There was no particular rush this morning. High slack was around 10:30. From reading Jon Dawkins' excellent blog I should have known that the time to transit the Gale Passage rapids was 2 hours before slack,new info indicates maybe 1 hour after slack, but somehow I had missed this bit of wisdom in my research. We awoke at 7:00 to a forest alive with activity: things dropping out of the trees sounding very like footfalls, twittering birds, ravens, gulls, and who knows what all else — bonobos? — it was comical how much chattering and clattering there was.
We filled up our water jugs and did a bit of light laundry in the repugnant tidal estuary before setting out around 9:30.
The mouth of the northern Gale Passage rapids
A very quick jaunt brought us to the rapids, where we circled and floated and tested the waters nervously.
Contemplating the next move
Jonathon, a veteran of many canoe trips, plotted a line through the first set of rapids avoiding an obvious rock and sweeper — we ran to the west side through the V of the current and it was clear sailing. Quickly scoping the second set of rapids, we avoided the overfall to the east and again took a western line through the V, which brought us to a wide, dead-flat lagoon. From here we had two options: to the east was a shallow and maybe impassable channel, or we could hit the south rapids. We decided to head east and check out the less rapid option.
Paddling with the man in the mirror
The lagoon got shallower and shallower til at last we were at the turning point. Two more little rapids were filling up this lagoon, and we'd be paddling against the current here. There was hardly enough water to get your paddle blade in. We considered a wade-and-drag, but instead opted to try to bash our way through on an upstream run. There were a couple of dicey moments where I thought I was going to get sent backwards and/or sideways, which would have meant an uncomfortable dunk and maybe a bruise or two, but panic and power prevailed and like spawning salmon we flopped our way upstream. Once through, the rest of the passage was eerily calm and beautiful. We could hear the second set of rapids, but didn't see them.
Out into Thompson Bay, we decided to check out the campsite at Cree Point and have a bite to eat. After a short paddle, we rounded the corner into a very protected little bay. Like at Dallas Island, the site was marked with a float. Behind a driftwood windbreak, there was one little-used tent site in a bed of soft moss, surrounded by salal.
We paddled down the shoreline of Potts Island to the Islet 48 site, which we'd heard spoken highly of. It had tons of "featurettes" including tropical sand,
a fire pit,
a driftwood kitchen,
a pit toilet made of an old float,
and even a shower! Too bad it didn't have water in it, or we'd have taken advantage.
A sign said "Respect Heiltsuk territory", and another said "SIMON". The fire pit was stocked with kindling and ready to go. In the woods, a perfect tent site beckoned.
But it was only midday and we had miles to go, so we set out for McMullin instead. Swell was low and wind was light. An idyllic hour-long paddle brought us to the big sand beach on the west side of the big island.
The sand was the softest and finest I've ever seen — almost powdery! Our feet sank into it while unloading our boats. Mink tracks were the only sign of wildlife here.
A fine tent site is in the forest just up from the beach.
McMullin reminded us very much of the Polkinghornes, but with better views and a way better beach. It seemed a very fine place to stay two nights. We realized we hadn't seen a single boat all day — we were really out in it now. The sun came out and stayed intermittently through the afternoon. We had stunning views in three directions, marred by a little smoke haze. There were a couple of old wild apple trees bearing tiny wild apples at the beach verge, no doubt a remnant of someone's castoff lunch many years ago. After a lazy afternoon being entertained by a pair of hilarious ravens and the shoreline antics of some least sandpipers, we set off looking for a trail to the west side of the island. We ended up following a trail — but it was one made by minks for minks, and as such, not recommended for human use. It was a hard bushwhack to the west coast, where our efforts were rewarded with amazing scenery and the low swell crashing on the reefs, as well as our first sighting of an otter.
The high thin clouds were making eerie patterns across the sun. We both knew these clouds "meant" something when it came to weather prediction, but we couldn't remember what.
Sailor's delight?
A float marked the trail we had been looking for earlier, which was wide, clear, well-used... and which took us directly back to our campsite. For the record, if you're at the big beach at McMullin, the trail starts near the south end of the tent sites.
We didn't set an alarm for the morning.
September 6 dawned with heavy fog. I slept 11 hours, though the sleep was not an easy one. The ground felt hard underneath me and my dreams were full of gnawing things. As I staggered out to put a pot of coffee on, last night's raven feigned surprise and squawked over to a nearby islet. You could totally tell he was faking, though. There was no surprise or urgency in his voice. He then settled in making various quiet noises to himself. It really seemed to me that the sounds were not directed at another listener, that he was "talking to himself," as humans will do, albeit usually as an internal monologue.
We lit a fire and spent a quiet, meditative morning reading and watching the ravens. Their physical gestures change with the sounds they make; I can't tell whether the gestures are part of the communication, or part of how the raven has to arrange its body to make the particular sound. We ruminated for a while on krummholz — both in reality, because we'd seen so much of it out here, and as a metaphor for how the pressures of any environment shape your personality.
At one point the weather cleared enough to see Mount Buxton on Calvert Island in the distance. It didn't look too far. I tramped to the west side of the island with a baggie and collected as many salal and huckleberries as I could gather; I've never seen them grow so thick and plentifully.
We took a pre-dinner paddle through thick kelp beds to view the crossing to Goose and confirm the bearings we'd taken. There were otters galore out here — mothers carrying their babies, and teenagers playing rough with each other. They're devilishly hard to get a good photo of. Out in the sound we had brilliant views up and down the length of the coast from Swindle Island to Calvert. Inland views, too, with one really prominent peak in the distance — Tsil'os? The night had warmed up considerably. The water was beautiful: little swell and no wind.
I really needed this day: nowhere to go and nothing to do, and no objective — including not having "nothing" as an objective. My mind, still filled with the chatter of work and the city, quieted right down. Second day seeing no other human life: no boats, no planes. Sundown treated us to a show of brilliant phosphorescence at the water's edge, a coruscating display.
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