alexsidles
Paddler
[Cross-posted on alexsidles.com]
The night before my trip, I switched my intended destination from Desolation Sound, on the sheltered waters off the Strait of Georgia, to Clayoquot Sound, on the decidedly unsheltered waters off Vancouver Island. Weather forecasts were predicting that a steady high-pressure system would linger offshore, which, if true, would open a rare opportunity for wintertime coastal kayaking.
00 Route map. I made the drive from Seattle to Tofino in eight and a half hours, a new personal speed record.
Arriving at Tofino late in the afternoon, I just had time to paddle to Rassier Point before the sun set. The next morning, I took a gamble on Cow Bay on Flores Island. Cow Bay is exposed to ocean swells, so it can be an intimidating place to land. Sure enough, surf on the main beach was large enough to scare me off, but I weaved among the reefs until I found a sheltered landing site on a small sand-and-gravel beach at the west end of the bay. Looking back across Cow Bay after my landing, I was surprised I had been to find a safe line through the breakers that were bursting all over the bay.
A homebuilt cabin was tucked away in the woods. The owner, Rick, put on waders to cross Cow Creek for a chat. Rick and his partner had been living in the cabin for forty-seven years. Today, they were preparing for a motorboat run into Tofino, their first visit to town since November—a three-month, winter-long sojourn without resupply. Rick knew this was an impressive feat. He was proud enough that he found a way to mention it at least twice in the course of our conversation.
Clayoquot Sound is often described by its boosters in grandiloquent terms: a perfect wilderness, possessing a romantic, almost magical purity of natural essence. You might expect such a pristine place to be all but deserted during the stormy month of February, but I encountered people everywhere I went. Beachcombers like Rick had set up their cabins on most of the best beaches. A steady fleet of boats traced back and forth among the numerous settlements that pockmark the sound. I met day-tripping visitors at most of my campsites and seldom went more than fifteen or twenty minutes without seeing or hearing the passage of a powerboat. This pristine wilderness was more crowded than some parts of the San Juan Islands!
01 Landing beach at Rassier Point. Heavy rain fell on the first day, but after that came a week of nearly unbroken sunshine.
02 Kayaking Maurus Channel. Tides were strong around Tofino but moderate to light everywhere else, even as the new moon approached.
03 Looking north up Clayoquot Sound from Russell Channel. It had been such a mild winter that most of the peaks on Vancouver Island were already free of snow.
04 Clouds over Flores Island. Navigation was a breeze, thanks to the many prominent landmarks throughout the sound.
05 Westernmost beach of Cow Bay. One of the benefits of winter camping is that the highest high tides occur during daylight hours, so it is safe to camp on the beaches even during a spring tide.
06 Sunrise at Cow Bay. There were about nine and a half hours of daylight each day, plenty of time to maneuver throughout the relatively small space that is Clayoquot Sound.
07 Mountains and spray off Flores Island. Clayoquot Sound presents particularly rich variations on the standard Pacific Northwest vista of trees, rocks, and water.
08 Alex at Whitesand Cove. Toward the end of the trip, as the last high-pressure ridge collapsed, stratus clouds moved back in to resume their rightful reign over the coast.
Altogether, I saw forty-seven species of birds, a lackluster tally considering the length of the trip. There were plenty of seabirds, including most of the common species: the Big Four alcids, surf and white-winged scoters, four species of grebes, all three Bucephela, all three cormorants, common and Pacific loons, common and red-breasted mergansers. The most exciting seabird species was the long-tailed duck, which overwinters in large saltwater bays up and down the coast.
The gulls let me down. The only species present were glaucous-winged, Thayer’s, and mew gulls, not any of the other wintertime species. The biggest shortfall, however, came from the land birds. The forests were almost devoid of birds, even in places like Hot Springs Cove and Whitesand Cove where boardwalk trails allowed me to penetrate deep into the woods. I think it was just too cold, dark, and wet for the land birds. Springtime will be a different story.
More surprising than the dearth of birds was the dearth of marine mammals. The only mammals I saw this trip were sea otters, California sea lions, and a single harbor seal. The near-total absence of harbor seals was a real shock. I can’t recall ever spending so much time on saltwater to see so few seals. I’m at a loss to explain why this species was so scarce in Clayoquot Sound. It should have been abundant.
There were wolf tracks on all the large beaches. Several times on Vargas and Flores islands, I heard wolves howling in the mornings. I was expecting a wolf sighting at some point during the trip, or at least a nocturnal visit to investigate my camp, but the wolves stayed away.
On my previous wintertime visit to Clayoquot Sound, in December 2015, I saw fifty-six bird species and six mammal species. This time, I covered far more ground and saw far less wildlife. You just never know.
