepen her relationship with this boat, and not flit off to a new one. We make plans to go watch the hawk hunt in a couple weeks, hoping to get in some paddling on Tahkenitch Lake.

Yeah, Martha got a boat. We notice she pats it a little after loading it on top of the pickup, to return to Waldport. The boat wags its stern with affection. We think she will keep it.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1998 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Republished here with permission.

Tenasillahee Flamingo Surprise

Three of us squeezed in an overnight trip on the Columbia River, paddling upriver on the tail end of the flood from Aldrich Point to a campsite on a dredge-spoil island last Saturday, and returning the next day on the tail end of the ebb, avoiding head-currents, as old people should. We stayed away from the places where geese are nesting now, and only saw overhead flights of presumably migrant stocks (in the hundreds), along with the odd dozen or half-dozen swans (late for them to be here).

Both days were mild and mixed sun, haze, overcast, and a little drizzle, though not enough to justify the Goretex jacket. The evening showed Cathlamet's lights to good advantage, and the ghosting of barges and freighters in the channel in the mist and more serious rain. Water temp demanded the wet suit, but otherwise it was shorts and light top clothing weather! Spring! Oh, that sap is running!

The other two (a couple "renewing" their slightly dormant relationship) were on their first paddle since October, and I was futzing with the relationship between my chunky body and a new cockpit (new boat -- my SO's, but she had to go to Seattle ... oh, well, her tough luck!), so this was more of a shakedown cruise than a serious endeavour. Nonetheless, several eagles were spotted, scads of scaups, beaucoup buffleheads, and a scoop or two of harbor seals, along with the odd (really odd) power boater, and a very stuck-up pair of canoeists from Portland.

The old campsite was refurbished, which included returning the 30 inch diameter round we had been using for a table top, gardening away the offending scotch broom, and resetting the fire ring. To keep things humming, I did the hot stir fry, and the others the wine, the plastic pudding, and a mega-breakfast. No wonder that cockpit is a tight fit!

Two pink, plastic flamingoes (man, that new yak has a LOT of cargo room!) greeted the loving couple in the morning, a suitable iconographic introduction to the rites of spring. The return trip revealed massive work in process on tide gates on one side of Tenasillahee Island, and a couple miles of heavy rocking on dikes, all on a deer sanctuary. Why do the deer care if the tide is kept out? Did I help pay for this? Is this a harbinger of more dredge deposits and elevation of the upland on the island? Time will tell.

Summer is around the corner. I wonder how many flamingoes that thing will hold ...? Can I transport plastic waterfowl across the US/CDN border without being arrested? I think they'd look good in Zeballos.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1998 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Wavelength mailing list in March, 1998.
Republished here with permission.

Terns and Riprap

There's really no good way to do it. You just shoulder the yak and hop from boulder to boulder until you reach the tide flat. Or, if you have a buddy, take turns hauling each other's boat over the same terrain. Harrington Point, on the Washington side of the lower Columbia River, is shelved with riprap to support a shred of state highway, serving the deadend placenames Altoona and Pillar Rock. Long-gone salmon runs fed canneries in these riverside locales, now bedroom communities for nearby "bustling" Naselle and the bigger towns in Oregon, 40 minutes away.

The riprap is made necessary by freighter wakes and winter waves, neither in abundance this late April day as Lucien and Randy haul their monstrous decked canoe and gear to the mud and launch. I am slower, dutifully packing rescue gear, lunch, and other necessaries into the fore and aft parts of my small wooden kayak. By the time I have threaded through the swirls surrounding the pile dikes off Altoona, their craft is a toothpick across the half-mile-wide main river channel. We launched at the tail end of the ebb, and cormorants are feeding in the turbulence as I look both ways and scoot across the shipping channel. The VHF squawks of barges miles away, and power boats carrying returnees from the local "wine festival" have not yet begun to rip upstream past our spot.

Catching the others in the middle of their pee break, I land on "Miller Sands barrier island," in time to relaunch and drift/paddle back across the shipping channel to the upper end of Rice Island. The thirty-foot tall sand ridge forming an arcuate "barrier" around Miller Sands and the humongous deposits of dredge spoils on Rice Island are ignored on NOAA charts -- perhaps because the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers would not like to acknowledge the huge expenditure of resources needed to keep the River slanting across the River, deviating from its long-ago historic course. These are not small structures. The first is 50 - 100 Yards wide and a mile long, the second is up to a short half-mile wide and a mile and a half long. They grow annually to maintain the channel depth, and have been here for over 20 years.

The lower end of Rice, which we visit twice at its midst in our clockwise circumnavigation, is the location of the largest Caspian Tern colony in North America, about 5000 plus birds. They were attracted here some fifteen years ago from their previous home (at the mouth of Willapa Bay) by abundant salmon and steelhead smolts. The colony nails between 6 million and 20 million smolts as they enter the lower River on their journey to the sea. Biologists are experimenting with ways to "move" the colony downriver to a place where the smolts are less stupid or at least more spread out, hoping the birds will eat something less vital to humans.

Rice Island is a desert, with a fringe of struggling cottonwoods and beach grass, home to a few dozen nesting geese. One pair has produced the season's first goslings, a scrawny, tiny duo dwarfed by their fat parents, waddling furiously away from us as we paddle by. Lunch includes a tentative foray toward a hidden point which can overlook the the tern nesting zone, soon abandoned in deference to the smolt-eaters and their also-voracious cousins, the couple thousand double-breasted cormorants which also nest on the lower end of Rice.

Reaching the upper end of Rice, as the ebb turns to flood, we thread our way across, dodging cruisers booming upriver, to skirt the barrier sands of Miller Sands, landing briefly on the upper end. A half dozen eagles (just two of them mature), eye geese, goslings, and eggs for lunch, dinner, and dessert. We leave hurriedly, very out of place in this rich environment, to confront monster ships in the channel. One produces a shoreside surge I surf backwards, unwillingly, and we sidle up to the vague edge of the channel until the traffic subsides. The VHF is busy, with an upriver freighter passing a tug and barge combo as another oceangoing vessel heads downriver. Lucien, new to the water, gawks at their monstrous size, and wonders if the wake turbulence will sink the canoe. No, but it gives my yak a ride!

Altoona looks good, but the tide is now up IN the riprap, as we dance out of our craft and hop to rocks, extracting boats from the freighter surge and head home. On the chart, this looks like really BORING water ... guess somebody forgot to tell the terns and gulls about that.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1998 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list in April, 1998.
Republished here with permission.

Paddling to Ninstints Queen Charlottes, August 1998

My fiancé Becky, my son Ian, and Ian's mom (Belinda), took on the southern part of Parks Canada jewel in the Charlottes, August of 1998. Becky and I paddled a double (Folbot Greenland II), and the other two were in hardshell singles. We traveled from a spot in the middle of Juan Perez Sound to the Skungwai (Anthony Island) vicinity, with water taxi service from Moresby Explorers each way. Thirteen days on the water (with three days lost to weather) might seem like a lot, but we could have spent twice that. As it was, we spent most days moving camp 8 - 15 miles and only made two day-trip forays from fixed camps. Our Zodiac return from Raspberry Cove (the main in/out point for water taxi service) included 2-meter-plus head seas and head winds of over 20 knots, making it the wildest boat ride of my life -- and conditions which kept EVERY sea kayaker ashore.

We spent the first two nights in a cramped little cove near Marcos Island, because BOTH of the better drop-off points were occupied with larger groups -- enduring an intense little system which tried to drown us out. Thanks to a protecting canopy of cedars, the skills of Tarpman (yours truly), and sturdy rain flies, we stayed fairly dry, attempting to diminish our mound of food to a size that would fit into our yaks. Working our way south the next couple days took us to the middle of Skincuttle Inlet, south of Burnaby Island, and as beautiful an island camp as I've ever seen. Bolkus is the former site of a Haida summer village, and one of the locuses legends describe as the point the Haida entered the Islands.

The fifth day stressed the two single-yak-paddlers, as we crossed two major point systems, to a picturesque cove at the northern corner of Carpenter Bay, where we caught and ate a good-sized rockfish and a small greenling, enjoying the two streams which drained into the sea UNDER high berms of cobbles. After a rest day at Two Fish Cove (our name), we got a flat-calm, warm, sunny day for the traverse around Benjamin Point, including bear-on-the-beach (we weren't!) and a fat lingcod on-the-deck as our rewards. Raspberry Cove, across from the well-publicized Guest House at Rose Harbour, was a welcome sight, and deserted!

Day eight we fought a strong head wind, a little head current, and some rough chop down the inlet to a cove on the tip of the (unnamed) peninsula separating Rose Inlet from Louscoone Inlet, making only five miles over three hours of hard work! The single-paddlers collapsed ashore, and we camped three nights there. Later it earned the appellation "Two Otter Cove" for the river otters which occupied it.

Fog, light drizzle, and some moderate wind/seas the next day postponed our visit to the totems and house pits at Ninstints until afternoon. The visit was mightily enriched by the presence of Captain Gold, the pre-eminent Haida Watchman, who collared us just before we (innocently) wandered off the trail around a sensitive site. Gold is a fount of information on Ninstints, and a story-teller of the first rank. Concern for the return of the fog sent us back across Louscoone to Two Otter, way before he had exhausted his story trove.

It would be difficult to convey the impact of the scene at Ninstints. We had pointed ourselves at the village site for most of two weeks, and came away much awed at its beauty and eeriness. Parks Canada (and the Watchmen) attempt to limit the number of visitors at each village site to something less than a dozen (at any given moment), so as to enhance the quality of the experience. That really worked for us at Ninstints.

Day ten we slept in late, tide-pooled the shore from our yaks (way more impressive than Burnaby Narrows), and visited the Gordon Islands in the afternoon. Very cool lagoon (high tide only) on the NW corner, and a beautiful little gravel/shell beach separating the two islands, with monstrous cliffs surrounding the southerly island. The next day we escaped ahead of a building NW gale back to Raspberry Cove, now occupied by one of the several guided groups we saw, and opted out for a smaller cove three hundred yards east, complete with trawl-web hammock and a rope swing!

By afternoon, the buoys to either side of South Moresby were reporting gales of 35 - 40 knots, stimulating a gathering of trollers, sailboats, and pleasure craft at the mooring buoys across Houston Stewart Channel. This pattern persisted for two more days, pinning everyone ashore (or at anchor) except a Coast Guard cutter which steamed impressively through it all and turned up Rose Inlet our last day.

The morning of our planned extraction, several of the fishing boats and one cruiser had abandoned the south side of the channel and were trying to keep a hook down in the small lee of our shore. As we stood in awe of the wind, a huge black bear ambled into our cove, ogled us and our seven-grain cereal, and rejected all of the above as food, preferring to hunker down fifty yards away for a diet of crustaceans and sea-lettuce. (We were relieved.)

About the time the bear finally moved on to the next cove, Bill, of Moresby Explorers, pushed their largest rigid hull inflatable (a Polaris, I think) to shore, the first small craft we had seen enter the channel in a day and a half! Smiling, Bill asked us if we were ready for a "rough" return, over the worst seas he'd seen in five years of running zodes up and down Moresby. We gulped, "Yes," and packed our yaks and other gear onto his craft. Two hours and many gallons of seawater in the face later, we entered the calmer "inside" waters of Skincuttle Inlet, as Bill also calmed down and drove the zode with one hand and smoked with the other.

The rest of the return was anticlimactic, although Bill managed some major flirting with a saucy lady who had herded a 10-foot way-trashed john boat (complete with 5-horse outboard and boyfriend) halfway down the main island to Hotsprings Island. The lady with the saucy 'tude was hoping for a haul-out. She must have found a willing troller to do the job, 'cause we saw her and her escort in Queen Charlotte City two days later, trash-boat on her Tercel, waiting for the ferry!

It was a great trip. Certainly the paddle of a lifetime, but even more, close to a religious experience for we sea-Druids. Ninstints and its mortuary poles exude an eerie, calming aura that can only be experienced. It is testimony to the many generations of natives who lived and died there, on the edge of the Pacific. We were honored to paddle in their wakes.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1998 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Wavelength list server, 1998.
Republished here with permission.

Marathon in the Charlottes

he second two-week trip I did in the Queen Charlottes this summer (see Paddling to Ninstints for the first) was in the company of six folks from NW Oregon/SW Washington -- who paddled Easy Rider decked canoes. In my high-volume single sea kayak I was hard pressed to keep up with the Easy Riders, which they paddled as doubles, using 260 - 270 cm kayak paddles. We were very heavily loaded, due to their style of camping, of which more later.

As the lone sea kayaker, I got to be "veggie man," meaning, at the beginning of the trip, each morning I loaded 100 - 120 lbs of potatoes, cabbages, oranges, carrots, jicima, onions, etc., into my hatches, and ran the same package up lines each night (bear avoidance). [We had no negative encounter with our ursal cousins. We "shared" beaches with them everywhere. With good camp hygiene, they were a non-problem for us.]

The others carried seven sealed plastic buckets per double, one a 5-gallon pail loaded with four gallons of wine (!), and the others rectanguloidal affairs with maybe 4 gallons of volume per bucket. These were absolutely stuffed with food, kitchen gear, and the like, making for a payload which boggled the mind of this reformed back packer/climber. As veggie man, trucking along with my weenie (and diminishing, thank God!) 100+ lbs of produce, I felt like I was not holding up my end of the stick. Oh, yeah, they also had a milk box packed with canned goods in each boat!

The Easy Riders were equipped with nylon sprayskirts bungied to the fore and aft holes, and a similar spray cover bungied over the cavernous center hole. At 18 feet long, 38 inches wide in the center, and 22 - 24 inches deep, they were pigs in the wind, but pretty efficient for the load. Most were paddled *sitting on the deck,* which made for tremendous leverage and a very efficient vertical paddling style. I tried their style, but found it nerve-wracking as hell!

Despite the feeling I would tip over in a slight swell, the other folks paddled them with aplomb through moderate seas and chop, never missing a beat, except for one paddler whose only steering stroke was stern rudder! On flat water, I had to bust my ass to stay up. On windy/rough days, however, my reduced windage and foot-controlled rudder beat 'em to the beach regularly.

The capacity of the Easy Riders allowed us to cook over open fires, possible because of all the driftwood. We only had one campsite where driftwood was scarce, and carried a milk box full of dry stuff. This system worked very well.

They had monster fry pans and kettles, which exploited the high surface area/low temperature character of beach fires. Aside from my role as the fresh fiber guy, I also packed a small white gas stove as our backup. Mainly, this was used to expedite hot drinks on early launch mornings when we ate cold granola and did not have a fire, and to dispense the single-source, espresso-grind Venezuelan coffee I hid under the veggies at night. One couple claimed the stuff to be a powerful aphrodisiac -- I think they were just bragging, though they DID pitch their tent a long ways from the rest of us ... on coffee nights.

We spent fifteen days on the water, three of those being rest/storm days. With a drop-off at Raspberry Cove near the southern tip of Moresby Island (Queen Charlotte Adventures; nice converted troller with inside seating), the fifteen days was about right for the 130 mile return to Moresby Camp. We did not take the most direct route! However, we visited all the Haida Watchman sites, from Ninstints to Skedans (K'una), and did an "end run" around one outside section on a marginal day, which added a good ten miles to our route. Most paddling days we did 10 - 15 miles in 3 - 4 hours; our marathon was a 26-miler (8 - 10 hours), which about toasted my forearms and wrists! Certainly my most exhausting paddleday ever, with the load of veggies below decks.

I had never visited the northerly sections of Moresby Island before, and found them as fascinating as the southerly reaches of the Park though larger-featured. Because the Hotsprings Island/Skungwai corridor is heavily promoted, solitude is more available north of Hotsprings. Watchman-guided tours at Tanu and K'una were better-done, and allowed closer looks at totems and house sites than at Ninstints. In addition,we experienced little competition for campsites in the north.

In the south, we twice raced others to the beach (won one; lost the other) to get choice sites. And, Parks rules stipulating 12 campers maximum per beach were violated routinely at Raspberry Cove. One of the two nights we spent there we had an Ecosummer group (12), a couple from Everett, WA, and a foursome from Massett, as well as our seven bodies. Talk about public intertidal flush!

Random observations: a rat on Murchison nailed a dry bag for the nuts one of us stupidly left inside; there were way too many bodies at Hotsprings; Burnaby Narrows at low, low tide was amazing; there is a mystery cabin on Burnaby near Swan Bay; we caught (and ate) WAY too many rockfish; poor vibes at the RV park in Sandspit (but the only coin-operated hot shower stall around); believe the signs about logging road closures (we did not, to our regret); bring a head net for the bugs; beach-camping is not always possible; composting toilets (Watchman sites only) were very popular and are needed elsewhere; rained almost every day, though this did not prevent travel, despite one paddler who left her rain gear home, because the last time she was in the Charlottes it did not rain (!).

A "wilderness experience" it ain't, for the most part, with zodiacs and the odd cruiser zipping by, float planes plopping down, "mothership" yak groups clustered in popular places, and brightly-clad guided groups drifting along.

However, it was an incredible experience, doing the entire length of Moresby, and there are a lot of out-of-the-way spots for a person with a little extra time and just a little imagination.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1998 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Wavelength list server, 1998.
Republished here with permission.

Day After Halloween

Two weeks of a head/chest/throat cold put me down pretty bad, so Sunday's paddle is more an assertion of vitality than an exploration. Vitality yields to exploring, nonetheless.

A couple dozen pickups and boat trailers signal that the duck hunters are in high gear, with maybe one rig from other yakkers. Heading up the Clifton Channel into an eight knot breeze, coffee sloshing inside, it feels good to work the tissues. Why is this yak so tight? Oh, yeah, those ten pounds had to go on somewhere. Maybe if I put on enough weight, I can skip this wetsuit. Grumble, grumble.

Shotguns in the distance, blooping away. Turn left inside Welch, head for the slough passage cutting across the island, pausing in the rushes for food. No eagles. One hawk. Lots of widgeons and teal, all skittering away from me. Mallards jump up, gadwals following. Coots don't care -- they know they taste bad.

No hunters in the slough -- surprise! Up to the other end, opening onto the main stem of the River, turn left to a sandy beach. And, what a beach -- the dredge has added ten vertical feet of spoils here, almost squeezing out a goose blind, sunken into the sand. Wonder if the channel deepening will leave any of these areas alone.

Bagel and cheese, more coffee, rejected Halloween candy. All the important food groups!

Back into the water, upriver a half mile, and down Multnomah (Red) Slough, as the wind drops. Boat at the government float house, generator thumping, hey there! nice bunch of ducks! Yeah, we did OK. My old buddy Tom appears, admires the plywood surfaces of the yak, and we discuss how long a duck should "hang" before the meat is aged properly. These ducks look well-hung, in the metaphorical sense, anyway.

Sliding away from the float and the generator thump, back to the Clifton Channel as now the breeze becomes a tailwind. Swell too small to surf, too big to ignore, as the head begins to clear and the lungs whimper. Where did all these sore muscles come from? Oh, yeah, I forgot -- after fifty, if it doesn't hurt, it doesn't work. A Muehlbergism to remember.

Duck hunters returning to the ramp, two in poke boats, staggering across the channel, canoe paddles working like fury against the quickening current. One is losing this game, and slips into the eddy below the ramp's float. He is panting, but reaches the float only minutes after his partner. No, we did not get any, but we had fun, anyway.

Only six duck hunter rigs remain, but a new green SUV with yak racks is behind me. Wonder if that's Ken? He must have chickened out on the overnight for Halloween. Trick or treaters won't visit these islands! Peel the wetsuit, drink the coffee, back to town. Head and chest are better, mind is much improved. I think I like this stuff.

Happy Halloween, folks!
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1998 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 11/1/1998.
Republished here with permission.

Forty Days and Forty Nights

Well, it was more like twenty, or maybe twenty five. Anyway, it finally quit raining and blowing like fury around here, and I got in two paddle trips in two days, after a too-long hiatus. In Tillamook they're portaging cows to high ground, and Hwy 101 is under water for a few days. Here, everything is wet, and the hooded merganzers don't know they are socializing in a mud puddle because it looks like a lake.

One trip was a 10-12 mile circuit in the islands, dodging waist-high mist with shotgun bloops in the distance as duck hunters cleaned out the remainder of the stupid mallards. Low-grade compass work made quick work of a beeline to an island off the shipping channel. As the mist cleared, I shot across the channel to the Washington shore. The main feature was a two mile gunkhole along a steep weeping wall shoreline, complete with red-breasted sapsuckers, and myriad waterfalls, culminating in cheese and bread on a quiet, sunny float in Skamokawa, WA. Nobody else thought to paddle that day, but the Refuge guys were out spying on critters to clean up the Xmas bird count. No, I can't join you, I only have neoprene booties to wear. Heavy rainfall made for swift current on the return.