09 Surf scoter, Hot Spring Cove. Its wings produce a strong whistling noise in flight.
10 Common goldeneye, Father Charles Channel. This species is the least approachable of the three Bucephala.
11 Long-tailed ducks, Russell Channel. This male of the species, at left, regularly emits a comical, nasally honk, like a duck trying to imitate a goose.
12 Marbled murrelet, Millar Channel. This old-growth-dependent species was the most abundant of the alcids, a testimony to the high quality of Clayoquot Sound’s remaining patches of unlogged forest.
13 White-winged scoters off Flores Island. Compared to the more common surf scoter, this species tends to linger farther offshore.
14 Common loon, Hot Springs Cove. Common loons were present in large numbers throughout Clayoquot Sound.
15 Red-necked grebe, Father Charles Channel. This individual appears to have already begun its transition to breeding plumage.
The big fears for coastal kayakers during winter are low-pressure cyclones and high swells. I had excellent luck on both fronts. Even when the high-pressure system off the coast dissipated, it was promptly replaced by another ridge of high pressure. The result was six days of nearly continuous sun, broken only one afternoon by a two-minute period of slightest drizzle. I had packed my heaviest rain gear for this trip in anticipation of frequent low-pressure systems, but I ended up needing more sunscreen than polyurethane. On some beaches, on some afternoons, I didn’t need to wear anything at all—at least until the sight-seeing helicopters or the motorboat-driven picnickers showed up.
The ocean swells were similarly cooperative. Reports from the buoys offshore at the Brooks Peninsula and La Perouse Bank described waves generally under four meters in height. By the time these moderate swells made it past the various bars and reefs, the surf they created was generally under one meter in height on most beaches.
16 Kayaking Calmus Passage. What a pleasure to paddle through such scenery on a sunny day.
17 Paddling through sea foam off Flores Island. The foam had an unpleasant, oily taste, like old seaweed.
18 Kayaking a narrow slot near Halfmoon Bay. I propelled myself through the canyon using my hands instead of my paddle.
19 Kayaking among islets off Flores Island. The west side of Flores offered a perfect balance between wild ocean swells and beaches and protected inside passages.
20 Sunset at Halfmoon Bay. Halfmoon Bay on the west coast of Flores Island is not named on any charts or maps I saw, but I learned the name after the trip, when I belatedly read John Kimantas’s guidebook.
21 Stars seen from Halfmoon Bay. The hunter Orion is our quintessential wintertime constellation.
CONTINUED IN NEXT POST.
[Cross-posted on alexsidles.com]
The night before my trip, I switched my intended destination from Desolation Sound, on the sheltered waters off the Strait of Georgia, to Clayoquot Sound, on the decidedly unsheltered waters off Vancouver Island. Weather forecasts were predicting that a steady high-pressure system would linger offshore, which, if true, would open a rare opportunity for wintertime coastal kayaking.
00 Route map. I made the drive from Seattle to Tofino in eight and a half hours, a new personal speed record.
Arriving at Tofino late in the afternoon, I just had time to paddle to Rassier Point before the sun set. The next morning, I took a gamble on Cow Bay on Flores Island. Cow Bay is exposed to ocean swells, so it can be an intimidating place to land. Sure enough, surf on the main beach was large enough to scare me off, but I weaved among the reefs until I found a sheltered landing site on a small sand-and-gravel beach at the west end of the bay. Looking back across Cow Bay after my landing, I was surprised I had been to find a safe line through the breakers that were bursting all over the bay.
A homebuilt cabin was tucked away in the woods. The owner, Rick, put on waders to cross Cow Creek for a chat. Rick and his partner had been living in the cabin for forty-seven years. Today, they were preparing for a motorboat run into Tofino, their first visit to town since November—a three-month, winter-long sojourn without resupply. Rick knew this was an impressive feat. He was proud enough that he found a way to mention it at least twice in the course of our conversation.
Clayoquot Sound is often described by its boosters in grandiloquent terms: a perfect wilderness, possessing a romantic, almost magical purity of natural essence. You might expect such a pristine place to be all but deserted during the stormy month of February, but I encountered people everywhere I went. Beachcombers like Rick had set up their cabins on most of the best beaches. A steady fleet of boats traced back and forth among the numerous settlements that pockmark the sound. I met day-tripping visitors at most of my campsites and seldom went more than fifteen or twenty minutes without seeing or hearing the passage of a powerboat. This pristine wilderness was more crowded than some parts of the San Juan Islands!
01 Landing beach at Rassier Point. Heavy rain fell on the first day, but after that came a week of nearly unbroken sunshine.
02 Kayaking Maurus Channel. Tides were strong around Tofino but moderate to light everywhere else, even as the new moon approached.
03 Looking north up Clayoquot Sound from Russell Channel. It had been such a mild winter that most of the peaks on Vancouver Island were already free of snow.