The other was a solo high water exploration along the east shoreline of Long Island, Willapa Bay, WA, making the best of a 12 foot tide. All the dikes were awash, and all the backwaters were open. Only a couple lone buffleheads, one solid redtail, a handful of flickers, the usual gang of rowdy crows, and three dozen mallards were around. Where do all the other waterfowl go at high tide? Is it too deep for them? Too wet? Puff. Puff. Too much food. Not enough exercise. How did this sprayskirt get so tight? Must shrink in the wet. One solitary full-sector rainbow, internally backlit, as the rain shimmers down. On the return, mist in the face, and a grebe surfaces ten feet away on the starboard side, ponders my stroke, and plops down.

Where were all the other people? Too easy, and too much fun. Work returns next week.

Who needs 70 degree weather and shirtsleeves? Who wants solid water to slide over?
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1998 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 12/31/1998.
Republished here with permission.

Randy Does Not Get to Frankfort

Thirteen of us congregated on a small pocket beach on the Washington shore of the Columbia a few miles below Skamokawa Saturday night for a wonderful saturnalia of food, laughter, companionship, rain, wind, and water. Some braved the eddies and current rips running off points on the WA shore as they paddle-drifted five miles downstream from Skamokawa, and others pumped their way upstream five miles from Harrington Point, during the small mid-afternoon window of slack current.

This endeavor began as a four-person retreat, and blossomed uncontrollably as friends told others about the plan. Eventually it included my long-time friend and oatmeal-expert Randy (and his sweet SO Beth), who brought along Debbie the bar pilot and Mary the Alaska PA. Mary (different one) and spouse Link (of the Pitt River Band) putt-putted across the eddies with a whole chinook and more damn potatoes than any fifteen natives could eat. Our contribution was a trademark stir fry, Gary contented himself with fresh strawberries over shortcake and french toast, while Beth noodled along to the tune of chocolate chip macaroons (to use up those otherwise-wasted extra egg whites).

Oh, yeah, this was a paddle trip -- mainly, to test out the late spring showers, and for Randy, a chance to see Frankfort.

Frankfort is an abandoned town platted in the 1890's as the western terminus of a speculator's grand railroad scheme (failed, naturally). Never amounted to much, past a hotel, grocery, post office, two-three dozen houses, and a few thousand tons of upriver brights landed in the heyday of the Columbia River salmon fishery. My colleague Pat delivered fish, mail, and supplies in the '60's, near the end of Frankfort's isolation from a land access. As loggers penetrated closer to Frankfort, eventually roads connected it to modern highways, eliminating the river focus which had been its charm and economic mainstay for seventy years.

It is almost a mythical spot, swallowed up in maples and conifers, with patches of domesticated-gone-wild botanicals revealing moss-covered homesites. Here and there is a ramshackle, rotten framework, engulfed in alder, brambles, and green slime. A monster hanging-tree maple (four people's outstretched wingspans around) must have been at the town "square," but now is just the upland locus for fallen-down hippie-houses nearer the river. A year ago the sheriff had to come out and collar a squatter who had been scaring people off by firing a rifle over their heads. Neighbors still own homesites there, anticipating a land boom in the 22nd century, I guess.

And Randy had never been there, in twenty years of trying! Some trips overland, and at least three on the water. So, on Sunday, Randy and Beth set off with mongo 270 cm paddles flying from the upper deck of their Easy Rider double, skirting lagoons and dodging freighters in the channel, determined fire in the stern paddler's eye. Eight miles out of camp, ebb humping us all quickly past double-crested, croaking(!) cormorants on nests to upper Rice Island, the VHF crackled with George's (remember him?) query: are we going to Frankfort? Sure, we'll meet you there.

Off they went (I guess -- I couldn't see them), directed to a point on the WA shore by Gary, long-time oceanographer, and frequent-Frankfort-visitor. We rounded the upper end of the island, expecting a lateral parade of paddlers, strung out across our path across the Bay, heading to mythical Frankfort ... ahhhh, nope, no paddlers there ... maybe to our right or left? Nope. Oh, well, Gary knows this area, and Debbie is a bar pilot -- they can navigate!

Paddle, paddle, look, look. Man! They must be way ahead of us -- wish I could raise George on the radio -- he only turns it on to talk (initials are GAB, comprende?). Ah, there's Gary and fiance' Roberta -- and NO ONE else, right at Frankfort. The others? Gary misdirected them to the wrong point, some three miles east of us! Half an hour and a few terse radio exchanges later, Frankfort-less Randy and company are on their way down to us, as we all hustle against the building afternoon breeze, fighting adverse wind to the takeout, some three-four miles downriver from Frankfort. No time to go ashore.

Randy is pissed! He even went into the blackberries at the wrong point, sniffing around for houses! We decide to have T-shirts made: "I've been to Frankfort -- but Randy hasn't!" Or, to put a sign in Randy's garden: "Frankfort" so he can say he's been there. Or, maybe it's like Brigadoon, just a state of mind, and Randy can't see it ... we don't know.

But, we had fun, Randy still has Frankfort in his future, and everyone got suntanned and tired (some more than others!).

Never go to Frankfort -- just enjoy the journey!
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Republished here with permission.

A Fine, Bone Day

Too nice a day for housework. Too antsy, too. The ridge of high pressure is easing east of us, and another low is creeping ashore, maybe arriving day after tomorrow, producing moderate outflow down the Columbia River drainage -- maybe 15 knots of east wind.

Time for the Bone.

The Bone is a little protected piece of tidal estuary/river on the uphill end of Willapa Bay, WA. Only 3 - 4 miles of tidal stuff, and another short mile of low-gradient "river," flatwater on big tides. Today was a big one -- maybe highest of the year.

Boats plopped onto the salt grass. Clammy rubber met warm flesh. Do all nice things start with brief discomfort? Sort gear, stow it, eat it, and stuff it. Pop into cockpits and push off. Buffleheads all over, and not shy either. Males are bobbing their mating dance -- three months to wait boys -- save it! The females seem unimpressed.

Push, push, push. A dozen lesser yellowlegs, startle, and cheep cheep away. Brilliant light and clear, cool air, brown crispy strands of tall grass, lichen-slathered alders and crabapples on the old dike. Washwater grey snags and black-green spruces. Chocolate water. Invisible mud.

A mile up, mallards and wigeons jumping off the wet marsh. There's a loud bunch! Nope. That's a herd of elk, slopping through the swamp! A dozen heads and more buffy butts. No antlers, and silently the last melts into new growth.

James Swan settled in this drainage in the late nineteenth century, living off the oyster trade and extracting artifacts from the Chinooks. Swan eventually visited many of the natives on the BCcoast, including the Charlottes, settled in Port Townsend, WA, and ended his sojourn on this planet a lonely drunk. Are these his dikes? Some of the spruces are old enough. Not his elk.

Nobody lives here now, and the place is a "natural area," recognized in law and practice as a preserve for marsh critters and peace of mind. The river is a navigable waterway, and now and then someone runs an outboard up it. More often, paddlers are alone here, though once I saw two rifle-totin' good old boys hustling a big Grumman up to where they had laid out their elk. No PFD's, but good-lookin' rifles -- maybe they were gonna shoot their way out if the canoe turned turtle? Just a little mystery.

The banks are closing in, and the water is slacking, as we slide over a big deadhead, normally an insurmountable barrier to upstream exploration. As the tide turns, so do we, for bagels, cheese, Almond Roca, and strong coffee at a bankside pause. Time for home, and the tide races with us, back past the buffies and the splatters of the elk, up onto put-in mud and grass.

Not a bad way to start the last year of the century.

---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 1/3/1999.
Republished here with permission.

The Frosty Betrothal

It was an ugly rumor, but the source was impeccable: my ex-wife said our son got an email from my long-time paddling buddy's daughter that the paddling buddy was planning to get married to his girl friend of four years' duration. This news came an hour before we were to launch on the first overnight paddling trip of 1999, our companions ... the lovely couple.

Naturally, I did not believe the rumor, so I confronted our duo at the launch site. Yup, it was true. The first decent weekend of 1999, and it was already ruined. I don't know what got into those two. Is it my fault? Was there some deadly pheromone in those two pink plastic flamingoes I planted outside their tent last spring? We'll never know!

Ah well, time to schlepp upriver from Brownsmead (OR, USA), levering the Folbot into the upstream-flowing current (tidal reversal here) of the Columbia River, and sweetly admonishing the beautiful lady in the bow compartment to paddle forward!

A terrible day -- sunny, comfy, 40 degree water, no motorboats, shipping traffic crackling on the VHF, mergansers launching on the port side, buffleheads bobbing to starboard, and eagles aloft ahead. Oh man! Gonna get married, and to each other, no less. Must have been those 90 days straight of rain. And Hagen said rain doesn't hurt you ... "revel in it!" Yeah, right.

Becky and I are slow, but the lovers are slower, and what is normally an hour and fifteen minutes stretches to two hours plus, as we drift and slide in the sunshine and crisp air. Finally, the upper end of Tenasillahee Island appears, and we skirt a couple lazy steelhead boats as we gouge the sandy bank, much retreated from its position last fall. Lots of erosion this winter -- thanks to La Nina! Dredge spoils of coarse sand are clean, well-drained, and this site is sheltered, also.

An hour later, and serious wine consumption and guacamole ingestion have commenced, in celebration of the inevitable nuptials. Firewood gathered, puffed into flame, and fajitas are enroute over the campstove. Man! It's nippy! More wine -- antifreeze would be better, but this will have to do. After topping off with pound cake under a drizzle of kahlua and raspberries, time for intense harassment. They're too old to "have" to get married, there's no reason to consolidate houses, wait, now I know, it's a simple case of needing cash to finance that basement project. The groom-to-be denies it, but I sense a quivering lip. Or is that just shivering!

Stagger off to tent, stuff my body in the bag, with Becky inside her fleece cocoon inside the bag, and we take turns initiating pee-breaks all night. How can two pairs of bladders be so active? Must be the cold, as rime builds on the tent fly. Day dawns with a chilling fog, and freighters drift through, booping and beeping. Geese herluk! herluk! overhead, seeking a warm landing zone. The sweety gets her tea in bed, and I stoke the fire and help make coffee, sausage, french toast. More stomach groaning, but man! It's cold! Gotta eat.

Sunshine melts off the frost, and we saddle up, launch, and fight the ebb current up around the head of the island, swinging into a freighter wake as it breaks in the shallows just behind us. Crossing eddylines into the tail current, past abandoned gill net sheds and old cannery sites, lumping past the old wooden drydocks (in salvage for their mongo timbers). More mergansers, a couple more eagles overhead, and geese, geese, geese! Nature's winning, here, I think!

Just an hour home, tail current and tail wind as helpers, and we unload in the shallows, losing our immersed feet to the water, and stagger our loads to the pickup.

This is fun, fun, fun, fun. Impending marriage or not. Wonder if I'm best man ... probably not ... maybe they'll change their minds and just live in sin. That sounds like more fun to me!

Happy boating!
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 3/17/1999.
Republished here with permission.

Green River, Utah

My son Ian (26) and I (54) just spent four days paddling down the lowest 50 miles of the Green River, a classic desert flatwater experience. Might even tempt me to delve into the desert again, though I truly do love the eight feet of rain we get here on the Oregon coast (where the landscape really is butt-ugly, has terrible mudslides *right on the roadway,* and all the natives smell bad!). Yeah, Kansas, Bradford. Anyway ...

March is normally a time of mixed weather in this portion of Utah, with others reporting some rain, a little snow, and sometimes annoying headwinds along the Green, up into April. We saw only a couple afternoons of 10 knot headwinds, and basked in fine 70 F days and 40 F nights, with a little overcast one day. No naked base jumpers, though we heard rumors ...

Because we were wedded to a hasty trip, I rented a green 15-foot Coleman canoe, paddles, the requisite human waste depository, and spare life jacket from Tagalong Expeditions, an outfitter in Moab, Utah. Along with a 40-mile jet boat extraction from the Confluence with the Colorado River, this set us back about half a kilobuck (and well worth it). Next time, I'd bring plastic sea kayaks or someone else's FG canoe! Other paddlers on the River who leapfrogged us were in hardcore WW Daggers and classic 17-foot Grummans. Did not seem to matter -- we all made about the same time, and were all smilin'!

The Coleman canoe was the perfect craft for this venture -- contrasting color, impervious to sand scrapes, absorbant of all verbal and geological abuse, and sturdy, stable, and dependable. Aesthetic? Well, no. But, it did *not* smell.

Our section of the Green is loosely labeled Stillwater Canyon, and is a mixed bag of open bottom land and steep-walled sandstone canyon. No rapids, not even any noticeable riffles at the midwater stage we saw, though when the water is low, there are supposedly a couple spots where you have to line up on the best slot. Even so, the current moves right along, maybe 4 knots in the swift parts, and down to 1 knot in the lazy sections. We paddled steadily, and managed our 15 mile days in perhaps three hours of work, interspersed with laziness and sidetrips.

The canyon scenery is impressive enough, but the sidecanyons are the biggest treat. Ones with water are miniature studies in vegetative adaptation to hot and cold, wet and dry, with conifers adjacent to barrel cacti, and sometimes a fully-leafed-out cottonwood for seasoning. We also explored one Anasazi ruin on foot at Fort Bottom, and ogled a dozen others from the riverbank. In between there were early-50's uranium mine adits to admire, a couple old (turn of the century?) line cabins, and the odd brush corral, all relics of the speckled past for this region. Between the cowpokes and the miners and the modern rafters, this place has seen it all! Loosely flanking the east shore of the river is the White Rim Trail, a mainly-unobtrusive, sometimes close, but usually distant 4WD route frequented by a couple dozen rigs a day. I was never annoyed by it, and never even noticed vehicles, especially after we dropped below its level. My son grumbled about it. It's a generation thing, I guess.

In March, campsites abound, though the tamarisk is a pain, and we apparently usurped another party's "chosen" sites two nights running. The third night, their 12-year-old enforcer was waiting at their last site, plaintively begging us not to "take" their spot. We just laughed, and moved down the bank a hundred yards. The next morning, his Mom and aunt were plying us with dollar bills for the remnants of our TP, as they had forgotten to bring any! We were gallant, of course.

We say several dozen ducks, mostly small guys I could not identify, but a couple pairs of mallards, a merganzer (swear to god!), a large handful of Canada geese (in the desert?), kingfishers, a golden eagle or two, and a bunch of warbler-type birds I don't recognize. Too early for swallows, though nests were common. One of the Canada geese barely escaped becoming dinner for a large cat (could have been a mountain lion, though might have been a really large bobcat -- the encounter was a long ways away and at dusk). Lots of evidence of beaver, sucker-type fish jumping in the shallows, and NO BUGS! And, *no motors.*

Next time, I'd allot twice the time, for side canyon exploration and more ruin ogling.

Equipment notes: we paddled in farmer johns because the water was cold, and sweltered a little. A month or so later, the water should be warm enough you would not need the neoprene. Because the water is so mellow, I doubt anybody but a true klutz could fall in! Take hand lotion, fruit juice, bagels, hard candy to suck on, sunscreen up the wazoo (on it, too), several T-shirts, and enough clothing to wait out snow showers. I got a little cold in my "summer" sleeping bag, and my son did fine in a heavier bag.

Nice place, nice time of year! Now back to that work thing!
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 3/27/1999.
Republished here with permission.

Columbia River

Scuttling down the side channel toward the River was more work than usual, what with the head wind and the heat. Seventy degrees in April? Give me a break! Pleasure boaters out working the lower units of their outboards for the first time of the season putt-putted amiably past us, waving lazily in the heat. One was a mother-daughter pair, mom smoking a filter-tip cigarette in leisurely fashion as grown-up daughter handled the throttles.

Cormorants overhead, all headed upriver, at altitude, too. Must be a bunch of new smolts released from a hatchery somewhere. On reaching the main stem, we spied two terns, foraging upriver some 20 miles from their nesting zone, perhaps displaced by a project to move the tern colony away from down-river-bound smolts.

Out in the main stem, from a mile away, we spot a tent and what looks like a yellow raft on our prized campsite on Dead Wild Pig Island. Oh, no! Our favorite spot, taken over by power boaters in the off season! Babble ensues between stern and bow boaters about alternatives. Yeah, next to that big cottonwood on the channel side would be good, unless it gets windy. Paddle paddle discuss discuss.

As we get closer, we see the tent is a shaggy dome occupied by a solid, round shape and the yellow raft is really an inflatable yak. Looks vaguely familiar ... oh, yeah, that guy John from Longview we saw out here three years ago. Wonder if it's him?

When we pull ashore, the guy hollers out, "Is that you, Dave?" Yup, it's John, and all is well. Sure, he would welcome some company, and so would Max, his dad's ankle-height Shi-tzu, all of 10 years old and as friendly as they come.

The sun bakes us as the wind drops to zero and we sweat, sweat, sweat. Lolling and eating commence in earnest, interspersed with obligatory tent-pitching on the best viewpoint for freighters and tugs (several show, sending monster surges over the flats below the tent). Later, the wind picks up, eventually hitting a solid twenty knots with gusts to 25, and we are grateful the cottonwood on the other side was not our shelter, because an afternoon walk shows it roots-up, another casualty of high water this winter (thank you, La Nina).

Hiding behind a diminishing grove of cottonwoods, dinner gets cooked and eaten, complete with a Max and John visit. John paddled some 150 plus miles of the River from Umatilla to Longview seven years ago, in his inflatable, but job and school have kept him off the river except for weekends since then.

Rain comes and goes all night, with moderate wind and a bright half-moon. Morning shows mist and breeze, cut by hot Sumatran coffee and hearty oatmeal. Max and John pack up to catch residual flood tide back to the WA side as we move slowly to gather gear and spy on chickadees and white-crowned sparrows dodging each other in the brambles. Becky is the packer today -- her compulsive SO having barked at her yesterday about differences in packing styles. Old guys should be smarter than that.

The wind rises again, sending a steady stream of whitecaps past our launch point and we debate the best timing. Before the front? Or is it past? There's a clear spot. Now? Yes! Hustle hustle bustle stuff back into the Folbot, slide into the slimy wet suit and paddle jacket, push into the water, and struggle with the damn spraydeck. Curse Folbot's half-ass engineering! Why couldn't they make a real spraydeck! Two waves wash into the cockpit before we are reasonably wave-tight and head across the whitecaps. Half an hour later, we ease into the backwater and munch on goodies and clean our glasses, sheltered from the wind.

A few miles of wind-aided slow paddling later, and we are back at the float, no pleasure boaters in sight, as winter returns to the Columbia again.

Thank you, Ma Nature, for another embrace!
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 4/25/1999.
Republished here with permission.

Stuck in the Brokens with only 13 liters of wine

Six of us spent six days in the Broken Group, Barkley Sound, launching from Toquart Bay. We hoped to "beat the crowds" by making use of a little window of decent weather which slid in before most of the rest of the world was free for the summer. We succeeded -- but did not have enough wine -- perhaps a benefit to our livers, but not our dispositions!

We spent three nights at THE primo site on Clarke and a night each at nice spots on Hand and Gibraltor. Few others competed for our tent sites, running about 10 persons per night where we camped -- a small number of bodies -- although we heard of crowding on Willis and Gilbert. The only crowding we experienced was a horde of over 20 bald eagles feasting on a couple really ripe sea lion carcasses in a small cove on Wouwer. Never did figure out the pecking order, though there was plenty of vocalizing by the mature birds!

Generally, we had decent weather, with three days mostly sunny and two mostly rainy/misty. On our exit day, a stiff 10 - 15 knot westerly breeze greeted us on the Toquart-Stoppers crossing, a challenge for our less-experienced paddlers. Even so, the never-been-in-dicey-conditions grampa (63) made it in style, breaking the cherry on his Pygmy Queen Charlotte XL with aplomb and a way-laid-back stance in the cockpit. Our high-maintenance paddler had no trouble and no one wanted to lay paddle down to jabber on the radio.

The evening of our exit, the young pups (two Bellinghamsters and the queen of Astoria) managed to dump our ER doc on a boomer off the west end of Gibraltor. No harm was done, aside from a lost camera and a damaged male ego, thanks to excellent training in George Gronseth's kayak academy. Bow-to-bow rescue had him back in his boat within 2 minutes. Five minutes afterward, he was pumped out and paddling! Many thanks to George's fine instruction and rescuers Linda and Belinda.

Otherwise, we had an uneventful trip. At present (6/18), no warnings have been issued for PSP contamination of shellfish, so we enjoyed mussels galore to replace the flank steak that got left at home.

The scuttlebutt from the fare-taker was that Benson is slated for some degree of closure, maybe just for overnight use, perhaps related to possible archeological studies (?). We could not verify this. 'Twould be a shame, as the campsites on Benson were in exceptionally good shape, as was the spouting horn on its west shore.

Fishing was very mediocre, though I caught a couple sub-legal ling cod. A 65 cm minimum length for keepers makes for a lot of catch-and-release fishing. Recommended: barbless hooks for those seeking lings.

Great trip, greast place.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 6/20/1999.
Republished here with permission.

Portland-Astoria: Columbia River, OR

George Bergeron and I used the last six days of June to paddle the ninety miles from Portland, OR to Astoria, OR. We were assisted by 1- to 2-knot down river currents and resisted by an unseasonably consistent westerly flow of marine air in our faces. Light rain and mist were our constant companions; warm sunshine, a fleeting visitor.

George had been pestering me to make this trip for a month or two, and I finally relented, budgeting a chunk of time between forays to BC. He and I car-shuttled to Portland, launching just after a heavy downpour at a mongo boat ramp just downstream of the St. Johns Bridge in western Portland. This is at the outer edge of heavy marine development on the Willamette River, Oregon's major tributary to the Columbia. Diked and straightened, the Willamette here is not the pastoral link between smaller communities it is above Portland.

Dodging the odd steelheader boat and occasional barge, George and I were happy to be on the water, following the right shore past tanker piers and paper mill docks for offloading barges. After five miles, we reached the Columbia at Kelley Point, a popular summer swimming beach. Turning left, the current picked up and wisked us along the shore of Sauvie Island, a once-marsh now diked and converted to farmland. Another hour or two of this found us poking around on the banks of the Ridgefield Wildlife Refuge on the WA shore, hoping the keep out signs applied only above campable beach. They did not, so we swapped sides of the river and popped tents up near summertime volleyball supports and the shambles of windbreaks for nude bathers. Nobody naked happened by, so we felt appropriately clad, and were glad for a rest. Sixteen miles and a spicy stir fry -- good companions.

Saturday morning brought slight drizzle and upriver-bound freighters galore, some we were to see three days later as they slid toward the Columbia's mouth. Hop in the boat and paddle north, following the OR shore past the Multnomah channel and the once-prosperous river town of St. Helens, now oriented toward the land. A brand-new marine park with fancy composting toilets and million-dollar access walkways contrasted with the February '96 high water mark (some fifteen feet over our heads), and comfy wood cruisers at the float. A Portland couple and their friendly dog hot-footed it across the float to the river shore to view the USCG Eagle, a four-masted sailing ship on its way to sea. We ate lunch, peed, and headed down river past cows and pile dike after pile dike. Shushing, shushing, gurgling and thumping.

Early afternoon and we hit Sandy Island, across from Kalama, WA, decorated at the best camp site with a Lewis and Clark River Trail sign. The pre-teen with a hurt finger accepted a bandaid and urged us to camp on a muddy place downstream. We opted for a noisy but drier (and sandier) site facing the bustle and groan of I-5, the railroad, and river traffic. Dodging the beer-can debris remnants of the party crowd, George made the best of a Ragu sauce, pasta, and summer sausage -- way better than it sounds. Fifteen miles.

Campsite on Walker Island

By midday of Sunday, we had managed a lazy eight miles past the defunct Trojan Nuclear Power Plant (major turbulence on the upstream end of its rocky ramparts) and rounded the cliffs leading to Rainier, OR. There awaited the northern pikeminnow-lady bounty counter, who awarded chits worth four bucks a fish to anglers surrendering their catch. Save a smolt, get a buck! My sweet SO Becky joined us at the ramp with a hot lunch -- her picnic and our fuel. Later, we bade her goodby and drifted with the current, swifter here, under the Longview Bridge, past log dumps and pulp mills to snake around behind Walker Island to a camp on its vanishing downstream tip. Five years ago there was shelf to hold twenty tents. Now, room only for a handful. No matter, the river traffic is still as reliable and fun to watch. Seven more miles.

A "relaxed" 11 am launch the next day saw us off past old net sheds at Mayger and a flag-anointed skiff with a dad and two boys on shore, lunching and lounging. More miles past Stella and its vacated mill site, sliding around the Beaver Power Generating plant, steaming away in the cool air, to the upper end of Dead Wild Pig Island. Lunch was interrupted by a monster freighter wake, which tossed boats and moved us ten feet higher up the bank. The dad and his kids zipped by, taking up a muddy site half way down the island, querying us about the tide height. At last, we reached the lower end, hit the sand, and reconfigured the old cooking table and benches to our liking. George did the carpentry. I did the design work and the supervision. (Well, somebody had to do it!) Many fat burritos later, we toppled off to our tents, hoping for sleep. Ospreys circled overhead. Only twelve miles today.

Early, early. Eighteen miles to Jim Crow Point from here. Gotta catch that hot ebb. We did, adding our own push and joshing the steel headers in their fishing shacks (average age over 70) this fine Tuesday morning. No success yet, just a couple lost fish. Cataracts and sinewy waterfalls off the cliffs leading to Cathlamet, and a lonely doe dodging boulders. Lunch opposite the marina, as the water drops quickly, stranding our boats. A muddy return as we hit the trail, exiting the Cathlamet Channel and rejoining the main stem some five miles above Skamokawa ("Venice of the Columbia" in the '20's). Piercing the flats leading into Skamokawa, we rolled out of our cockpits onto the float at the Skamokawa Paddle Center, ahead of the lunch crowd. Pie and coffee in a sit-down atmosphere, shed of our neoprene. Felt pretty civilized, as George flirted with Michelle the cook/waitron, and the PO lady ate her lunch, goggle-eyed.

George grabs a nap

Off to the float to root for the drake chasing off another's hen. Ducklings cheep and peep, looking for Mom. We hit the River, riding the eddies and sliding past remnants of old fishwheels. George curses a failing seat support and effects crude surgery on a rocky shore opposite Dredge Oregon, just winding up an annual silt extraction from the channel here. The current slacks and around Jim Crow Point to the only camping-legal sandy beach on the lower River. Eighteen miles, for sure, and we bask in our only full-on sunshine. George falls dead asleep, and I grab a snapshot to document the moment. His Mom will want this. Beer and Doritos, another hit of pasta/Ragu/sausage, and a handful of evening steelheaders appears on the spit. None is successful, but the leader, a defrocked tree-planter, gives us an earful of opinion on population control, attended by his 10-year-old daughter, who listens but does not contribute.

Overnight, it rains seriously, and more steelheaders hit the sand before it is light. They are quiet, and I am surprised to see them tied off to our shelter-shack, one of two here. A guy from Minnesota lands and keeps a hatchery six-pounder. Another lands a wild fish, but returns it. George wishes both fish had been returned. By eight we are on the water, working against the steady ten knot headwind, dodging behind sand piles from dredging. We take a short cut I used in '92, and find it has shoaled, so we get out and drag boats a short mile. The herons are not impressed. They knew we should not have tried this side! Molting geese skitter and swim away. Off the downstream end of Miller Sands (site of major three-day gillnetter parties before this became a wildlife refuge), the wind picks up and we hit more sand, skirting it deftly. On to Tongue Point, where a confluence of tide and wind gives us a hammering short-period chop to punch through. Wildest ride of the trip, but wearying!

Tongue Point past us, we pull through the last mile under the railroad trestle into a backwater off Alderbrook, former mill-community and currently one of the tastiest neghborhoods in Astoria. We find a large-cobble beach and haul gear up to the bank-road. Eight people I know howdy us and are not impressed with our strange rubber garb. George's truck is where we left it, twelve miles from Jim Crow Point.

It's good to get the rubber off, but several dogs suffer coughing fits, and a cat snubs us from a distance. Flowers wilt, but we don't care. We made it!

The River is wild and wooly the last thirty-forty miles, and an elaborate ditch the previous fifty. We liked it all, nonetheless. Huck and Jim could not have had more fun.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 7/2/1999.
Republished here with permission.

Sanity Paddle

Last night we discovered the 16-year-old next door had penetrated the drywall separator between his apartment's attic and his neighbor's in a botched attempt to pilfer goodies. We figured we were next. Some intense negotiating resolved this to our satisfaction, but generated a lot of tension.

Time for a little paddle relief.

Murky here, but driving east to the putin brought out the sun. At launch, it was downright hot -- for Oregon, anyway. No wet suit today, with water temps in the high 60's.

The launch site is the source of a conflict between the County and the landowners, with the County wanting to place a fancy ramp, 200-foot-long float, and big parking lot. The landowners are against that, mainly for the traffic and hassles it will bring. None of the paddlers want any of that stuff, either. All we need is a sandy beach and a portapotty. Right now it's a standoff, with the old funky float pulled, so power boaters have a difficult time launching. The landowners are willing to fund replacing the old floats, and most boaters would be happy if the County maintained a portapotty. Contemplating the funky floats and thinking about the conflict makes me work a little faster to get in the water.

My little wooden yak is my day boat, 'cause it is light and quick. Gliding across the current, several dozen geese Herluck! their way overhead and plop down in the adjacent channel, soon to be displaced as I slide into their view. Off they go, like slow bombers. Only a few are of this year's hatch.

Muscles are likin' this -- feels good to pull hard and move fast. No rudder, just solid footpegs. The hull feels like an extension of my lower body.

As it gets shallow, heading across to the shipping channel, I steer around the obvious shoals and hope I guess right. Tide's rising, so eventually I'd get off, anyway. Here comes a small freighter down the channel -- maybe I'll get to wakesurf! Nope -- all the energy is dissipated on the sandbar a couple hundred yards ahead, where the terns and gulls are hanging out. The waves really piss 'em off, and they rise squawking!

I edge right, to Fitzpatrick Island. Fitzpatrick is a dredge spoil creation, and is getting smaller each year. This winter, the north shore steepened and slid away, narrowing the island by several yards. Couple more winters like the last, and there won't be any "land" left, just several herky nav marker emplacements. Ashore and pop out of the yak, sweaty and wet. Hook a seat on a log and munch on goodies, enjoying the terns and their goofy fishing plops. You'd think they'd get a headache!

Motion at the flotsam line catches my eye. Many little birdheads thirty yards away bring out the binocs. Man, there are **fifty** sandpipers over there! I sneak around behind them in the bushes and close the distance to ten yards. As I lift my head and spy through the glasses, their beady eyes balefully meet mine. They are suspicious, but content if I stay here. Some cease working the insect population over and watch me. Others ferret out their lunch. I lower myself and slink back to the lunch log. Now, what was it that drove me out here? Can't remember.

Launch and power upstream around the upper end of the island, bouncing across the freshening breeze-riffled waters. Another mile, and I'm back in the side channel, bearing down on the launch ramp, with a lone boater winching his Alumacraft onto the trailer. On the beach, a new mountain bike track graces the sand. I unpack everything, wondering why I carry all this stuff on a sunny, beautiful day. Slide the yak on top of the pickup, and slowly wend my way back along the dike road, finger-waving at the locals as I munch my lunch. I take the long way home and hit the Logger Cafe for marionberry pie and coffee, gruffly dispersed by an ample logger's wife.

Sanity paddle. Two hours on the water. Twenty points down on the blood pressure scale.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 7/28/1999.
Republished here with permission.

A Maui Day on the Columbia

Nancy the art teacher would like to own a sailboat. She likes to sail, and on Tuesdays she does, with a buddy from Portland. The sailboat of her dreams disappeared, or drifted further into her future, after a week's kayaking with an outfitter in the San Juans. Seduced by paddling, she found a terrific deal on a 10-year-old Arluk III in Portland. That was in July.

Since then, she and her partner (who also bought a yak) have been hitting the water regularly around here, doing the backwaters and sloughs on the Columbia River. She and I crossed paths last week in a coffee shop, and set yesterday for a day paddle out of Aldrich Point, on the OR side of the Columbia River. Her friend Debbie came along for the yuks. Nancy used to hit the beaches on the islands midriver, years ago with her kids, when it was legal to camp on the islands.

A late morning start, and we plop into the warm water as a threesome, jabbering away and drifting down with the current below Woody Island, home to a dozen float homes, crude jewels studding the edge of the channel. Around the point and onto Nancy's old beach. She searches out where her kids played in the sand when they were little. Now they are driving cars and dealing with teenage sexuality and angst. The old tent site is thick with head-high willows. Debbie trudges along dutifully and plays the foil. It is noon -- hot, calm, and beautiful. We decide we must be on Maui, somehow,

Off the beach and across the shipping channel, pausing so Debbie can natter to a colleague who is piloting a freighter down the River. The captain is a friend, also, and taken aback at a call from a Columbia River Bar pilot on his port hand, from her sea kayak! The freighter's wake is the biggest ripple to pass under our hulls today as we zip across the channel and power over the eddyline below Jim Crow Point, hitting the sand and digging out lunch. Yakisoba noodles? Man! These ladies know how to tempt a hungry guy! My week-old PB and J seems pedestrian, but I trade hard candies for a bite of the Yakisoba/tofu combo.

Debbie and I admire the softening of this beach, a haven in May for an impromptu gathering of loosely-associated Astorians. The sand is warm, and the sun softens us, too. I am impatient to go, to show them the shore above here. We punch out across the eddyline, and I circle around to do it again, as they follow. Taking a slip of smooth water inside the main current, I slide along the cliff, within two feet of the rock wall. What's this? A pair of close-set eyes on a stalk of a neck? Arthur the river otter, just a baby, pops out of his shoreside nook and smoothly enters the water five feet off my bow. Did not know there were otters in Maui!

More strokes against the gentle current, past old rotting piles, once home for the gillnet fleet, past an abandoned rock crusher site next to a quarry, and up to Three Tree Point and another eddyline. Finally, the wind begins, two hours late, and Maui on the Columbia disappears. Edging across the channel again, no freighters in sight, pumping rhythmically for a mile. Dave misjudges the tide, and we skirt a mud flat -- chart says there should be water here! Too bad the chart lies!

Another half hour and we hit the launch beach, somebody else's kids bouncing and laughing in a game of "King of the Innertube" as Dad watches and smokes from the comfort of his pickup's cab. For us, the endorphins are our drug, and we three agree to paddle the Bone in a week. George, you missed a good one!

Who needs Maui anyway?
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 8/20/1999.
Republished here with permission.

Lazy Sojourn in the Deer Group -- August 1999

My SO Becky and I spent most of the last two weeks touring in the Deer Group -- a chain of islands in the southern part of Barkley Sound on the west coast of Vancouver Island, BC. This assembly of islands is the piece of Barkley Sound which was NOT included in the Pacific Rim National Park. The included archipelago is the well-known Broken Group, which we had visited several times previously.

To access the Deers we drove a killer logging road from Cowichan Lake, some 70 - 80 miles of high standard gravel track spiced with monster log trucks and yarding gear. The other route to the jumpoff point (tiny community of Bamfield) is only 50 miles of similar road, starting from Port Alberni. I think if we go back, we'll take the steamer (way more romantic!) and skip the log truck leapfrog! Bamfield is a prime locus for salmon-seekers, who flock in good years in the hundreds. This being a bad summer for salmon, it was a good one for paddling solitude.

We assembled our Folbot Greenland II next to the boat ramp in Grappler Inlet (aka Port Desire) and stuffed it with gear and food for a week, planning a resupply mid-trip. Stroking past the Bamfield Marine Research Station, the Sound opened out, calm and quiet ... except for a dozen power boaters screaming out to seek salmon! Early afternoon found us on an island some three miles distant, completely owned by the Ohiat Band, which satisfied our needs for a sandy beach, windy bug-free spit, and lots of kelp-infested waters. (Careful readers of Mary Ann Snowden's guide "Island Paddling" will quickly ferret out which island this is.)

The Ohiats have a peripatetic guardian, Doreen, who comes by daily to collect the CDN$10/tent/night tariff, which we gladly surrendered for such a primo site. Other sites on Ohiat lands are similarly administered, although some Ohiat beaches are strictly off-limits. There are a few good tenting spots off Reserve land in the "outside" islands, but the Ohiats definitely have the best ones, albeit at times all Ohiat lands are forbidden.

There commenced days of sloth and paddling activity, in roughly equal numbers, to feed our minds with books to read and our muscles with miles to cover. In mid-trip, we shifted to some islands between Sandford and Fleming, hooking on a venture back to Bamfield to replace our mega-moldy bagels and diminishing water supplies. Two days later, we pursued the results of a recon around Fleming Island to an unnamed cove on the outside of Tzartus Island (the largest of the chain -- some 5-6 miles long and a mile or two across), avoiding a popular island nearby which suffers from too much "use" by folks who do not understand the principle of the intertidal flush.

All of these islands have bipolar coastlines: an "inside" one fairly uniform in contour and having the odd hospitable beach, and an "outside" one well-dissected with surge channels, sea caves, and arches. We did not see any big surf, but winters make the "outside" piece of coastline dichotomy a very sporting proposition.

At the end of our trip, we returned to Doreen's island for another two nights, and circumnavigated the outermost islands, garlanded with a few dozen powerboaters seeking salmon and a short double handful of huge sea lion bulls. The last day, Hayley Shephard dropped by for soup and a PB and J sandwich on the last leg of her solo journey around Vancouver Island (see: http://www.oceanmaid.com/about-hayley-shephard.shtml a couple screens down for excerpts from her paddling Journal).

Finally, Bamfield beckoned, and we tore down the Folbot on a public float, accepting the hospitality of one of the fishing lodges for an overnight stay, courtesy of Mr. VISA. A hot shower and sit-down meal never satisfied so!
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Republished here with permission.

A Bay Foray

Long Island, Willapa Bay, WA

We were a motley crew. Martha and Joe in their newish wooden yaks, me in my long-thrashed cargo barge, George in his newly-beseated Solstice, the sleekest of the lot, all followed by the 6 hp 12-foot aluminum skiff. Up the east side of the island, threading amongst oyster flats and dodging the shallows. Loon here, loon there. Pintails galore. Heron or two. Slow oyster barge wending south.

Fighting the tide and the wind, gradually at first, eventually head-on, real wrist-challenging stuff. Joe lags, and as I drift back, he explains that he is experimenting with his boat. I wonder if he realizes that if we do not head the island soon, we will fight the tide both ways instead of just one? I coax him out of the heavy current in the channel and we work the mild eddies along the shore, catching up to the others, the skiff now out of sight and around the point.

Across the shallows the chop is short and brutish, slopping us around. Beaching at the skiff, we all get wet in grungy swash, laughing at our ineptitude. Mary and Link, skiff people, have a fire, and have explored the midden ground, locating a scraper and some worked bone (human?). P B and J, crackers, slam down a juice and a candy bar, and relaunch ... that tide window is closing! Martha and Joe discover the value in quickly closing the cockpit, a lesson in wet lapness.

Now the ten knots is at our rear quarter, forming over-the-deck wavelets to annoy the rudderless and wet us all, top to bottom, from paddlespray. Punch it out, work the chop, as the skiff takes a couple over the stern and Link works the handpump.

The island's cliffside shows the effects of nine feet of winter rain, one slump so large it takes some of the island's "ridge" road. Others are slumplets.

George and Joe lag, Martha jets ahead, and the skiff disappears, leaving me alone but in sight of the others. This is a peculiar kind of isolation, in which I can see the others stroke, and wonder at their mental state, extrapolating from their body language what they think. Looks like Martha will be complaining -- she is paddling on one side only. For George to be this far behind, his seatback must be killing him. (The next day he is first to the takeout: "I'm not gonna be last to the beach two days in a row!") Joe is an enigma, perhaps watching birds, maybe experimenting again, or possibly scared shitless, his first experience with a following sea. I dawdle, but the laggers lag further, and Martha gets smaller in the distance.

As we round Jensen Spit into gentler water, Link comes up on 16 and I tell him we are all in sight of camp, where he and Mary have already hauled out the chain saw to make rounds from windfall. Eventually, we drag our tired arms up the beach, a tough fifteen miles, and barely ahead of the falling tide.

Pot luck progressive eating commences, mixing mega-garlic bread, fresh tabouli, chips and salsa, with a crunchy vegie stir fry, chased with cheese and crackers, steak, and Jello cheesecake. Who dreamed up this menu? Certainly not a nutritionist!

The night is clear, with a gigantic moon, illumination for several bladder forays -- too much wine! Herons grawk and swash slaps as the tide rises and falls again. In the morning, the Bay is empty, and Joe and Martha swap lies about birds, Joe claiming 8 loons in half an hour. We hear them but can not see them. Instead we opt for a hike up the road, inspecting the slide.