04 Clouds over Flores Island. Navigation was a breeze, thanks to the many prominent landmarks throughout the sound.
05 Westernmost beach of Cow Bay. One of the benefits of winter camping is that the highest high tides occur during daylight hours, so it is safe to camp on the beaches even during a spring tide.
06 Sunrise at Cow Bay. There were about nine and a half hours of daylight each day, plenty of time to maneuver throughout the relatively small space that is Clayoquot Sound.
07 Mountains and spray off Flores Island. Clayoquot Sound presents particularly rich variations on the standard Pacific Northwest vista of trees, rocks, and water.
08 Alex at Whitesand Cove. Toward the end of the trip, as the last high-pressure ridge collapsed, stratus clouds moved back in to resume their rightful reign over the coast.
Altogether, I saw forty-seven species of birds, a lackluster tally considering the length of the trip. There were plenty of seabirds, including most of the common species: the Big Four alcids, surf and white-winged scoters, four species of grebes, all three Bucephela, all three cormorants, common and Pacific loons, common and red-breasted mergansers. The most exciting seabird species was the long-tailed duck, which overwinters in large saltwater bays up and down the coast.
The gulls let me down. The only species present were glaucous-winged, Thayer’s, and mew gulls, not any of the other wintertime species. The biggest shortfall, however, came from the land birds. The forests were almost devoid of birds, even in places like Hot Springs Cove and Whitesand Cove where boardwalk trails allowed me to penetrate deep into the woods. I think it was just too cold, dark, and wet for the land birds. Springtime will be a different story.
More surprising than the dearth of birds was the dearth of marine mammals. The only mammals I saw this trip were sea otters, California sea lions, and a single harbor seal. The near-total absence of harbor seals was a real shock. I can’t recall ever spending so much time on saltwater to see so few seals. I’m at a loss to explain why this species was so scarce in Clayoquot Sound. It should have been abundant.
There were wolf tracks on all the large beaches. Several times on Vargas and Flores islands, I heard wolves howling in the mornings. I was expecting a wolf sighting at some point during the trip, or at least a nocturnal visit to investigate my camp, but the wolves stayed away.
On my previous wintertime visit to Clayoquot Sound, in December 2015, I saw fifty-six bird species and six mammal species. This time, I covered far more ground and saw far less wildlife. You just never know.
09 Surf scoter, Hot Spring Cove. Its wings produce a strong whistling noise in flight.
10 Common goldeneye, Father Charles Channel. This species is the least approachable of the three Bucephala.
11 Long-tailed ducks, Russell Channel. This male of the species, at left, regularly emits a comical, nasally honk, like a duck trying to imitate a goose.
12 Marbled murrelet, Millar Channel. This old-growth-dependent species was the most abundant of the alcids, a testimony to the high quality of Clayoquot Sound’s remaining patches of unlogged forest.
13 White-winged scoters off Flores Island. Compared to the more common surf scoter, this species tends to linger farther offshore.
14 Common loon, Hot Springs Cove. Common loons were present in large numbers throughout Clayoquot Sound.
15 Red-necked grebe, Father Charles Channel. This individual appears to have already begun its transition to breeding plumage.
The big fears for coastal kayakers during winter are low-pressure cyclones and high swells. I had excellent luck on both fronts. Even when the high-pressure system off the coast dissipated, it was promptly replaced by another ridge of high pressure. The result was six days of nearly continuous sun, broken only one afternoon by a two-minute period of slightest drizzle. I had packed my heaviest rain gear for this trip in anticipation of frequent low-pressure systems, but I ended up needing more sunscreen than polyurethane. On some beaches, on some afternoons, I didn’t need to wear anything at all—at least until the sight-seeing helicopters or the motorboat-driven picnickers showed up.
The ocean swells were similarly cooperative. Reports from the buoys offshore at the Brooks Peninsula and La Perouse Bank described waves generally under four meters in height. By the time these moderate swells made it past the various bars and reefs, the surf they created was generally under one meter in height on most beaches.
16 Kayaking Calmus Passage. What a pleasure to paddle through such scenery on a sunny day.
17 Paddling through sea foam off Flores Island. The foam had an unpleasant, oily taste, like old seaweed.
18 Kayaking a narrow slot near Halfmoon Bay. I propelled myself through the canyon using my hands instead of my paddle.
19 Kayaking among islets off Flores Island. The west side of Flores offered a perfect balance between wild ocean swells and beaches and protected inside passages.
20 Sunset at Halfmoon Bay. Halfmoon Bay on the west coast of Flores Island is not named on any charts or maps I saw, but I learned the name after the trip, when I belatedly read John Kimantas’s guidebook.
21 Stars seen from Halfmoon Bay. The hunter Orion is our quintessential wintertime constellation.
CONTINUED IN NEXT POST.
[Cross-posted on alexsidles.com]
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