As the tide approaches maximum, all launch, and George is gone, beating the skiff home around the south end of the island. Other campers are at Pinnacle Rock, several thousand dollars of nylon decorating the beach, and a few kilobucks of glass and plastic shoring up the gravel.

At the ramp, George is exultant, a mood which carries over to "round food" in town. George is on a healthy kick, so his is salad, the rest of us, pizza and beer. Debriefing commences, and plans for another Bay foray jell.

The boats are smiling.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 9/30/1999.
Republished here with permission.

That Airedale Pup

That Airedale pup has brought new life to Albert and Leena. Swinging on the end of a stick Albert grabbed. Albert is gregarious enough, but when he sees boats at the putin, including a beautiful bairdarka some daytripper has, he can't stop talking. As one of the two landowners who control my favorite River putin, he always gets my undivided attention. Plus, he has great stories, and is a master woodworker to boot. If Albert and his neighbor have to shut down Aldrich Point over their squabble with the County, dozens of sea kayakers, a couple hundred duck hunters, and many more rubberneckers will be sorely disenfranchised. If that happens, I'll hope Albert still likes me half as well as he likes his Airedale, so I can sneak across the dike from Albert's back yard, when the ramp and beach go under.

Enough politics. Slide those boats off. Haul gear, shivering in the pre-noon coolness. Maybe 6 knots of downriver breeze. Becky is eager -- she has not been on an overnighter in two months -- so she has the yaks packed before I am done jawing with Albert, the baidarka guy, three friendly duck hunters, and the Airedale. Duck hunters shag gear and pack up. Albert ambles. The baidarka guy lifts his boat with one finger and lightly lilts to the water. Becky eyes me and I slink off her direction. She is a stern mistress ... paddling awaits.

We fight a little head current to the top of the island across the channel and slip into smooth tail current, turning past Tronsen and along the upstream edge of Woody Island, barely sliding over the shallows leading to the main stem of the River. Tail wind and tail current make for an easy trip over to the Point and onto the beach.

This seems like cheating -- only 45 minutes of paddling! Nobody here! And nobody has been here in a couple weeks, with scattered fire ashes and smoothed footprints near the fishers' shack. Lunch slides down easily and we kick back in the sun. Sun? Oregon? In mid-October? 'Fraid so. Must be La Nina, softening us up for a wet, cold winter.

Tent pops up, gear out. Snacks go down, and we inspect the shoreline. Skittering fry in the shallows and a plethora of coon tracks add to the ambience. A hundred yards from the tent, a swath of branch swishes tells of a beaver shopping in the local willow emporium. An otter track complements Mr. Beaver's endeavor.

Puff, puff! This firewood is heavy! Gotta have coals for the weenies. Cedar strips for kindling, and away we go, spuds simmering on the stove. More celery and red pepper anointed with hummus and cream cheese to whet the appetite, before the big franks go down, followed by a cuppa joe and some high-maintenance cookies. Paddling is just an excuse to eat, methinks.

Only two freighters (grump, grump), and we're off to bed, just as a lone duck hunter sprints his skiff around the point, sees us in his overnight spot, and does a quick U-turn. In the night, half a moon lights a dozen freighters ghosting by. As it gets light a handful of tugs, hustling barges, wake us. And none too soon, either -- we were both cold in our summer sleeping bags, fleece comforter not withstanding. Must be old bones.

Coffee, fruit, and hearty oatmeal power us up for more basking, and a small navy boat lumbers by. We inspect Mr. Beaver's new swishings, dotted with the evidence of a do-si-do with Mr. Coyote. Buck teeth and big tail against fangs and speed. Wonder if the coyote fears the beaver? The beaver made off with his branch, by the evidence in the sand.

Against the current and against the tide, pulling hard, across the channel as we look both ways, remembering what Mom told us as kids. Duck hunters converge on the ramp and we hit the beach, reversing the gear shuffle. These duck hunters want to talk, too. One admires the boats and thinks he will get his wife into a double. She does not hunt, but loves the water.

So do we. Sanity has returned.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 10/17/1999.
Republished here with permission.

Women of Bamfield

(I had written this last summer, and had decided to work on it some more before posting it. In reality, I probably won't work on it any more, so here it is. It was an attempt to capture the feeling of a small coastal town, and the ways it has been changing. (Bamfield is a small community, tourist-focused with many elaborate second homes, on the southern shore of Barkley Sound, on the West Coast of Vancouver Island, BC.)
--

Ebba's husband died a couple years ago, after selling his machine shop to a guy new to Bamfield. The new owner tried to scab some apartments onto the top of the machine shop without getting permits, and got hit with a cease and desist order. Ebba's reaction: "You'd think he'd learn!"

Ebba's been in Bamfield for fifty years, the daughter of a man who came there to work on the cable station, when there were no roads to Bamfield. There's a road now, but it's still a tough journey, because the road is rough gravel, with heavy industrial logging traffic. The road used to be a two mile walk away, across a suspension bridge spanning the Pachena River. Beth, now living in Astoria, OR, remembers the walk, because her father had to walk it every day to reach his pickup -- on his way to a logging job. Beth was ten or eleven when she left Bamfield in 1963, the year the road was extended to Bamfield.

Ebba says Bamfield was a nicer town then, dependent on the commercial fishing fleet, now entirely gone, a casualty of overfishing and the market forces of economy of scale. Walt's machine shop was an important cog in the machinery of the community, repairing dragger gear and logging equipment. That's gone, but Ebba still has her house, extensive gardens, duck pond, and dock on the inlet. One daughter does pottery in a tiny studio summers. Both daughters visit then. Tourists, do, also, and buy the pottery.

Irma is across the inlet, on the shore of Bamfield (Bamfield "West," actually) which still has no road access. That side is the locus for the hospital, the coast guard lifeboat station, the post office, a general store, and The Boardwalk. The school was over there, too, until a few years ago, when a bigger, uglier one was built on Ebba's side of the inlet.

The Boardwalk was the dominant access to homes years ago -- a crude path of gravel and boards above the tide linking commerce and lodging. Now there is a network of rough roads behind the boardwalk, connecting all behind the scenes. A few vehicles are there, barged across the inlet, but most folks walk.

Irma is in a double wide, playing her piano as we arrive. Does she remember Beth? Sure, she does! Irma and her late husband ran a store years ago, and lived in a different house on the double wide site, but "that house was too old," she says. Irma agrees to pose for a picture, smiling radiantly at 80. Beth's Mom still corresponds with Irma, and will appreciate the picture. Wish I had a smile like Irma's.

Irma and Ebba seem content and at ease with life in Bamfield, though they both agree it was better before the road. We are enriched by knowing them, but can not appreciate how life has changed for them.

That's the way of change.

Liz represents that change. She is Bamfield Kayak Central, renting kayaks and leading trips to local beaches and caves and arches. She speaks softly and smiles easily and wonderfully. Women like to hire her to lead yak trips. Liz does not lock up her shop, but has a note on the door to call her if you want to rent boats. She shares space on the float offshore with the lodge next door. When you call her on the phone, she sounds as if you brought her back from an ethereal dream. I think she is lost in the mileau of time that wraps Bamfield.

Her daughter loves it there. Wonder if in fifty years Liz will be in a double wide, with her daughter doing pottery, summers, in a little shop in the back yard.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 11/23/1999.
Republished here with permission.

Thanksgiving Weekend

The future daughter-in-law seemed out of sorts, and that made everybody uncomfortable, so we compensated by over-consuming food on Thanksgiving day ... and the next day ... and the day after that. It did not help that the much-vaunted paddle with son and intended was squashed by the first Pineapple Express of the season, courtesy of La Nina. In lieu, we wandered around a muddy bare lot, site of a house in six months (we hope), though the intended pouted in the truck by herself.

Time to fade out into the marshes and channels out Brownsmead way. Email the Portland crew ... nope, nobody home. Oh, well, I know how to do this stuff -- who needs companions, anyway? Packa packa packa, fill water jugs, find clothes, buy more food, beg a homemade turkey sandwich off the sweetie, stuff the yak on top of the canopy and lasherdown! Trundling up the highway, rain stomping the tin ceiling, turkey gurgling inside. Hallooo! That slide they "fixed" last summer has re-annointed the RR tracks at the put-in. Ma Nature bats last, dudes.

State game cop in his warm PU, checking hunters returning from the wet. Now he has "hid" his PU behind some other rigs -- some of the boats returning to the ramp had been doing touch and goes ... heh! heh! Officer Klepp on the hunt! He eyes me top to bottom when I tell him, "Yeah, I'm goin' camping in the islands ... I have a tarp!" And shrugs and makes a face as the rain dribbles down his chin.

There is a slight diminishment of the wet stuff as I unload and repacka repacka repacka everything in hatches and slide off the beach. Pelt pelt pelt on the hat and deck ... splash splash splash on the water. We're having fun, no? Dippy the deck duck is -- always smiling.

The ebb current is supposed to be fading, but it's not, so I hump myself against it, as a headwind develops. Not working hard enough to keep the hands warm, so out come the pogies (first time in '99!), sliding past snowberries, rose hips and red osier dogwood bankside. Nobody else around. Two and a half hours later, I drag ashore on Tenasillahee Island at the campsite and hustle the tarp 200 yards to the treeline, spending half an hour in setup, cold-handed, but torso-warm. Hypothermia should dull my thinking processes, yes? If I can set up a tarp, I'm not hypothermic, yes?

Back to the boat and stuff meshies full of goodies -- two trips and everything is under the tarp. Pelta pelta pelta. I could get tired of this rain! Hot cocoa and I feel smarter -- maybe I was a little cold!

It's late in the day as freighters slip by in the mist. Set up the tent in a break between squalls, and the light fades. Hit the Coleman lantern (fresh mantle) and warm up dinner. More freighters, and the VHF gurgles with ... green-to-green ... we'll pull over to the red line a little cap, we're running light. These guys are very polite, and their patter alleviates my lonesome feeling. A week ago one of them cut a corner too much and flattened some sand downriver in a narrow spot. Took a couple high tides to get off.

Dinner down and wet suit off, I finally warm up and begin to enjoy the solitude. Pelta pelta pelta on the tarpa tarpa tarpa sounds peaceful. Dark for two hours now and off to bed, enveloped in fleece and Polarguard. Reading lasts ten minutes and I am dead to the world by 7 pm!

In the night rain noise disappears, and out-of-tent forays get simpler. By dawn, the tent is dry, courtesy of a light downriver breeze. Sunrise is spectacular, golden highlights kissing the east and pale blue stuff popping out to the west. That must be that "sky" stuff they talk about. Geese and a hawk or two do drive-by snoops as I slide out of the tent for the last time. More freighter traffic and I transfer gear to the yak, one trip this time, courtesy of three full meshies draped over shoulders and tumped to the forehead.

Off into the eddy as the freighter wake squashes through, surfing a little across the line and into head current, then around the top of the island into lovely tail current, drifting and watching the grebes and loons. Warm, dry, quiet, and two seals spyhop me, bristling their brows at the curmudgeon in his cockpit. No one all the way down the Clifton Channel.

An hour later, I am back at the ramp, courtesy of a two knot tail current and a tailwind. Hunters are gone, driven away by nice weather.

Drifting back along the highway, seems like that grouchy future daughter-in-law's image is very faint ... think I'll keep the yak. Maybe my son should consider investing and divesting. Polyester resin and true love may have equal lifetimes.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1999 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 12/2/1999.
Republished here with permission.

Chilly Paddle

I was cold at the put-in, and so was George. Even with full-tilt immersion gear and a couple layers of fleece, I could not warm up after sliding into a cold Farmer John. This is fun?

Ice on the sand and frost in the puddles, goosed along by a 10-knot downriver breeze. Durn! This is the middle of February on the coast of Oregon -- should be warming up. Hurry up, summer.

A mile or so down the way, with building tail current helping, my feet begin to tingle back to life, and the gloves (I *never* wear gloves!) under pogies keep the fingers toasty. George needs to adjust, so he pops out onto a duck shack's float while I drift in the current, watching the scaups and buffleheads jink around. These duck shacks got a lot of use this winter, but they return to bed as the season is over.

Back in the water, we shoot past submerged piling and hit the outside of Horseshoe Island, to gunkhole its shore and admire the weeds. Geese "her-luk" away in the near distance, mating, no doubt. They will be nesting in the next few weeks, tieing up the riparian zone out here. A fat dozen swans go aloft, soon to split for the tundra.

Still chilly, but our drift speed matches that of the tail wind, and the wind chill effect drops to zero. George gabbles. I paddle. Rounding the lower end of Horseshoe, we spy the narrow opening in the next island (Marsh) and hit it, another couple hundred yards to an isolated shack with new siding and a float which I use for a pee break.

This shack locates long-gone Brownsport, a loose association of gill-netter outposts and float houses, which once sported a boardwalk connecting the dozen structures, and a string of lights powered by a communal generator. All gone but two. The owner of this one spied me launching a week ago and we had a nice exchange, reverieing in our shared appreciation of these muddy flats and scruffy weeded wetlands. Our shrine.

On down the narrow waterway, spooking ducks, to the pass between Karlson and Marsh, as George talks on. We hit the north side of Karlson and check out the breached dike, a relic of the acquisition by the USFWS of this piece of former cow pasture. A vet buddy used to treat cows out here on meagre ground. Old cars and fences and cattle chutes add character, but we are bound for the next island. Crossing the channel, we ferry against stronger current and slip into a small eddy leading to the middle of Russian Island, where we are *surrounded* by eagles! I've never seen so many in one place out here -- seven or eight, none shy, half are immatures. One plays bank hopscotch with us. Doesn't he know he's a "wild" animal? Another sits placidly on a grounded stump, facing the wind and hoping for something dead to drift by as a skiff passes within thirty yards.

Home to seven elaborate duck shacks, Russian is isolated and exposed. All have new siding, some new generators, and one a pair of way-decked-out goose-hunters. We continue in the direction of the current, and I am now barely warm, as the goose hunters shoot around to our right and purposely go aground off McGregor Island to set up their dekes and dog.

Low tide is two hours off, the current is now strong and from our left, and the wind builds at our backs, pushing small following waves at our tails, making for a loosy-goosy feeling. We hit another small channel and hide behind the cat tails, seeking shelter. I get cold again, eat some lunch, put the gloves back on, don another hat, and laugh at George standing calf-deep in the 40-degree water.

Push off, stroke stroke stroke to Lois, another half a mile away, to ghost past another dozen and a half swans, all standing on the flats amid geese. They all go aloft, bapping the mud with their wings, looking like Strangelove B-52's. More current, and we hit the channel separating Lois from the mainland. Lois and its companion Mott are dredge-spoil creations from the forties and fifties, generated to make deep-water moorage for a couple hundred Liberty ships mothballed here until the sixties. They are now blackberry and scotch broom tangles, good for the deer, raccoons, and nutria. Lois held an agro squatter who had to be removed forcibly after he built an "ark" from alders and began firing his rifle over the heads of boaters who came too close. Took several gendarmes to get him -- wonder which street creature in Astoria he is now?

I'm re-entering civilization in my psyche while my body complains at the hips and shoulders, sliding through the trestle gap into our exit. Two plain-Jane gillnet boats come out the John Day backwater, dodging snags and us. Another three hundered yards and hull meets concrete. I roll out, staggering on tingly pins, and George follows. The truck awaits. We load up and shuttle back, wolfing down delayed lunch, partly to keep George's mouth busy and partly to stifle the growl in my belly.

Twelve and half nautical miles in a little over three hours. Lotta scenery, lotta waterfowl and a dozen raptors. My feet warm up on the floor of the pickup. It gets better than this?
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2000 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 2/15/2000.
Republished here with permission.

The Pig in Winter

We forced ourselves into turbo-cleaning the house Saturday morning -- long overdue. Guests coming Monday mandated an end to our slovenly ways. Two hours of high-energy dusting, mopping, and wiping later, we were packing for an overnight yak trip, our first together since the summer of '99.

Four hours later with only one false start, and we were launching from the ramp, eying the clear sky and a substantial tailwind, unanticipated in the confined waters of the Clatskanie "River," hardly more than a wide ditch. Can't imagine it over the banks, but in '97 it roared and floated away the inventory of the stud mill nearby. Eight-foot number ones became the most common marine hazard in the ditch for weeks afterward.

A trio of goose hunters and the largest Chessy retriever we had ever seen slid back to the dock, one bird aboard but a dozen dekes lost to freighter wakes -- an excuse for their return the next day.

With the tailwind pushing, we were soon on the main stem Columbia, an apple and a candy bar for fuel, feeling the soreness from turbo-cleaning and grinning at our good fortune. Sun in February? This is Oregon!!??

The big tide made for a direct route to North Dead Wild Pig Island and our fave campsite on the Columbia: a scatter of poles and blue tarp over rustic tables and a plushly-padded bench, relics of the '97 floods. NDWP got its name from the failed scheme of a pioneer Tillamook-area vintner who figured folks would flock to luaus featuring roast feral pig, fattened on island vegetation and slow nutrias. He planted half a dozen porkers on the island to the south of NDWP, and walked, expecting to reap a "harvest" in two years. The pigs raised hell with the underbrush and made new pathways all over the island, but died off on their own, some say helped along by locals scandalized by the pig-dump. Hence, we attached "Dead Wild Pig Island" to it, to confuse the unwary about where we camp.

Freighter wakes wash over the downstream end of the island, making for sometimes-interesting launches and landings. A friend ignored our warning one time and swamped his vintage Folbot as we doubled over in mirth. Today, though, we are alone. An hour after landing, the tent is up, gear sorted, and firewood gathered for the barbecue. Lots of "downed" wood around, a casualty of heavy erosion of a grove of cottonwoods and alders -- erosion which will soon take the campsite away.

Articulating spud-boiling and coal-building, we appetize with hot tomato soup and the Ritz experience. Broiled steaks complement Guinness, corn and the spuds, as we huddle around the fire, avoiding the breeze. When dinner is gone, a **huge** moon rises over the island to the her-luk of geese flying by, eying our beach but too spooked by the hunting season to share.

By eight we are enfleeced and in bags, listening to the throb of freighters slide by. We thrash about in the night, trying to share a double bag and fleece liners, abandoned after too-many bladder-break forays, as the sun rises to a well-frozen Pig.

Aaaaack! This is cold! Dave does the duty and nails the first of three Thermoses of coffee while Becky cracks twigs for a reeallly necessary warming fire, gloves all around and fleeced to the nines. Leftover potatoes and vegies topped with cheese and more coffee at the fire help us warm. Dave crunches across the frozen beach to greet one of the goose hunters and his friendly Chessy, returning to retrieve his lost dekes. A cup of coffee draws out a dozen war stories. I trade the legend of the pigs. He likes the story.

A long walk to the upper end of the Island shows massive erosion there, also, with some 150 feet of bank gone over the last three years. The Corps of Engineers has a new benchmark in the middle of the island, fore-runner of more dredge spoils, we suspect. Should we move it three feet and throw them off? No, too much work.

The sun warms and distills moisture off the tent, and Dave sheds to shorts and a T-shirt. An hour of packing later, and more freighter wakes, we launch for the return, helped back up the Clatskanie River by a hotly rising tide. Seals spy-hop, gulls squawk, geese her-luk, raptors swoop silently, and the cormorants on their way to lunch say nothing. We paddle and snack, paddle and snack. The soreness from cleaning is replaced with a pleasant muscle-buzz from paddling.

The Pig was kind, though cool. Long live the Pig.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2000 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 2/21/2000.
Republished here with permission.

Wild Places

Been on a tear the last couple weeks, shedding work-angst. Five days on the water over the last seven -- two overnights and a day trip. Yesterday it gelled.

Smack dab on a coarse sand beach, a divergence in the River, where eighty per cent of the flow edges to the south, past parallel mountains of dredge spoils, and another ten per cent shelves northward. The rest is spread over four miles of shallows and backwaters, all hell-bound for the sea.

A man-made place, yet wild. Broken trees and huge driftwood lace the swash line. Moss and dried annuals scratch at the sand on the dune. Double crested cormorants alight echelons of pile dikes, preening for a mate. Grebes "screebing" at each other, bragging of bigger fish, more fish. Seals smacking the water, chasing vanishing salmon.

Mongo freighters take the larger channel, and the Corps smooths their path with a million dollars a year in spoil extraction, to make the waters turn ten degrees south. Conservation of momentum and money in a standoff. We sit in awe, here shuddering at the power of the River, shaking piles and gouging sand.

The geese know it, the terns know it, and the immature eagle fifty yards off knows it. All are competing for a piece of this place.

And so am I, to scrabble a fragment of sanity. The sun is out, the wet suit off, food gulletting down with water as lubricant. A feeding mode not so much different from the soon-to-be-hatched goslings, now incubating under an adult, itself watched by the eagle, the redtail, and us.

The current runs in two directions here, generating boils and mild haystacks for us to dance over, and we ease off, skirting massive piles of sand, decorated at the lower end with feeble fences of plastic to divert terns. An eagle silhouette stands guard, and two matures help on a grounded root ball.

Leaving this special, diverse, remote place, though it will not leave us. We carry it back to civilization, a tonic for an interval, or maybe a lifetime, knowing it is there.

Are there sand-Druids?
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2000 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 3/25/2000.
Republished here with permission.

Squatter's Revenge

A day spent packing belongings in boxes in preparation for a household move sent me to the water Sunday. I used the rationale I had been a good boy all Saturday, and so Sunday I deserved a respite. My SO agreed, but I really think she wanted to pack in peace. I'm a cantankerous packer.

Hit the beach next to the ramp and stepped around the messes people left, noting a squatter had taken up residence in the lee of the high and dry floats the County took out a year ago, promising to replace them "real soon now." Scruffy tarp, smoky fire, and gear/beer cans all over.

Slid the light wooden yak off the truck top, dodged a dog doo to the water's edge, and assembled my goodies, sans a chart and my on-deck E-bag, casualties of the packing mania. Home waters, what's the big deal?

Not a breath of air, and it's noon! Where's that wind? Stroking across flat water, past skaups eyeing me, a cormorant in dracula mode airing out on a snag, and geese her-lukking overhead. I look back at the beach and spy the squatter and another guy drive up in a pickup, dump off an old decked FG canoe, and kick a couple beer cans. Glad I'm out here.

The tide is as high as it gets, so I short-cut across reeds and sprouting buttercups and skunk cabbage blossoms, mallards skittering off ahead, heading for deeper water. What's this? A bright orange net float? Scoop it up and bungie it onto the back deck, yard fodder to please Becky. Grebes scraak by, and terns grackle overhead, shopping for smolts. Another island passes by and I head for the ... gasp ... shipping channel! Nobody home for miles. The VHF has been silent, and I have not seen or heard another boat yet. Are they all home doing their taxes? This isn't Super Bowl Sunday, is it? Dunno, I'll just be a pagan paddler out on his worship route.

The other side of the river is cliffy, so I gunkhole hanging gardens of six kinds of fern, and ogle sedum, poison oak in sprout mode, and dodge overhanging trunks, laying a scratch under my butt as I fail to finesse a rock. After an hour and a half and five miles out, I am on the float at Skamokawa, the "Venice of the Columbia," listening to the owner's wife noisily gossip with a cleanup lady who works the B and B at the Paddle Center. I stay on the float and loll like an overfed seal, snuffling down the provolone and bagel. Nobody comes down to see me, so I leave, and **finally** see another boat -- two canoeists in the inner slough, returning their rental. God, it's placid!

The paddle jacket has been behind my seat all the way, and another layer joins it, though the farmer john remains on my bod as I head out to the channel again, looping upriver to beat the ebb to a passage between two islands. What ho! A sturdy oceangoing tug claims the right of way, and I wave to the skipper as we pass starboard to starboard. He looks relaxed and I dodge the wake, crossing ahead of a smaller towboat, returning from a chip barge run. The whole river now has two-inch waves, at the very place I nearly capsized in steep three-foot following seas some six-seven years ago, in the middle of a Hobie Cat race, no less!

The other shore of dredge spoils is peaceful, and the tide so high I skirt the shore, raising a raptor and more mallards, hitting the return channel and float/paddling down the slough to a rest break on the USFWS float midway. The ebb is strong in here, lucky for me, going my way.

On the other side of the island, I am back in the big channel leading to my launch spot, and I hit my stride, then drift. A common loon, big as life, rises three boat lengths off the bow, and yodels as if he were on Hee Haw! He/she spies me and hits that yodel again! I stop slack-jawed, and the loon slowly paddle-drifts downstream, making way ahead of me. I feel honored and humble.

Another mile (now approaching ten), and the ramp appears, then the beach, with the squatter stoking the smoky fire higher and swizzling beer. He halloos me as I slide ashore, comes down to admire my boat, and tells me he is on the return trip back upriver, having come 300 miles down over the past month or so. I look at his huge canoe, junior high green with scratches of the ages and a fresh patch on it, and reassess my view of the "squatter."

This guy is the real thing -- no fancy Goretex or dry bags or other yuppie stuff. He's got onions in the bag you buy them in, spuds scattered around the bilges, and tarps and a sleeping bag (no pad, I don't think) and a single big pot. Probably the beer helps.

Think I'll get some Hamms on the way home and burn my Goretex. Maybe I can learn to be a real paddler, some day!
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2000 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 4/17/2000.
Republished here with permission.

The Pig Rides Again

March was a bad month for rain on the Lower Columbia River (OR, USA), and we had the wettest paddletrip in memory to one of our favorite islands: Dead Wild Pig. The Pig is set near the shipping channel a couple dozen miles upriver from home, and approachable via two miles of diked channel and only a mile or so of exposed open stuff, so it is an easy overnighter. Perfect for our friends Michael and Jennifer, the latter new to this paddling game.

Saturday morning was a calm and mellow time in the garage, filled with the miseries and triumphs of packing: where is that small dry bag? ... hey, man! your mongo sleeping bag actually goes inside this one! ... fit the footpegs, pad the butts ... all compounded by having only been in this house for three weeks. Main casualty: forgot the Crazy Creek chairs!

J and M dawdled and splashed in the channel, with Jennifer on that high a new paddler feels as her graceful strokes pull her through the water and the bank slides by. We gave her the slow and bulbous Spectrum, a dog boat, but comfy in the saddle, easy to turn, and stable as all hell.

An hour and a half later, we hit the Pig, chomping down lunch (who bought FAT FREE cream cheese! Yuck!) and lazily erecting tents, spreading gear before the two dozen goslings offshore, some astride momma's back. The new paddlers and the old one escaped up-island for an exploration, but Becky tended camp and read. The up-islanders returned an hour later, chased by the sprinkles and high wind of an incipient high-level front. It never amounted to much, but looked ominous (memories of March). Becky had the tarp up, anyway. Birds all over, an inspiration to Michael, who envisioned a "Birds of Dead Wild Pig" guidebook, and later a "Plants of Dead Wild Pig" key, topped off by the "Dead Wild Pig Cookbook." That guy has tooo many ideas ...

More freighters than ever before, in memory, graced the channel, to M and J's delight, the channel at the doorstep of their tent, on a mini-bluff of dredge spoils. Wakes grinding across the flats and slopping at the spoil foundation.

Gorged on dinner (skewered shrimp grilled over an open fire), Becky and I slept warmly in a new double bag, with zippers **on the sides** -- midnight pee breaks no longer wake the partner.

Morning dawned warm and calm, developing into a truly HOT day, enough to demand dipping into the 55 degree water. M and J gunkholed the WA shore, shepherded by the old guy. Our only error was slipping the Jen into our "light, fast" boat, to which she adhered the rest of the day -- no more bulbous and slow stuff for her!

Returning up the channel, we had waterfights and tossed the rubber duck, kids enjoying the first day of summer in Oregon.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2000 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 5/15/2000.
Republished here with permission.

'Round Louise Island, Charlottes, BC

Last week, three of us from Oregon made a week-long paddle around Louise Island, one of the larger islands in the Queen Charlottes archipelago. Louise is encircled on three sides by Moresby Island and Talunkwan Island, with its remaining, eastern, flank exposed to Hecate Strait, producing a varied selection of protected waters and open water. Our route began and ended at Moresby Camp, once the site of a major logging center, but now a rude collection of RV's, run-down shacks, and a shed housing rigid-hull inflatables employed to herd visitors to Gwaii Haanas, one of the jewels in Parks Canada's crown.

Louise is very different from the better-known parts of the Charlottes, although the collection of totems and house poles at Skedans (Koona) receives lots of attention from visitors. And, paddlers seeking the "complete" Charlottes experience often conclude their tour of Gwaii Haanas with the top half of Louise, using Cumshewa Inlet as their exit.

Gale force southeast winds delayed our start by a day, as a frontal system washed out, wetting our Gray Bay-sited tents to saturation. (I looove starting a trip with a wet tent!) But, there was only sunshine and mild wind at launch, leaving us to chuck gear into hatches and dodge the goo of a very low tide. Heading east, we punched away at the water, slowly passing old clear cuts and decayed piling, relics of a heyday of logging old growth near Moresby Camp. A couple hours later, we passed Conglomerate Point, one of several features named by the geologist Dawson in his 1878 tour. Helicopters now and then buzzed overhead, shuttling loggers and ancillary personnel to and from work. A tug and barge combination ferried across the inlet as we hit more open water, on a near-collision course with us.

Wet suits made for a warm afternoon and were quickly stripped as we went ashore at the site of our first camp, the eastern shore adjacent to the mouth of Mather Creek. Mather is the longest stream on Louise, having a classic tidal estuary of dark, cloistered second growth, the relics of WW II logging activity. On the western shore, hidden behind a perimeter of brush, is an old cemetery with some thirty headstones on the site of the church which served New Kloo, one of the temporary homes of the Haida as they retreated from traditional village sites to Skidegate and Masset on Graham Island to the north. Dates evoked a subtle tale of simultaneous deaths of natives of all ages, the probable victims of smallpox and similar diseases.

Another hundred yards upstream are cabling, turnstiles, and anchors from the WW II spruce harvest. As we circled back to the creek's mouth, I stumbled across decaying remains of the "log road" used with hard rubber-tired trucks. Curt recognized it as a road -- I would have missed it entirely. His biologist eyes picked it out as an unnatural formation of parallel snags. We reflected on the times and lives of those who worked these woods ... and those who died near this spot as their culture disappeared.

Rebecca was working on her sun tan back at camp on the sand bar. We had landed at high tide, making unpacking an easy task. Tides are big there, and we did the usual calculation/speculation and divining of high tide swash marks before siting tents half a vertical foot from where the midnight tide **should** reach. For insurance, we tied kayaks to drift logs, then stuffed ourselves with veggie stir fry and tapioca pudding.

Wet tents dried somewhat, and then succumbed to a heavy dew overnight. Morning showed a falling tide, some ten feet below our tents, and a quarter mile **out** so we scrambled to grab the last few inches of water in the creek, floating loaded yaks and lining them down the tidal channel to salt chuck. Today we were to negotiate Fairbarn Shoals at the eastern extremity of Cumshewa Inlet, rounding the NE corner of Louise and entering exposed waters.

These shoals are the terminal moraine left from the glacier once filling the inlet. They run a mile and a half along Louise and force shipping, even shallow draft vessels, into a narrow channel on the N side of the inlet. And, they grow kelp! We threaded and dodged bull kelp for an hour, now and then running "aground" on huge mats of the stuff, before rounding the top of the island, and hoving into view of Skedans Point. A few minutes later, and we had rounded the point into the cove serving Skedans village, one of the "official" stopping points for visitors to the Charlottes.

Here, civilization descended, in the form of two sets of "guided" groups, competing for the attention of Laura, a young Haida woman who was the Watchman at the village site. We attached ourselves to the smaller group, and stood downwind in our stinky rubber (much as we could, anyway) as she detailed the history and function of mortuary and memorial poles. Sadly, the poles are soon to be "rescued" and propped up, cleaned up, and resurrected, as they have been at Ninstints to the south, obscuring the passage of time since the village was abandoned at the beginning of the twentieth century.

A hurried lunch on the beach, made necessary by Laura's tale of "our bear," preceded a lovely two hours of leisurely paddling southward across Skedans Bay to Vertical Point, our home for the next three nights. This spot is one of my favorites in the Charlottes, and it gets a lot of paddling traffic, mostly folks on the "route" to/from Ninstints to the south. We shared the ample spit with six others, all on two- or three-week paddling adventures. Only the Feathercraft owners were obnoxious with their excessive pride in their expensive craft, and tales of harrowing seas. Everyone else was really down-to-earth, and very friendly -- a necessity when you all share the same small cove for the intertidal flush!

One day we consumed with exploration of sea caves, limestone formations, and the gravel beaches of Skedans Bay, along with one of the Limestone Islands. Another we spent landbound by a strong north wind, motivating us to hike to the end of the Point, spying on fishing vessels (and two braver paddlers) fighting the twenty knot breeze and heavy seas. In the lee of the Point, Curt did a couple plankton tows to exhibit the rich microflora and -fauna in near-shore waters, while I tortured small rockfish with plastic worms. Alas, none were of eating size.

On the third day, we scooted southward, in the lee of the Point, as the wind howled overhead, maintaining 20-25 knots out in the Strait, and leaving a few knots to our backs to push us into Selwyn Inlet on Louise's south side. Skipping past Nelson Point, Breaker Bay, and Dass Point, all at times shrouded with heavy seas when the SE wind blows, we re-entered relatively sheltered waters, the home of more damn jellyfish than I have ever seen before! Curt and Rebecca had names for the varieties. I just looked at 'em!

A few more miles of westward travel, hastened by building following seas, brought us to a beautiful, unnamed cove on the outside of Rockfish Harbour. Gravel beach kissed kayak hull and we scampered over to the tombolo defining the S side of the cove, basking in residual sun, as Curt swam in the cove. Tents perched on two-inch gravel, sculpted "flat," while we gorged on Dave's Finest North American Bean Burritos and mercenary flan, courtesy of the Sandspit Super Value Grocery store and the Jello corporation.

Morning was made HOT! as the suns rays focused on us, a consequence of the eastern exposure of our cove. Torpidly, we packed up, our progress made slower by a gargantuan breakfast of hash browns, corned beef, and fresh muffins. Heading west along the inlet, we stumbled upon an "eaglefest" surrounding the alpha bird, talons around a nice coho salmon. Looked like enough to share with the dozen others, but he/she was having none of that!

Scooting across Selwyn, we entered Pacofi Bay, once the site of a huge fish cannery and sometime saltery, circa 1920 - 1940 in various versions, which finally burned to the water in WW II, leaving concrete seawalls and the most enormous boilers I have ever seen. A caretaker and his "runt" sled dog jawed with me in front of a 1990-vintage fishing lodge, vacant and in limbo. (Got a million Canadian bucks? It's for sale!) As his dog disappeared to chase a bear, we left to gunkhole the flats, and spy on a couple hundred semipalmated plovers screeking away and plumbing for bugs.

The afternoon wore on as we moved north into Carmichael Passage, briefly visiting Trotter Bay and its trig cabin (old logging equipment festered in the shallows), then Lagoon Inlet (small bear scampered away from the shore as I neared its reversing tidal rapids -- I ran 'em!). Some nine hours after breakfast, we fought heavy head current through Louise Narrows to a small, rocky campsite at the northern extremity of the dredged portion of the Narrows. We scooped bear poop aside and debated bear avoidance strategy, picking a **really good** tree for our food haul line. The large bear we had seen swimming across the narrows a couple hundred yards south on our minds, we slept fitfully and awoke to **wet tents** again in the morning.

With Dave's Powerful Cous Cous for fuel, we moved northward past salmon streams and acres of turbine snails into Gillatt Arm, past Barge point (named after an early settler, not a vessel) and soon Moresby Camp appeared three miles in the distance. Our horses could sense their stalls, and we put on a fine imitation of a kayak race (Curt won), skipping lunch to reach the takeout at two pm. Rebecca agreed we deserved ice cream cones at the Bun Wagon in Sandspit. And Dick's Wok Inn got some more of our dollars later -- love that seafood hot plate and special fried rice -- as we shared dinner with a dozen locals on BC Day.
--

The commercial: A circumnavigation of Louise provides a slice of what the Charlottes were like, from old cannery days, through logging times of our fathers and mothers, and back to the time when Haida culture was at its nadir. This was my fifth trip in the Charlottes, and it had more "texture" and variety than the others I have made, which concentrated on the better-known, southern parts of the Park. It was less frantic, and more calming. I felt more at one with my surroundings, partly for the pace, and partly for the greater degree of isolation than I have found in the heavily promoted "official" Gwaii Haanas area.

I recommend it.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2000 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 8/12/2000.
Republished here with permission.

Cheese and Freighters

The old man gestured at the distant shoreline of weeds and willows: "That's Tenasillahee, where I lived as a kid!"

"Ahhh, well that's actually Quinn Island. Tenasillahee is upriver. Can't see it from here. When did you live there?"

"1925 is when I left. We made cheese. Had 400 acres of pasture and three big barns."

"Yeah, I heard there were buildings on Tenasillahee."

"Jones owned it. He put in the locks at Cascade Locks. Lost a lot of money because they were six inches too short and the steamer could not fit inside."

"Then I worked at the Brownsmead store, down on the slough. It is all different now."

"Yeah, the Corps has put a lot of dredge spoils all over the islands. And now Tenasillahee is a wildlife refuge for the white-tailed deer. They run cattle on the island to keep the pastures open for them. Was Tenasillahee diked then?"

"Yeah. But a beaver took out a tide gate and it all flooded once."

The old man was born in 1915, and his son was taking him around to old haunts, one the put in at Aldrich Point, Brownsmead, Oregon. I was the beneficiary of his recollection. There were buildings on Tenasillahee when the National Wildlife Service took it over in the early seventies. Some of my hippie carpenter friends had salvaged the worn lumber, selling it as boutique boards for a good profit.

All an appropriate starter for a winter paddle.

I finished collecting my gear and pushed off, warm feet at last after several years of wet feet from leaky neoprene booties. Love those Chotas! Creaky joints and sore butt, the legacy of almost two months of non-paddling. Only one or two duck boats out here. One resembles a floating dugout, with one open side and the other a collage of reeds, weeds, and camo netting.

Push, push. No breeze, and sunshine. This is winter in Oregon?

Another thirty minutes and Fitzpatrick is under the keel. Most of the island is gone, with only a shred remaining after 20-plus years of erosion of the dredge spoils. Someone has put up nesting boxes. Can't be for wood ducks. Must be Andrew and his damned hooded larks! Cream cheese and bagel, snarf down the juice and the last candy bar. Watch the hawks dodging through the willows, looking for a shrew or a duck to grab.

A Seaspan barge is working its way up the channel, hooting on the VHF now and then, announcing his entry into the turn at Skamokawa. Another barge-encumbered towboat, downriver bound, acknowledges him, and the Captain H.A. Downing, an empty tanker, gets on the downbound barge: "Hey, Cap, what's your speed? Can we go by you on your port side?" "Ahhh, yah! We are making 9 point 3." "I'm doing about 15." "I'll get over to the Washington side."

Later, the downbound towboat asks the freighter to slow, to allow the Seaspan barge past. Them the freighter puts the pedal to the metal and pushes past, all of this a hundred yards off my bow, as I sit just outside the shipping channel.

This spot on the River is tricky for shipping traffic, owing to shoaling and because it is a broad turn, with constantly changing radius. A year ago a River pilot embarrased himself by running his fare aground, wiping out a green buoy which marked the shoal. I wonder if he got to keep the wreckage?

As I gunkhole the WA shore, looking for poison oak clusters through bare branches, another freighter gets on the horn and the towboats respond. I cut across the last towboat's wake, bouncing in his haystacks and pulling for home. Home is a ways off, and I work the flooded shorelines and sneak across weedy shallows, spooking mallards hiding from the hunters. Sun is low, directly in my face, so I can not see ahead, navigating by the hillsides and their position relative to me. Weeds are strewn all over me, the deck, the VHF, and my paddle as I hit the shore.

Calmer, colder, tired, enriched.

The River has turned from pasturage and cheese-making to shipping. Wish the old man could have been with me today to see this. He would have been good company.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2000 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 11/28/2000.
Republished here with permission.

Dodging the Wind

Winter is a chancy time to paddle on the Lower Columbia. When it is not raining and storming seriously, clear weather usually brings a substantial outflow wind, venting the high pressure inland toward the next offshore low. George and I hit a good weekend, with minimal outflow wind of 5-10 knots predicted and went for it from our favorite put-in on the Oregon side. The day was cold but brilliant, with sketchy fog across the way as we paddled the two-three easy miles across the river to the only legal campsite below Skamokawa, WA.

We like this spot, because it is adjacent to the shipping channel with its freighter and tug traffic, and for the open view to the south. On a clear night like Saturday's, Orion shimmers, and the planets (four of em, I think) line up the planetary ecliptic for calming scrutiny while dozing before a massive driftwood fire. Oh, yeah, I forgot, there is also an impressive eddy line off the basalt point nearby to remind us that the River is boss. That upriver point also shelters the campsite from outflow winds, a feature that is a blessing and a subtle curse.

George is recently healed from successful heart surgery to correct a heart rhythm problem, and this venture was a bit of a test piece for him. We had proved earlier in the week via a long day trip that he had the stamina. This trip allowed him to vent his energy in hauling firewood, a test for the ticker if there ever was one!

Sunday dawned overcast but pleasant. Spuds and coffee got me going, while George attempted to founder on a monster grain bucket of granola. Claims it "... supports my digestion." Yeah.

As we gathered our bits, we kept eying the River surface, watching the wind. The tide crept nearer our feet and the drift logs. A half hour before launch time, a small ship's wake nearly washed George's kayak off, and smothered the fire. Blessing and a curse.

At launch, the River was alive, with occasional white caps off the point, but with a quiet eddy line. Hitting the ship channel, we braced into the two-foot chop and danced across, some three miles ahead of the big container ship rounding the bend above us. Hey! This is a lot more than I expected! George agrees, and we shift our paddling plan. We are old bulls.

We had wanted to take a straight down-river route, shooting between two monster bulwarks of dredge spoil sand right down the channel, and then making a long open crossing to a sheltered takeout behind Tongue Point. The sand bulwarks, Miller Sands and Rice Island, are the last pieces of protection from an outflow wind before the wind hits the River mouth, some 15 miles away. But, looking downwind at Rice, we could see a sand plume flowing off it, a certain sign of heavy outflow wind, usually at least 20 knots or so.

We edged across the River and hit the high side of another dredge spoil mass (Jim Crow Sands), donned more warmth, hit the candy bar stash, and hooked a slight right toward one of the low islands two miles away. Hey! This is worse! I watched George fight the short-period stuff and swore it was calmer over where he was. He, likewise, felt I got the better deal. Decks constantly awash and spray slapping us upside the head, we finally hit the lee behind Marsh Island, one of a zillion pieces of federally-protected swamp and mud bank which are home to migrating waterfowl this time of year, including tundra swans.

More food, water, and jubilation at having dodged the wind, we contemplated an easy down-wind, down-tide shot along the OR shore, and shoved off. Hey! Where did this stuff come from? More wind from our left, and this time it's over 20 knots, blowing the tops off the chop, now and then breaking on us, and with only a half mile of fetch to work with! George and I are really annoyed now, and he curses mightily. I'm getting tired, hoping the skirt does not pop, and humping my butt for more shelter.

Finally we ease in behind Svensen Island, tucked right against the OR bank and eat, rest, drink, and wish there was a place to pee. I am surprisingly beat. George is still strong.

Edging out from Svensen on the lower end, we hit the wind again, but this time it is on our sterns, and only ten knots. At last we get our peaceful paddle, ending four miles later at our takeout, a short drive east of home.

On the way home, we reflect on our decision to avoid the open River. The relatively sheltered waters we paddled tested us. We are both unsure we could have remained upright in the rougher conditions out in the open River, an uncertainty reinforced later that day when we find out the wind was closer to 30 knots at the River mouth, enough to seriously slow down upbound freighter traffic.

Winter paddling on the Columbia River: a lesson in dodging the wind.
---
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 1/8/2001.
Republished here with permission.

Lazy Kayaking in Florida

My SO Becky and I just returned from a very lazy week of now-and-then day tripping, focused on Pine Island, just west of Fort Myers, FL.

We fell into a sweet deal with friends who live on a houseboat on the Caloosahatchee River in downtown Fort Myers. They took us and our rental open cockpit double aboard their craft, launched at dawn, and by noon we were afloat in the mangroves in Matlacha Pass (E side of Pine Island), dodging mullet splooshes and pelican "missles." A quick mile or two later, we spied on a collection of ibis, wood storks, red egrets, and spoonbills, bird species we had never seen before. On return to the houseboat, we managed to dump a few gallons of cold water onto ourselves before yarding the yak onto the roof of our domicle-for-a-week.

The next day dawned clear and cold (45 F in Florida??), so we adopted a pattern that was to stay with us throughout the unseasonably cold weather:

1. Wake up to coffee perking.
2. Deconstruct our bed and reconstruct the dining area (same space).
3. Make muffins so the boat would warm up.
4. Eat muffins; drink coffee; listen to weather forecast detailing the direction of the 15-20 knot (!!) winds for the day.
5. Play cards until the sun warmed the outside of the houseboat.
6. Think about putting boats in the water.
7. Put boats into water, donning wet suits, 'cause the water temp was in the high forties!
8. Dink-paddle the mangrove edges.
9. Reverse boat, wet suit process.
10. Cook dinner so we could re-heat the houseboat.
11. Play cards until lights-out. Re-make bed.
12. Sleep.
13. See number 1.

Our hosts claimed "we've never seen such sustained cold weather down here ... it's never like this ..." but we knew better. That stuff follows us around. The weather gods knew there were some furreners from the Pacific Northwest down where they should not be.

Despite the cold and the sustained N/NE/NW wind, we managed to find sheltered anchorages and did some cool paddling. Best day was a 10-knotter devoted to Cayo Costa State Park, for much walking and ogling of plants, shelling, and eating.

Logistics: we rented from Barb and Greg of Captiva Kayak Co (1-877-EZ-KAYAK), who made it easy and were very safety conscious. Only downer was our choice of an open-cockpit boat (it was supposed to be warm, remember?): not seaworthy for choppy water, and ran nose-down, dumping water on the forward paddler. Next time we'd exchange the Pamlico Excel for a Sea-Two. Both are roto-molded Wilderness Systems boats. The latter is a trad. closed cockpit double, and can handle chop and rougher water. Or, pay the freight to yard our Folbot double down there (at least one bag is oversize: $75 excess baggage charge per bag, each way).

On our return to Oregon, it was **warmer** in Astoria!
---
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 1/28/2001.
Republished here with permission.

Willapa Nights

The cold front washed through Thursday night, right on schedule, and temperatures plummeted. I had delayed going until then, hoping for improving weather. The National Weather Service forecast shifted from "rain at times" to "showers" for the next few days, so I left town over the big bridge with a fistful of upriver charts and three days food, intending to paddle to old haunts on the Columbia. To alleviate the boredom of the drive, I took the long way along Willapa Bay, scoping out widgeon and brant dipping in the bay. Squalls washed the air as I pulled into the under-construction parking lot at Refuge headquarters.

Old buddy Joel was in uniform along with a desk-person, so I joshed him and asked about the pair of empty yak cradles on the pickup alongside the construction zone: "Yeah, they've been there a couple days." "Any idea where they went?" "Nope." "Can I park there, out of the way of the construction?" "Yup, they won't be in there until Monday, anyway. Weather is supposed to be better. Have a good trip, but be careful!"

Solitude on the Bay sounded good. Guess I won't need those River charts.

I dodged a minor squall and off-loaded goodies as the tide rose toward the rear wheels of the pickup. The yak filled quickly while the sun danced with clouds. Dry suit on, did the duty with the pickup and slipped into the water, around the south end of the island, and westward. Tons of common mergansers around, dipping and diving, then scooting off in the air. Loons calling and herons fishing.

Nobody here! Pinnacle Rock was empty, also Smoky Hollow ... lotta new mini-slides on beige cliffs. Seismic-stimulated from the February quake? An hour and a half later, ashore at Sandspit campground, no human signs except 4-trax tracks in the pebbles from buddy Larry's potty-servicing two days previous. Up with the tent, up with the tarp, off with the dry suit, sunshine here and there. Gather beaucoup firewood from down the beach, worka worka. Seat pad alongside a log and beer in hand, watching the bay empty as distant oyster dredges disgorge work crews on two sides of the bay. Shorebirds dance on the flats while brant sqwak by, and dinner begins to call. Stir fry with spuds, cookie, cookie. Washa, washa.

In the night, an intense shower woke me for a pee break, but morning was not far behind. Everything wet. Good thing I put the wood under the tarp. Oatmeal and coffee to warm the toes ... god! it's cold! Clammers and oyster workers in the distance. Slowly stow gear and organize food. By ten I am off, walking green roadbed and marvelling at sunlight through the alders. A squall put me under a hemlock for ten minutes for the last time, headed to the north end of the island, eventually making the four miles to Lewis campground in two hours. Return was the same, with one ruffed grouse scare, tons of elk sign, and enough bear scat I had to watch the track. Slides are taking the road away in two spots, turning it into Willapa Bay mud.

Back in camp, the bay emptied as rain came down again and again. Good cup of coffee and nap time! Afterward, I scoured the beach rocks for SO Becky. Miserable hunting -- score: one agate! Another beer-mediated stir fry under the belt, dishes out in the weather to "wash" and it's back in the tent to listen to the rain ... I thought this was just "showers!" That Joel lied to me!

Rained off and on all night, and the moon made some appearances, too, flirting with the treetops. In the morning, more rain, with shots of wind for spice. No tide until near noon, so no hurry. Slowly packed up, tossing the unused firewood out and stowing gear under the tarp. Sun appears, air warms up, Dave doffs clothes and shuffles the yak down to the flats and waits for the tide. Wait, wait. Rain completely stops, sky clears, birds sing, I don the dry suit and drag the yak the last twenty yards to the water. Loons, buffleheads by the score on all sides, calm water to High Point and around the south end of the island. Traffic is heavy on the highway and rubberneckers ogle me as I slide ashore at the ramp.

Tired, but happy.

Later, the yak is stowed and I am on the road south while a storm cell cleans the boat atop. Breakfast at one o'clock in Seaview is my reward.

Ya gotta like rain ...
---
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 4/11/2001.
Republished here with permission.

The Pig In Spring

We have never seen the ramp lot so full. Pickups and trailers everywhere. Only one spot left for ours. The biggest spring chinook run in the last 25 years has activated latent fish needs for thousands of Oregon and Washington anglers. And, we are to travel the Clatskanie River against the returning hordes!

Can't tie up the ramp, so we pack up in a semi-lather, off the float with our double in the water, leaning over upside-down, taking longer than usual -- the first overnighter in a new boat. Mild cursing and laughter at our ineptitude lubricate the process, and we soon drift downstream between tall muddy banks. The tide is the lowest we have seen here, exposing tide gates and debris. Doesn't slow down the returning fishers, though! Several times we dodge for the shallows as a swift skiff rounds a bend ahead of us and drops the throttle to avoid washing our decks. Cheery guys, all happy to go for the nookies!

Our craft is swift, and the ebb assists, making the mouth appear sooner than anticipated, and we turn up-current past collapsing gill net sheds and old boats, around the islet, and over the side channel to Dead Wild Pig, loving this new boat. Glistening in the distance is a pile of black plastic on our intended campsite. As we hove to the beach, it looks like the boys from Lord of the Flies have visited. Nobody there, though, so we hump loads ashore. Pig in spring! Brisk air and distant showers, geese shooting through the trees at head level, moss greening up, and the cottonwoods are in leaf ... we are renewed!

Half an hour of de-plasticking and beer bottle roundup clean up the weekend party mess. They must have been wet. Drunk and wet, probably. We proceed to serious eating and ogling of freighter and barge traffic. Warblers and nuthatches noggle in the bushes alongside the tarp as we sauté dinner and eat. Skiffs sprint for home, and we ourselves soon sleepily nuzzle into our bags. Nice to be back on the Pig.

Becky generates a serious sore throat in the night, bringing on meds to mediate it. Fog wraps us in shrouds and river traffic boops away. We can pick out their direction and number aurally, imagining their sizes and types. The fog lifts and I head out after french toast and sausage to walk the island, spooking a goose as I cross to the channel side. Multiple freighters slip by on the high tide and wash the beaches, generating enough surf to spook water birds from the shallows. Boaters dangle lures in the slipstream of pile dikes. One surreptitiously nets a nice one, drawing admirers looking to share the hot spot. More geese flugger off, lurk-lurking away. What's the survival value of that awful goose call?

On the upriver end, there are eighty boats on the old seining grounds! Never seen this many boats on the river. We must need this.

Slopping through soft sand, I head back and cross over to the south side, joining Becky for more coffee and a breakfast cookie. Gotta eat this stuff -- it may not fit back in the boat!

Time to leave, and we hump mesh bags overflowing with tomorrow's food and last night's lodging materials to the beach. As we vacate our campsite, the geese I spooked return. Paddling away, the Pig winks at us.

Spring. The sap rises and the fish bite. We are content.
---
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 4/16/2001.
Republished here with permission.

Hoarde on the Columbia

Twelve of us converged on a favorite island in the Columbia River, near Clatskanie, Oregon, this Memorial Day weekend, intending a thirty-mile paddle to Skamokawa, WA. Eight completed the trip, more or less, and four others bagged it, two victims of migraine, and two, heavy headwind.

Saturday was a scorcher, reaching the eighties, demanding sun tarps (in Oregon -- remember that in Oregon people don't tan ... they rust!) and bringing on the goodies and vino at an early hour for those launching at Willow Grove Cowlitz County Park some eight miles downriver from Longview, WA. We dodged freighters and fishers enroute, covering the eight-some miles in under three hours. Could have been slower, but we did not have enough to babble about to one another as we drifted with the current and now and then stroked.

The six folks in "Easy Riders," monster decked canoes from the Easy Rider people, had the best setup, paddling from the deck, and could see more than the kayakers (in two doubles). But we were sleeker, and proved to be the better craft on Monday when the wind rose.

African Peanut Soup, fishcakes, eggplant surprise, multiple varieties of slaw, nuclear chocolate chip cookies, and token sips of Guinness made Saturday's dinner memorable, though perhaps it lead to my SO's midnight migraine. The migraine persisted into the next day, forcing us to stay on the favorite island. The others sprinted off at the spirited hour of 10 am (or 11 am, depending), and disappeared in the ebb current to the west. Becky and I made the best of it, reading books in the sun and wind, dodging aggressive freighter wakes, and admiring a quartet of golden eagles dogfighting later in the day. Garlic and herb fettucine with tuna annointment and cookies graced us to bed. Monday, we returned upriver against the ebb to the put-in, pushed by a vigorous front which brought rain squalls and a stiff breeze. The breeze helped us to the east, but made crossings of the opposing current challenging.

On regrouping with the rest downriver, we heard tales of tossed tarps from the rain, hordes of folks on Tenasillahee Island, now a "hot spot," and the saga of stuck in the mud in Elochomon Slough out of Cathlamet. (I told them it was dicey at one foot of tide ... but, listen to me? I don't think so!) One couplet in an Easy Rider faded against the wind, and pulled out four miles short of their goal, but the others stiffed it out.

Next year, we'll have the tide we need to do the Elochomon, and we'll all go down the Slough!
---
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 5/29/2001.
Republished here with permission.

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.

Sand Island, Mouth of the Columbia River

John Haide and his 12-year-old son Matt paddled their snappy-lookin' Folbot Super around Sand Island at the mouth of the Columbia River yesterday. I was a tag-along, and much gratified to be there. Mild drizzle (Oregon sunshine) gave way gradually to real sunshine over our paddle, which began at the ramp at Ft. Canby State Park. Dodging a couple CG vessels engaged in drills, we scuttled down the channel to the main river, "waked" now and then by the many salmon fishers and the occasional commercial vessel.

As we cleared Jetty A (base of the river "bar"), the River was in full flood, so we wended our way upriver along the S side of Sand Island. The island is a relict of Oregon almost inset in a hook of land at the extreme SW tip of Washington, and is separated from the rest of Oregon by a mile and a half-wide waterway. This strange arrangement came about as Sand Island moved, in response to the action of the jetties, northward, pushing the old "North Channel" toward the WA shore and taking the OR/WA border with it. Nowadays, the old "South Channel" is the only viable channel for shipping.

In days gone past, the shoreline was a hot spot for horse seining for salmon, but there were no horses or seine nets around on this day. Terns smacked the water in search of smolts, brown pelicans floated overhead, and a forest of murres dove around us in search of bait fish below. Small swells bounced ashore, with John and Matt well outside. I got too smart for my britches and was wetted by a larger than average one, because I was paddling too close to the break line. Guess that's what paddle jackets are for!

Eventually we rounded the last pile dike on the upstream end, paddling back towards the ocean so the flood current did not trap us against the pilings. Ashore, binoculars revealed an enormous cormorant nesting colony on the next island east. We dawdled and ate, basking in the sun (what do you call the first sunny day after two days of rain in Oregon? Monday!).

Back in the boats and off with the heavy clothing as we paddled shallows and skimmed by the shore to the northwest, eventually rounding the N end of the island. Enroute, there was an old winch on a barge, a memory of the cable ferry that relayed supplies to the island, and salmon to the Washington shoreline.

At the ramp, lots of folks were curious about John's Super, and one older man was amazed that it could be sailed.

A great day.
---
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 7/19/2001.
Republished here with permission.

Jericho Bay, Maine

My SO Becky, my son Ian, and I visited the Jericho Bay/Brooklin/East Deer Isle area in Maine the last two weeks. There was a lot of visiting, eating, and noshing with long-time friends who now live in Brooklyn ... and, we did some paddling. This is mostly about the paddling.

We spent three nights centered on one of the Maine Island Trail Association islands off Naskeag Point, just a mile or so from the only good launch point in the area (Naskeag Harbor). We actually launched from a small public ramp in Center Harbor, west of our island a few miles, adjacent to Steve White's boat building shop. (Steve White is E.B. White's grandson. E.B. wrote "Charlotte's Web.") However, that launching area is not recommended, owing to lack of both parking and "facilities." Naskeag Harbor has a portapotty and a fair amount of parking.

As confirmed died-in-the-wool west coast paddlers, we were curious (and skeptical) about Maine's reputation as a paddling Mecca. Our skepticism was both confirmed and denied: this part of Maine's coast is an incredible and -- a frustrating place to paddle.

What it ain't: It is not rugged. It is not wild. It is not "exciting." It is not particularly challenging. And, it sure as hell ain't isolated! (Note: further Down East -- towards Nova Scotia -- those attributes kick in.)

What Jericho Bay is: Drop-dead beautiful, just gorgeous water for paddling. Also, terrifically mellow for muscle-powered craft. It's easy-going. And, most important of all: a model for how to make good use of public lands for recreation.

Over a two-week span, we had temperatures running from the low 70's to the low 90's, only one day of real rain, and only two days when the wind got above ten knots! Being used to the "afternoon hurricane," we found ourselves in perpetual flinch mode, anticipating a walloping from wind. Never happened. Apparently, almost never happens ... in summer.

We loved it. We basked on rocks, ate ourselves silly in camp, out of camp, and in our boats. Rowed our friend Tom's little dory around our island. Goofily ogled lobster boats as they serviced their pots. Admired the windjammer fleet and dozens of stone-lovely wooden power boats motoring by. Stared in awe at heaps of stately mansions scattered discreetly along the shoreline, genteelly placed so one megamillionaire did not have to stare into the windows of his/her neighbor. Paddled off on a couple easy day trips to distant islands with funny names (Lazygut, Opechee, Potato, and Sheep, Sheep, Hog, Hog, Little Hog, Goat -- yes, they use the same name for different islands, only separated by a few miles!).

MITA deserves recognition for the sensible way they steward the islands in their stable. The management is rooted in realistic appreciation of what can work and avoids most of the trappings of "official" systems. MITA assesses an annual fee (most of which is tax-deductible). The fee provides a member with a guide to MITA islands. There is no added fee for use of MITA sites. In addition, MITA membership is not a requirement for use. Finally, MITA sends a guy around in a power boat (once a week or so?) to check on conditions and make sure no trace practices are followed.

I spent a good bit of time in wonder that the "settled" coast could have an outdoor recreation system saddled with fewer rules than the systems we see out here on the "wild" coast. I'm still wondering, although the history and influence of "old money" ownership in the area of coastal Maine we visited could not be duplicated in the West.

Yet, I missed the rain, the wind, the swell. If I go back, it will be for an extended on-the-water adventure, a one-way trip from somehere east of Jericho Bay to another place even further east, dodging points and currents.
---
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 8/7/2001.
Republished here with permission.

Folbots on the Columbia River

Thursday, August 23, five of us Folboters (one clothed in a hardshell) gathered at the boat ramp in Rainier, Oregon, dodging aggressive Chinook fishers and angry rain. After a long drive to set up a shuttle at the takeout at Aldrich Point, near Brownsmead, Oregon, the other four lunched in warm comfort in a local greasy spoon. I finished up tasks and stood guard over Peter's Aleut, Mike's Kodiak, John/Matt's sexy Super, and my heathen hardshell.

By the crack of one o'clock, we were on the water, streaming with the current, and soon under the Longview Bridge, Peter and the Super boys actually through one of the support structures! Favorable current and wind put us into a backwater channel on the Oregon side of our target island (Walker), and not long after we took the bottom of Walker around to the shipping channel side, shopping for the absolutely best campsite. No table appeared, so we had to settle for scenery and a nice, steep beach. An easy seven miles.

An hour or two later saw dinner in preparation as we lazed on damp forest litter, and Mike fished. By dark most of us were ready for beddie-bye, disturbed only by the racket (at 1 am) of a downbound paddlewheel steamer, and intense sodium vapor lights from Longview's mills.

Overnight a gentle mist spattered us (the only precipitation we had on this trip), making the morning packup a little slower.

The 24th was the money day, so we hit the water early, gunkholing the OR shore past a picturesque, rotting gillnet shed and several wing dams, some the nesting perches for osprey. Soon the upper end of Dead Wild Pig Island appeared, and we snared the upper end for a break. John counseled us into a slide down the WA shore of this island so we could check out the "backup" campsites. One good one was spotted, a hundred yards upstream from a pair of stranded damsels, to whom we nodded and went on. Our desired site on the Oregon side of this island was occupied, so we backtracked to the backup. A few hefty heaves from the five strong boys and two strong damsels, and their boat was afloat. Then we felt justified in making camp amongst the cottonwoods and willows where others had set up several tables of driftwood. About ten miles of river travel.

Tents up and gear stowed, the Aleut (Peter) and the Super (John/Matt) made the journey south, down Wallace Slough and up the Clatskanie River, to join the oncoming throng of nine: Rich (Folcraft/Featherbot) and Gia (Kodiak) from Corvallis OR, AnnC (Aleut) from MA, hardsheller Tina the Bentobabe from Portland OR, Andy and Jerry (G II) from Salem OR and Bakersfield CA, Brian (another hardsheller) from Seattle, and Rich and UnMi (G II) from Tacoma WA.

'Round four o'clock, the throng arrived at camp, just in time for a massive freighter wake thrash. Intensive tenting and food preparation ensued. Tina got her guacamole, I got my chips and salsa, and serious munching began. Tamales, instant chili, mexican rice, wow! this group can eat! and other delectables disappeared. More freighters and an upriver paddlewheeler livened the evening, some (Corvallis Rich in command) jabbering into the late hours.

The 25th, Dave the stern taskmaster banged on tent poles at 6:20 am, and by 9:15 we were on the water, pushing the last of a gentle morning fog away. Down the Washington shore past channel markers and vertical gardens (some, poison oak), all of us drifted, tailwind and current assisting, to aptly-named Cape Horn. Peter split off early so he could make a quick return to the Bay area. Gia and Corvallis Rich sprinted ahead, eventually sidetripping down an interior channel of Puget Island, while the main batch took a broader route (the Cathlamet Channel) in sun on flat water. Cathlamet WA the village passed by, and we all congregated some 11 miles later on the upriver shore of Tenasillahee Island, a broad expanse of dredge spoil sand salted with scotch broom, willows, and cottonwoods.

Most trudged to the distant treeline for its shelter and driftwood tables to camp, and a few took the river's edge for the scenery and its cool waters. Before dinner, most had swum in the river. Mike fished and fished, but did not catch. Heat descended on us, leavened by minute amounts of beer.

Eventually Tina produced more chicken and dumplings than we could eat, Brian divulged a salad, and Gia made curry on cous cous. Tina's nut bars filled the small gaps remaining while others stargazed. I had a lumpy night, the product of a poor choice of ground, but judging from the incredible snores, others had no problems.

Sunday the 26th we lazed and ate (I made pancakes), hoping a band of Tenasillahee fairies would haul our gear to the beach. None appeared, so it was not until 11 am that we departed. The vanguard took a longer route, eventually paralleling our island and the shipping channel for a couple miles, and cutting the next one downstream through the middle (nice, bayou-type banks), yielding a view of Quinn Island, the last one before our takeout. This larger bunch beat the wind on a hasty thrust down the Oregon side (Clifton Channel and Prairie Channel) to Aldrich Point. About seven miles, give or take one.

I joined the three who launched late for an incredible lunch on a muddy islet between Tenasillahee and Welch islands, at the downstream end of the Red Slough. Thanks to Gia, Rich (the Corvallis one), and Ann for the olives, smoked salmon, bread, chocolate, etc.! We four braved the now-howling winds outside, pushing slowly against the air, eventually gaining some lee against the Oregon side, dodging deadheads and rocks, to come up on a nearly vacant beach at Aldrich Point some two hours later.

John Haide soon had me shuttled back to my vehicle in Rainier, Oregon, and not long after four of us hit a nasty logger restaurant for sumptuous grilled oysters (somebody had a double order -- hope they all worked), coffee, and pie.

Our statistics: Thirty-five miles covered, two acres of skin sunburned, a couple cases of potables consumed, tons of fun, and a few dozen blisters acquired. Three hardshells, one folder of Canadian origin, two Aleuts, two Kodiaks, one Super, and two Greenland II's.

Ya shoulda been there!
---
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 8/27/2001.
Republished here with permission.

Stephen's Big Trip -- April, 1999

Stephen had never paddled his Merlin more than a couple miles before, but he was game and had a history of cycle touring and an even longer one as a surfer, so we invited him along. Should be an easy ten miles, what with the tide ebbing in the right direction the first seven or eight miles, followed by reversal to push us up the side channel. And, the forecast was for moderate winds, only 10 knots or so from the west, coming on in the afternoon. Normal conditions around here.

Three vehicles at the launch site, one a van with a trailer for six or eight yaks, a bunch of people out in the islands looking at birds. Well, more power to 'em. Hustle down the bank, gear in the muddy rocks, boat in the water, slide the truck next to Stephen's. Nice little yak he has. Off we go, fighting a little head current up the backwater, loons and scaups in the distance. A raccoon messes in the mud on a near bank. Power boat behind us, looking for a channel in this mud. Shallow here, so Becky and I shift right and make the turn, putting the current at our backs, and wait for Stephen. He rounds the turn and scoots past, determined to gain a few yards on us.

We lollygag along, letting the current do the work, spying on birds. No eagles yet. Two immature otters spyhop us and sink into the current, disappearing forever. Time for feeding number one: candy bar, juice, apple. Stephen seems to understand we are not going to break our butts this trip!

Splitting off from the main channel, moving north around Seal Island, and no buoy! Number 19 is gone, a casualty of winter duress. Oh, well, 21 and 17 are enough guidance, as the current builds, sucking us downhill to the flats. Another island past us, spying half a dozen seals in a distant haulout. Time for a pee and food break (number two) as Stephen discovers the false economy of a wet suit without a relief zipper! Tortillas and cream cheese, more candy bars. Getting hungry -- paddling moderately hard. Lotta sand around, with half a dozen eagles hulking back and forth, making territory. One carves out a fifty yard square and takes a huge dump in the middle. Must be eagle Metamucil!

Widgeons waddle then burst into the air, as we ride the tide -- what's this? No water? The chart says there's a channel here! Won't float us! Oh, man! Now we have to go a mile out of our way to make the next turn. Remind me not to come out here on a minus tide again. Stephen paddles along behind the double, grinning now and then. This trip is already three times longer than any he has taken before.

Pushing off the bottom and looking for signs of two inches more depth, we finally hit open water as the afternoon breeze clobbers us. Dig dig dig. Take turns paddling, so Stephen does not get too far behind. Spotting buoys in the distance. Only two more miles to Lois Island. Grunt grunt grunt. Man, this is work! Easing by sturgeon fishers in anchored cruisers, and sliding onto the beach. Creaky legs, can't get out! Stephen is a long quarter mile behind us, jawing with the fishers.

More tortillas and cheese, eat the last apple and the last candy bar, and shove off after a much needed half hour rest. Another corner turned and now the flood should boost us -- enter the John Day, dodging powerboats and hit the fancy ramp, complete with golden retrievers, trailers, and a foil wrapped candy easter egg on the windshield wiper!

Eleven miles -- not bad for Stephen, who is grinning from ear to ear, and jabbering about how much Audrey would love this! She finally got a PFD to go with that brand new boat. Yeah, maybe they will head up to Barkley Sound on their week of vacation this summer.

Hope they do. Stephen can come along any time.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2001 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Republished here with permission.

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.

Desdemona Sands -- August 2003

The Columbia River is four miles wide at its narrow point here. Upstream and downstream, it spreads out. forming silty side bays and shallow sands in its center. The only two deep, navigable channels are against the opposing shores. I've paddled all the deep stuff and most of the silty bays, but had not explored the sandy center. From a distance, the sand looks pretty boring, and it's tough to access without a lot of work. To top things off, when it blows, the shallow shoals are a maelstorm of short, vicious chop.

But, a cool, calm morning beckoned, and I exit Youngs Bay below my house on a falling tide, determined to -- at least -- set foot on Desdemona Sands, the largest midriver shoal. Desdemona has a history, being the first "inside" obstacle after sailing ships transited the Columbia River bar, before jetties and dredging channelized the river flow into reliable courses. There was even a lighthouse at its downstream tip. Horse seining for salmon was run off Desdemona; piling forests stand as silent reminders of horse barns and of bunkhouses for the seine crews.

Hitting the main shipping channel, I pick up a couple knots of ebb, angling 45 degrees upstream to counter its effect. A sailboat churns upstream, its small engine barely winning the contest, as a freighter takes the channel and convinces smaller vessels to its edges. Across the shipping channel and the strongest current, I slip along Desdemona in lesser headcurrent, working my way above the big bridge to Washington, stopping a half mile up.

Wheew! This is hard work, especially for a guy whose paddling muscles are not in the best of shape. Two hours of labor, and I stand on sand recently vacated by hundreds of seabirds, off the commercial district of Astoria, but made invisible by the mile or so separating me from the ten thousand pairs of eyes on shore. Coffee provides relief coming and going, I guess, as I pee onto the sand. Way less impact than hundreds of bird poops, I hope.

The river sands shift so much and so often that charts for the center of the river are useless. Even so, I am surprised to find a large channel running back downriver, cutting across the sands towards the WA shore. Years ago, there was dry sand here, making many square miles of it where now there are only strips. I can't resist, so I head down it, following the fading ebb, now on the other side of the old piling site.

Terns skrawk at me, gulls meep, and cormorants mildly groan. Here and there, a spit edges out and I have to gorilla walk a bit. But, the tide should be turning, so I can't get stranded, right? What's that in the distance? Pale tan lumps on the sandbar? My God, it's harbor seals ... and not just a few. Standing off some 300 yards, I try to edge by without disturbing them, but their sentinels are too alert, and they all pile off to surround me, ogling my stern for spare fish. Further down are two more haulouts, somewhat more distant, and the seals stay put.

By now, my fading arms and the remnants of the ebb have put me at Hammond, and the terminus of the Sands, some 5-6 miles from home. So, I make the turn to rejoin "my" side of the river and slowly shuffle "upstream" over slack water past buoys, one in use by a couple dozen sailboats racing in light air. Power boats buzz past, probably wondering what the lone kayaker is doing way out here two miles from any shore.

I fade fast as I reenter my bay, hitting the coffee shop at Smith Point for two rounds of espresso stimulation and half an hour of profound collapse before I reenter the water for the last mile and a half to my car.

Desdemona Sands: refuge for birds and pinnipeds ... and me.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2003 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 8/2/2003.
Republished here with permission.

The Matron Saint of Lower Columbia Sea Kayakers -- April 2003

The old Sea Kayaker magazines I recently put up for a friend were gifted to him by a woman who was the first person to sea kayak extensively around here. We call her "the mother of Lower Columbia River sea kayaking" because of it. She indirectly got me started in this stuff, so that's part of the story, too. She is our local paddling pioneer. Here's our pioneer's story:

Marcia (as she called herself in those years) was an import to the lower Columbia region. She came here to be trained as an ocean technologist -- to assist oceanographers both at sea and on shore in gathering oceanographic data, preparing and repairing gear, and helping to reduce the data to something useful. That's how I met her -- she was a student in one of my chemistry classes some 25 years ago at the local community college. [That program went defunct in 1985, as job opportunities for ocean techs increasingly went to folks with a bachelors degree.]

She was a one-of-a-kind person: wholly self-contained, yet not entirely self-confident. Imaginative and effective as a tech, but not socially comfortable in the usual modes college students favor. Sort of a loner, but not unfriendly or lonely. As comfortable fixing a transmission as she was wolfing down tofu. Engaging in one-on-one situations, but invisible in large groups (unless she'd been drinking!).

After receiving her two-year degree, she bummed around here, sort of in a holding pattern, hooking onto the odd oceanographic cruise, and in between doing odd jobs to satisfy her minimalist lifestyle. Maybe three - four years after graduation I ran into her at the laundromat and asked her what she did to entertain herself. She replied -- "Sea kayaking!" -- about which I knew nothing. I mean I'd never heard of it. Period. Which is kind of odd for a person living adjacent to the sea in a seafaring community.

Anyhow, Marcia went off and did her thing, and I lost track of her until the fall of 1986, when my then-spouse hooked us and my son into a for-hire sea kayaking trip out of Loreto in Baja California. We did not know whether we could handle this, though we had a canoe and had paddled it on flatwater some. I remembered Marcia, and somehow we located her. She was ecstatic to have someone else who wanted to paddle her craft. We met her at the local boat ramp, PFD's and egos in hand.

In turn, we each hopped in and paddled up and down the adjacent slough. Seemed OK to us, so we went to Baja over Christmas of 1986. Had a blast. Loved it. My son and I paddled an Easy Rider double together most of the time, me in the rear seat. One day a basking shark whacked our bow silly as we lagged behind the others -- scared us spitless! My son showed a remarkably good command of language I normally reserve for bad drivers.

Scroll forward to 1990. Marcia had moved to Corvallis, Oregon, worked for a couple years at Oregon State as a real ocean tech, got burned out, and migrated over to custodial work. She decided to move on to other recreational habits, and basically "gave" her entire sea kayaking kit to her former ocean tech instructor, my long-time buddy Gary: boat, two sets of paddles, tons of dry bags, VHF, etc., etc. He gulped and said "thank you," promising to give the stuff back if Marcia ever decided she needed it.

That boat spurred Gary into sampling the Columbia. A few weeks after his inaugural outing, he told me about it, and within a couple months, I hooked up with a used boat and we were off. That was 1991.

Marcia covered the entire lower Columbia in her boat, a good bit of the San Juans, some of the Gulf Islands, several paddlespots on the west coast of Vancouver Island, and visited Desolation Sound. All of it solo, and all of it accompanied by her small cocker mix, Lacy. Lacy rode on a rubber carpet pad behind the cockpit, but when the water got rough or Lacy got scared or cold, Marcia slid the dog into the cockpit, and Lacy peered out over the top of the sprayskirt!

Only a monster cockpit could handle that, and Marcia's boat had it. It was one of the original designs Eddyline produced: the Orca. A terrific boat in calm conditions, but a mother in a following sea. It had a microcephalic bow and a bulbous stern, making it one stone broach machine! I watched Gary "surf" a following sea one day, pleading with the sea gods for mercy, now and then slapping a low brace out to prevent catastrophe, as I ho-hummed away next to him in my Wind Dancer.

And Marcia took that boat all those places.

Here's the end of the story: Summer of 1993 Marcia came back for a short visit. We arranged for her to paddle her old boat, with now-ancient Lacy on deck, to one of her favorite local campspots on Long Island in Willapa Bay, WA. The rest of us (some four-five strong) followed behind in deference to her return, speeding up at the last and whipping out a bottle of chardonnay, a glass, and a trio of roses as she and the dog slid ashore. Marcia was speechless. Lacy ambled off to pee.

Marcia never returned. She moved on to backpacking, hauling Lacy. But, we all remember her for what she started down here.

Whoever got Marcia's magazines -- be sure to pass on the story as you share them around.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2003 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Republished here with permission.

Loss of a Paddling Partner -- April 2003

Here is a vignette ... a case history, perhaps. Another paddler's story of loss of a paddling partner got me to thinking about my buddy Joel (not his real name) and how I came to lose him as a paddling partner a few years back.

It came about because Joel had a phobia: paddling beam-on to moderate seas (anything over 2 feet if close-coupled). Head-on he was OK. Stern-on he was OK. Beam-on, he was jelly.

DISCOVERY PHASE: I had paddled with Joel a couple times before I realized he had a phobia. Joel is a great kayak camping partner: does exquisite camp cookery; is a terrific story-teller; is willing and eager to do his share of the grunt work; is fastidious and imaginative at planning and preparation. And, he lives in a town on the way to one of my favorite paddling spots, so it was easy to slide him and his gear into/onto the pickup enroute. Oh, yeah, he also is semi-retired, so he has lots of free time. He likes to eat, though, perhaps too much, so he is quite a bit overweight, but has great upper-body strength -- so I had no reservations about his ability to re-enter his kayak, especially since he described to me self-rescue practices he and another paddler in his town, Tom, had done.

Anyway, he and I were part of a six-person group on our second day of week-long trip. We crossed an exposed channel in 15 knot side winds, but it was not very sloppy at all. I had my sprayskirt on, but felt no need to prepare to brace; my 50-year-old ex-wife, an infrequent paddler not gifted with extraordinary upper-body strength (but mentally very tough) was having no trouble with it. Everybody else was having a good time.

As we completed the crossing and rested out of the wind in some very mild rebound next to a rocky cliff, Joel breathlessly asked me if he could raft up. I said OK, and within 30 seconds, he had a beargrip on my upper body, and was shivering and shaking. I asked him what was wrong and he confessed he was scared out of his wits. Of what? Capsizing. I scoffed and noted that we would be in calmer waters the rest of the day.

Later on, in talking to him, I found out that he stiffened up whenever he got frightened of rough conditions, losing that suppleness at the waist and hips which allowed his very seaworthy boat (Current Designs GTHV Solstice) to ride parallel to seas safely.

On a couple of other crossings on this same trip, he outstripped the rest of the group, and it was clear it was fear that drove him. Once across, he drooped and waited behind a safe point.

ATTEMPTED CURE: I'm a long-time chemistry teacher, and proud of my ability to defuse chemophobia in introductory learners, so I figured ... no problem getting Joel over this. So, on a couple trips the next season I worked with him, with his concurrence. First we did everything the Joel way: adjusted our crossing angle so we avoided beam-on conditions; avoided afternoon paddling when the seas were worse; stayed very close to each other (less than a boat length) so he could feel confident of having another boat at hand if he did go in; and we practiced assisted rescue (primarily the modified T-rescue) in easy water ... which he had done many times before.

Then, we "removed" his training wheels, a little at a time, and we purposely sought out easy, short crossings in mild beam seas, where he and I concentrated on allowing our hips to swivel with the waves, so he could feel how well his boat would help him handle it. Finally, he was ready for the big test (so I thought): a five day trip down the Columbia River, over a stretch that has progressively longer, more exposed crossings, culminating with a 3 1/2 mile shot to our home port, more or less beam-on to a 15-mile fetch near the mouth. We practiced beam-on stuff the four days before the big bad crossing, and we talked, in camp, about what he needed to do All seemed well.

It wasn't. On leaving the last beach, as we entered the last fetch, with maybe 10-12 knots of side wind, and beam seas of maybe 2 feet, Joel collapsed. He moaned, he cursed, he wept, he despaired. No, I would not stay right next to him -- I told him I did not want to get drowned in a bear hug from a panicked kayaker. I told him we had radios and could sit in the water forever in our immersion gear. I told him to use his well-practiced relaxed-hip style. He could not do it. He locked up, gritted his teeth, and refused to go. Well, we did not have that choice. There were no shorter, less-exposed routes to shore. So, we did the three and a half miles, me a few boat lengths ahead, and him mewling in the rear, until we got near the end, when he pretty much quit, and then slowly, on his last dregs of effort, paddled up a backwater to the takeout.

THE END: That night, Joel treated me and my SO to a very fine meal at an over-the-water restaurant in town and announced that he was giving up paddling. I was stunned, and allowed that he should wait a few months and decide later. He agreed to that, and we parted. The next spring, we agreed to meet with Tom, one of our companions on the first trip I have described, at a lake in their city (some 200 miles distant from mine), to practice some rescues on rough water, thinking this would be the confidence-builder Joel needed. It was a great day for that: 25-30 knots across a mile and a half fetch made for short, choppy, energetic seas (onto a safe lee shore), just the thing we knew Joel needed to overcome. Tom and I did an assisted T-rescue (damn hard in a wind, I'll tell you). Then it was Joel's turn to be the rescuer Well, he gave it a shot, but he could not get his boat turned into the wind to reach the swamped paddler. So, we hit the beach to regroup. We could see in Joel's eyes that he was close to his limit. So we went out again, and tried again. He did it! Tom and I were elated. Then it was Joel's turn to be rescued. And, after some struggle, he did it!

We figured Joel was cured. But, his downcast expression and affect said otherwise.

Two months later, he phoned me to say he had sold all his gear and had given up paddling.

LESSON LEARNED: Beam seas had such a strong hold on Joel, none of the techniques we tried had a chance. Exposing him to those conditions only made his phobia worse. He had paddled in coastal conditions for five years, sometimes in surge channels and on rough crossings, but he somewhere in there lost it. The more he tried it, the worse it got. He could not break it. I wish he could. He was a good paddling buddy.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2003 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Republished here with permission.

Around West Sand Island --October 2003

Long-time paddling buddy Jan and I made a circuit of West Sand Island on a Monday -- the only decent day in a week, as fall turns to washing machine on the coast of Oregon.

This 3-mile-long, doglegged, low chunk of Oregon is jammed against the WA shore and several miles from any other landmass we call "Oregon." A relic of days of yore when the main river channel hugged the WA shore, Sand Island (E. Sand is lesser, and often ignored in the nomenclature) used to be in the center of the river, but jetty effects caused it to slowly migrate a mile or two northward, remaining "Oregon" nonetheless.

It was used for horse seining for salmon until the late '40's, with the occasional fishwheel to complement the seines, and wayward piles note those sites. A cable ferry made transits to shore easier across shallow Baker Bay, to Stringtown or Ilwaco, WA.

Our paddle began at scenic Fort Canby, one of three mouth-of-the-Columbia fortifications, all now in the hands of their respective states. Fort Canby is now a huge state park, and noted for terrific views of the Columbia River Bar and superb car-camping. The boat ramp serves hordes of salmon-seekers in the season, but was sleepy at our launch. A few hundred yards away is the USCG's Motor Life Boat School and Rescue Station, training crews for service at other locations, and serving the lower Columbia and outside, as well. You've got to see one of their high-tech 47-footers in the surf to believe what they do.

We wended our way down the sinuous Ilwaco Channel, headed to the river, and rounded the lower end of Sand Island, as the flood began, avoiding the 3-4 knot ebb currents here, which would have quickly made us an object of rescue! Four-foot swells bounced onto the beach, but we stayed offshore and danced past a gillnetter seeking fall fish. Quickly, with flood at our backs, we rounded the upper end, and entered Baker bay, pausing for a look at the Cape D light, a bevy of calling loons, and a sole red phalarope, doing his whirling gig off our bows.

A mile or so up-island, a lone duck hunter thanked us for herding mallards along the shore, and we arranged for a payback later on. Soon we hit the cable ferry site, winch and engine still above water, and then headed straight north for the WA shore, near Ilwaco.

Ilwaco used to be one of the most active sport salmon basins in the world, but diminishing runs have reduced it in stature. Even so, it hosts many hundred sports boats in the season, and commercial draggers and trollers by the dozens year-round. An eccentric had his brand-new flat-bottomed aluminum scow, equipped with his Class C motor home on the deck. Did he just drive that thing off the ramp and then keep going? Yep, he did. Beautiful craftsmanchip, but a misery whip in big seas.

A short ramble down the Ilwaco channel soon put us back at "go" with fond memories of Sand. Hello winter!
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2003 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Republished here with permission.

Paddling Youngs Bay

There is a large bay down the hill from my house with a meager pair of channels fishboats use now and then to get to a boat yard and a couple minor ramps and mooring spots. Three drawbridges gird it, one a major barrier to highway commerce when it goes up, and the other two just small inconveniences for a byway to the main road.

In the grand scheme of things it is not much of a bay: shallow for the most part, surrounded with diked swampland on two sides and buttressed with riprap on my side for the benefit of a main arterial. Abandoned pilings show where a railway paralleled the shore and locate an old cannery or two. It's all sand and mud and has no "attractions" except it once was a part of the marine scene here: many gill net boats were built in yards now defunct; nice runs of silvers and chinooks have been netted off it; gillnetters raced in August during the Regatta; and, before the causeway went in, kids skinny-dipped at Bare Butt Beach.

The causeway has silted it in and morphed the bay. It is mostly a discarded commercial waterway. And it has been mostly neglected by me, also, these ten years of paddling, except for the obligatory christening of a new stitch and glue boat or a test run for other necessaries.

But, I have been hitting it at high water half a dozen times this summer, and I'm beginning to understand it better. It has moods. It has color. It has flavor. It is never the same twice.

Some days it shines and preens and I slide smoothly under the drawbridges, relaxed and lost in thought. The water is kind and soothing. I am in a reverie and the bay is just a vehicle for private thoughts.

Other days it bucks and snorts, running a sharp sea off the main river, demanding the occasional slap brace and good for a few yards of surfing when I work at it. Those days the itty bitty tide rips show their dander and strut under my keel. I ride over and through, but hear the bay playing little slaptunes against me, as if to say, "Wait a while and we'll get you down here!"

The local coffee shop is at one end, where defunct shipways strike shore on a plot a carpenter owns. He has plans for it: a motel maybe; condos to buy; a paddle place. But now there is a car rental in an old home, a stockbroker next door, a rough ramp, and the latte crowd.

I break my runs with a double espresso, slopping my wetness inside, exchanging damp bills for stimulation. The throng is puzzled by it: "Where did you come from?" "Why are you wet?" "Where's your boat?" (The reeds hide it.) They never quite say it, but it is plain they think I'm a little goofy.

The bay is a different element. It makes me into a different person. And within sight of thousands of others, who may look, but do not feel its thrust and slide, its ooze and chop.

It looks kinda boring.

It's not.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2003 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 7/24/2004.
Republished here with permission.

A Lazy Bluebird Day on the Astoria Waterfront May, 2004

It was thundershowers and squalls for Sunday, and it seemed a day for laziness and lollygagging. So we did that, moseying across the Columbia to Willapa Bay and spying all that mud and exposed sand, hitting Aunt Carla's greenhouse for a couple small plants, and then back across the big bridge.

But, where are the clouds? Where's the wind? Holy freaking batnoids, Robin, it's a bluebird day!

So I hie myself down to the East End Mooring Basin, a rough and ready haulout for commercial boats and a few hardy sailboats whose owners do not mind a little float banging when it blows, off for a full-on waterfront crawl along the shore of the Columbia and back around the big point near the Port to my home bay and its small ramp. One pm seems like a good launch time, especially because this picks the very tail of the ebb on the downstream leg and then employs the early flood to push me home. Old, lazy guys are full of treachery.

Failed sturgeon catchers are coming home, up the ramp, as I slide in and exit past the downstream wing dam, six-eight knots of wind in my face, against a knot or so of tail current. Makes for a nice little rolic in the kayak's gait. Many sturgeon party boats dot the water, but their inhabitants all seem glum, and I see no bending poles. I think I'm having more fun, but I won't gloat ... much. Grazing the docks and piers of my town, spying on the Bar Pilot station, two over-water restaurants, a couple fish processing plants, a research buoy string, the big pillars supporting the Astoria Bridge, and hoping for a couple helpful eddies.

A 25-foot sailboat is leapfrogging me on tacks, dicing back and forth across the ship channel, making way more hull speed than I am, but about the same net gain, and we meet at the opening to the West End Mooring Basin, much tonier than the East End, with its hundred or so party boats, sail and power -- no commercial boats here to taint the water! Hah! The sailboat says Sea Scouts on the side, and old buddy Toby is at the helm, with another adult aboard, and ... one ... lonely sea cub as crew. We dog each other down the slips, me looking for the Elizabeth Rose, them looking for home. The Elizabeth Rose, a 35-foot converted troller, is gone, upriver on a gentle cruise for two same-age guys, enjoying a serene breakfast on the water, and a sedate return. But they aren't here, so I dodge back out the opening, in time for some bargewake clapotis (the big thrill of the day) off the sheet piling which defines the marina entrance.

Next stop, the Seven Seas Mariner, a French-flagged mid-size cruise ship, decked with balconies and sleekly white, set off against scruffy dockage at the Port. I stay a hundred yards off, slowly sliding by, distracted momentarily by one of the USCG's big choppers, which does a low flyby over all the party boats in the river. They hit channel 13 briefly, and generate an unintelligible response, so I ogle the side of the cruise ship some more, and head towards the stern.

Oh, somebody in a small runabout cruiser is at my eight o'clock, matching my pace, between me and the cruise ship. I speed up a little, and so does it; I slow down, and it does, also. It's just aft of the angle I can turn my head for a better look, so I dawdle on along, until I hear, "Hey! Dave! Is that you?" Now I swivel the boat for a better look, and By Gawd, it's long-time local Tim, decked out in his Coast Guard uniform, along with another Coastie of higher rank, and Willie the County Boat Cop at the wheel, all. pacing me!

What do those guys want? Tim and I jaw for a while, and he tells me I'm not a terrorist, but that they've been watching me ... and so was the chopper. I say, "Oh, that must have been you guys talking to the helo." Yup, it was, and I'm no longer an object of interest, so we tell a couple more stories, and Willie turns the boat back upstream.

I guess I'm flattered. An old, grey-bearded, slow sea kayaker, muddling along the docks, but now I'm a "possible terrorist!" No, they were joking, but I wonder what someone Tim did not recognize might have encountered. A stop, and a check for ID? Let's see your flares, and your whistle? What's that thing in the bag on your deck? And how about that subversive yellow duck on the bow?

Naw. That wouldn't happen. They'd probably just make sure I kept on going. But, now I got a good story about the day they called out the County Marine Patrol on me. Willie and I will laugh about it this winter when I see him checking duck hunters upriver, rain dripping off our noses. And Tim will tell the two Russian kids he adopted about the old grizzled guy on the water. And when he and I meet in the coffee shop, we'll chuckle about it ... and maybe exchange a couple secret handshakes ... just because we know them and can do it.

And that's what an unexpected bluebird day can bring, in the era of Homeland Security. Glad I lived this long.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2004 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Republished here with permission.

Heavy Headwinds

New Year's Day of 1995: the day of heavy headwinds. This trip is burned into my memory, and an experience which surfaces regularly in bull sessions about paddling. Those who have camped on Long Island in Willapa Bay (SW Washington) in winter will appreciate it.

My long-time paddling partner and I set out from the Refuge launch ramp on a brilliantly sunny morning into a brisk east wind, which turned into a 20 knot tailwind as we rounded the southern shore of the island, heading west towards High Point. We were surprised at the intensity of the wind, as there had been only a 10 - 15 knot downriver breeze in Astoria, and we have always thought of the eastern side of Willapa Bay as relatively protected from the drainage winds common to the Columbia River in clear winter weather. It was more of a following sea than we had ever been in, and Gary had to brace quickly several times to avoid capsizing, with his Orca (broad, fat stern and microcephalic bow), though I was not having much difficulty in my Wind Dancer, with its higher volume bow. Gary was even surfing involuntarily, at times.

After rounding the point into the lee of the island, we serenely sailed up-island to our favorite campsite. A gargantuan stir fry and a couple bottles of wine put a couple of old guys into a pretty mellow mood, with an intense fire made possible with Gary's splitting maul to deter the chill ... Hmmm, the wind WAS picking up ... Oh, well, it can't blow all night AND all of tomorrow.

WRONG! After rattling our cage and the alder/spruce forest around our ears all night, the east wind was even more intense the next morning. Even from our vantage point some 2 1/2 to 3 miles away we could see constant spuming and spindrift ripping around the southern end of the island at High Point, obscuring everything across the Bay. In the lee, life was pretty nice, but the freight train wind in the distance had an emotional impact like a pack of pit bulls on the sidewalk outside your door.

We set off, slowly working south in the lee, making our way to High Point, where we slid ashore and hid in sun-filled rocky crevices to watch the wind's fury. After a couple hours, it abated some, with no more continuous spindrift, so we sprinted around the corner into its maw -- WHAM! We both paddle unfeathered, so it had a full purchase on us and we were barely able to make any headway around the point. After fifteen minutes of near maximum effort, we pushed forward around the Point into some lee and began working our way along the southern shore. (Some may wonder at our judgment. Well, we were adjacent to a hospitable shoreline where we could land any time. The wind would have pushed us onto shore in the event of a capsize, we were equipped for cold water, and could have stayed on shore for another day if we had to. We felt strong.)

We stroked and stroked, sometimes gaining a little ground, sometimes blown backward despite pulling with our maximum effort. Gary had a tougher time of it. For some reason, my yak fares better in strong head wind situations, so soon I was a couple hundred yards ahead of him. He stopped on shore and rested once. I paddled continuously, breathing hard even, which paddling never demands of me. It is one nautical mile along the south shore of Long Island, a stretch which is a pleasant fifteen minute paddle under "normal" conditions. This day it took me two and one half hours of hard effort to travel it.

When I hit the lee, I was exhausted, spent, beat. I went ashore at the nearest place to watch and wait for Gary, who arrived fifteen minutes later. It was sunny, nearly windless, and brilliant, with dramatic sidelight illuminating the cedars and spruces on the Island. Sunday drivers were passing by, nodding and waving pleasantly at my slumping figure on the shoreline. All I could think about was how tired I was as the adrenaline faded away.

Later, from the sea conditions, we estimated that the wind had been a 30 to 35 knot gale, with gusting to 40 knots which drove us backwards. We also realized that these conditions are common in winter down here in clear weather, with the NOAA weather broadcasts warning of easterly "drainage winds" through "gaps" in the Coast Range. We haven't been back to sample those winds again, but I'm glad we had the experience. It humbled me. It made me respect the wind. I learned that even familiar, "easy" water can be a demon under the right conditions.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2004by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Republished here with permission.

Paddling to Hammond

It looked like the tide would bottom out and turn around in time to push me home for dinner, so I decided to paddle to Hammond. Hammond is a little burg at the mouth of the Columbia River, pretty much the last stop before the bar. I'm upriver ten miles, on a bay to the side of the main estuary, and with a blazing day and a free afternoon, seemed like a good choice.

But first, to finesse the launch, I had to hustle hustle hustle lest there be no water between me and the hip-deep mud. Hustling worked, but a small gillnet boat was ahead of me, the same guy I did a close-in paddle-by the other night, also just before a short gillnet opener on the Bay. I could have stolen his bag of groceries, but he was eying them from a small crouching space, protecting them from me. I settled for a Howdy. Today, he asked me if I were returning to the same haunt, a placid tributary of the Columbia. Nope, doing a shuffle down to the mouth. Oh, be careful out there ... the river gets rough. OK, I will. Like most small boaters, he has no clue how stable a sea kayak is -- certainly more seaworthy than his small open boat, engine or no.

Sliding over the last two inches of water, the Bay opened out, dotted with a couple dozen gill net boats. Gotta get back before six, or I'll be dodging monofilament big time. Hitting the near shore, there is a sixteen-year-old, scrounging in the shoreline rocks. Whatcha looking for? Oh, everything ... nothing to do in fish class today, so I came down here. Find much? No. Yeah, all the good stuff is in the mud, benthic guys for salmon smolts.

More paddling, down the Bay to the coffee shop, to forage for a Jet Tea -- I need hydration, it's hot! Nope, none today, the plumbers have it all torn up, water is two inches deep, and the owner is frowning at all her wet stock. Back to the boat. This may be the only paddle-in latte shop on the Columbia, and today was the day I really neded a hit of caffeine!

Back to the Bay and out past the causeway, in the distance watching the tide rip spin off an adjacent point, my indicator on River state. Smooth and swirly, and ebbing like a bat, but no major chop, so I hit it, crabbing up-current about 45 degrees, heading for the Forerunner, a forty-foot converted troller the local two-year school uses to train marine science students, which is anchored on the other side of the shipping channel. The crew is retrieving something, and spies me about 200 yards out, their faces wrinkling, and exchanging bemused looks. Crabbing even higher, I hit their "wake" in the current, and sprint up to the transom, breathing heavily. Whatcha doing? Testing CTD's and other goodies for analysis of the estuary. Nobody looks familiar (I retired from the two-year school four years ago), so I ask what they're showing for a current. Four and a half knots??!! No wonder I could barely get to them!

I peel off into the faster current adjacent to their hull, and head downriver, adding my hull speed to the current's velocity, making 6 or 8 knots toward Hammond, dodging a fishboat or two crossing my path, and hitting two more rips, pausing on a sandy strip just upriver from the local chipping operation, which produces humongous piles of wood chips for the pulp mill upriver. I am dwarfed as I drift by the chip barge, using residual ebb to cover the last two miles to the Hammond Basin, the site of Willy the Orca's choreographed leap over the breakwater.

Making the turn into the basin, only one of the Bar Pilot vessels is in, so I sidle up and pound on the hull. A young face pops over the rail. What do you want? Sam or Phil working today? Naw, Phil quit to sail around the world and Sam is in Eugene (smirking) ... getting laid! Gunnar is a new deck hand, and is excited by sea kayaks. He and his girl friend plan to take a lesson from Ginni upriver. I tell Gunnar women are better than men at this, and he allows that's OK with him.

Back out of the basin, upriver and onto the sand, donning clothing, current still ebbing some, so I work eddies along the riprap, dodging outfall pipes and wing dams. More than I want to know about the effluent from fish processors, but it's all biodegradable fish guts, I guess. Better than a sewer outfall, for sure!

Scratching against the current, I round the chip plant's sheet piling, formed into linked arcs, with the fat part of the arc out ... to break up the back-splash? And hit another sand bar, this one after another fish boat crosses me, throwing up a wake in shallow water that has me grinning. Popping fast carbs into my maw, hoping the current will turn, and spying the Bay in the distance, with little wave action. Eagle on a piling, shore birds all over, terns plunging into the shallows, and a cormorant comes up with a brand new smolt, flipping it into his craw.

Where is that tail wind I was heading into going the other way? I'm tired!

Another mile and I ease into my home Bay, grocking at now forty gill net boats, but it's OK, I have half an hour before the nets go in, so I'll make it. Work across the flats, choppy as hell on the shoals, surfing a little. No! These guys are cheating! I'm half way up the Bay, and first one tosses in the net float and spins his reel, and then they all do it! Now I have a gauntlet of two dozen nets to end run, which I do, muttering about fish cops, where are they when you need one?

Another fifteen minutes and I spy Becky at the dock, and ease up to the ramp, whupped and womped, the possessor of too many adventures, but feeling like I belong with the River today. Lotta miles, lotta stuff. Earned my dinner, for sure. Tired shoulders and stomach muscles, a sure sign I hit my max.

Maybe Ilwaco, day after tomorrow?
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2004 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Republished here with permission.

Existential Camping

Three days to cover ten miles? Well, it might be expected when the wind is in your face and two of the boats are doubles paddled singly, with a kid up front. Great company, but difficult to make miles. And, on top of it all, here came the rains, after a week of sunny, fine weather.

The east side of Nootka Island (Vancouver Island, BC) is a narrow waterway easy to thread, but bereft of good places to camp. However, Kirby's map promised one on Nootka, just north of Bodega Island, a few miles from Plumper Harbour. Alas, it was not to be. The site was nonexistent, or only usable during neap tide phases, and we had maximum tides, with a big one at 2 am. So, we moved our cumbersome entourage down-bay, along the west side of Bodega, shifting and searching, eyes and ears on the oncoming front.

Rich and Bill spotted a slight, flat bulge in a cove on Bodega that might be above the tide, studded with two-inch alders on two-foot centers. Nobody liked it, so they sent me around the corner to see if Plumper was a possibility. Fifteen knots of headwind and increasing drizzle nixed that, so we were stuck.

An hour of brush thrashing and rude sawing on the alders formed enough area for three tents, and as the rains intensified we got them up, and erected a double tarp over the fronts. Now the rain was gushing, and Rich and the kids took baths on tarp dumps, all laughing. The adults grinned determinedly. Dinner was impromptu, emptying our larders of everything -- our ride out was due the next morning. As the rain increased and the wind reached gale force, whipping us, the tarp, and slicing rain onto us, we dined magnificently. Eleen was stunned I had a few scraps of dry paper towel to assist cleanup, and we cackled like demented crones at our "fortune."

Asleep.

And, then, awake at 2 am, to the sounds of adult groans and kidweeping next door, the outcomes of a horrible inside-the-tent bathroom accident (no, not number 1 -- number 2) at the highest tide stage. We were squeezed onto small, isolated islets barely three inches above the water, hoping it did not lap onto us. Our only resort would be scrambling up the bank behind us and grabbing trees. The boats banged and drifted, afloat and tied off to a big stump.

An hour later, the tide began to recede, and all of us crashed again, to awake at first light, for cleanup of the number 2 accident, and a gargantuan breakfast. Two hours later, our shuttle arrived, and we shifted the gear to the boat, boats folded or strapped on, the rain still pounding down. We were wet, wet, wet.

On the way back to Zeballos, Bill and I got the stern, cleaning ourselves with the lash of wet, and howling at the gonzo experience we had just had. Memorable and horrible. Is this existential camping?
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 2004 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Republished here with permission.