20-24 May 2024
The damp shores of the Broughton Archipelago
Back in April it occurred to me that it might be possible to return by paddle to my car in Port McNeil from the Salmon Coast Field Station in Echo Bay, where I was soon to be volunteering. I sent a flurry of emails about boat logistics, and bought a chart. I drew a snaking line through about ~30km of the Broughton Archipelago (the ‘Mainland’ as locals refer to it) to Alert Bay, and a straighter 20km line to Port McNeil. This is Kwikwasutiuxw, ‘Namgis, and Mamalilikala territory. The trip would be careful dance of imperfect weather, new currents, and big crossings. New to the area, my route took me through chains of maze-like islets and across Knight Inlet, Blackfish Sound, Weynton Pass, and the Johnstone Strait. I had 4 free days, and thought this the perfect opportunity to warm up for my first guiding season in the Broughton.
I said goodbye to the Salmon Coasters and left Echo Bay on the morning of Monday 20 May with a sense of optimism. It was calm as I crossed the mouth of Shoal Harbour, and the sun was trying to break through the cloud. I had spent the preceding week glued to the forecast – May is normally beautiful in the Mainland, but this year, strong frontal systems producing big north westerlies were sweeping down the coast. To the old-timers these are the ‘halibut winds’. Once the jetstream begins to climb North, they expect a few days of strong NW winds in May, often coinciding with the opening of the halibut fishery. Billy Proctor, one of said legendary old timers, told me about the stream of dozens of white Halibut boats he used to see running past his former home in Freshwater Bay. He also told me this was one of the more turbulent, cold, springs he remembered, with far more than just a few of these high-wind days.
The forecast suggested all of Monday and early Tuesday morning would be suitable paddling weather, before gale force north westerlies began to howl down Queen Charlotte Strait late-Tuesday morning. Wednesday, that ridge would stay over us, and the big winds would continue into the late evening. Thursday would be back to light rain and calm winds. Given that I was by myself, I was not interested in pushing weather limits on big crossings. Having 2.5 of the four days as probable paddling time seemed sufficient to me, leaving multiple opportunities to hit each crossing at their appropriate currents during the weather windows.
Leaving Shoal Harbour I watched the intertidal as I paddled. Barnacles reached their cirri out into the rich dark waters. These murky seas are so abundant with life that whales from all over the Pacific come here to gain precious weight before heading to the tropics to give birth. I saw two pairs of sea stars that looked like parents with children, and made up stories about why these broadcast spawners associate like this. Some local named Dory stopped his clapped-out little boat to check on me, and cheered me on for heading out on my adventure.
The fox group in the heart of the Broughton Archipelago
Leaving the intertidal I cruised across the Fox Group, a place of seabirds, open skies, and stunning quiet. My next stop was the Kwikwasutiuxw village of Gwayasdums, where I visited with Tuddy, who I’d met on the boat ride into Salmon Coast. Some more island hopping and I was at a cute lunch spot between Bonwick and Midsummer Islands.
The village of Gwayasdums
Sitting in some grass above the high tide line, I distracted myself with the flowers and seaweed growing on this little granite islet. I was seriously and surprisingly anxious. I couldn’t understand why, as I usually like being by myself, but here my solitude felt claustrophobic. I’ve spent well over a thousand hours in kayaks and canoes, largely teaching and day guiding in Toronto and Vancouver. This was bigger more unpredictable water, and the newness was spilling out into anxious thoughts of gruesome animal encounters, gear failures, and other unlikely events. I’m usually not someone who experiences irrational fear; I usually locate the source of anxiety and focus on those things that are legitimately dangerous and fear-producing. Today, I was all over the place. I did my best to remember all the fun of past trips, and kept my GPS-equipped marine radio close.
I continued heading south and found some fun currents to play around in as I passed through Spring Passage and a gorgeous group of islands. Moving water, like skiing, activates that part of my mind that searches for grace in movement. It’s so addictive.
Pretty islets in Spring Passage
An island in the mouth of Knight Inlet
I left Spring Passage at the edge of Knight Inlet, my first big crossing of the trip. The inlet runs 125 kilometres up into the Coast Range, and empties into the ocean at Memkumlis. The wind and water were calm, and I crossed easily. I found a campsite at Martha Point, which I’d read about on BC Marine Trails, and got the primo tent spot at the end of a bluffy point (I was the only one there).
Over dinner I watched various ravens and eagles come investigate the return of tourists (me) to this oft-used summer site, but my mind was still running in circles. I struggled through a pot of pasta. Before bed I unfolded my chart in the tent, listened the marine weather forecast on my radio, confirmed my route, and set my alarm for 5am to beat the wind.
I had a quick granola-bar breakfast, packed down camp in the rain, and got on the water. Eagle calls echoed in the mist. At Flower Island I got out my marine radio: “Commercial vessels…this is kayaker Declan…Hearing nothing I will begin crossing Blackfish Sound from Freshwater Bay to Double Bay; please advise if you are on approach to Blackney Pass. There is a solo kayaker on the water.” Blackfish Sound is transited by cruise ships and other large vessels heading up towards Prince Rupert and Alaska. The clouds hung low enough that the bridge of a tanker or cruise ship would be obscured. In my tiny orange kayak, I could be confused for a medium-sized log on their radar. I hoped, as I called out into the fog, that I had the Sound to myself that still morning.
I heard only seabirds. The coast was clear. I took a deep breath, a compass bearing that would allow me to ferry with the current, and began to paddle through the fog. About twenty minutes in, the trees on Hanson Island (the far side of the Sound) were getting sharper. Thirty minutes in I was lining up smaller islands with the ones on my chart and finding my approach into Double Bay. And within forty minutes I was across. A sense of accomplishment began to push away some of the anxiety. I got to tune in to the details of that stunning archipelago: shaggy cedar and shore pine scrapped the clouds. Enormous amounts of old mans’ beard lichen covered every tree. Bald eagles, in their sheer numbers, amazed me.
An eagle in the mist
Looking back across Blackfish Sound
Kelp forests in the Plumper Islands
Staying with the current for the last of the ebb I hooked into the Plumper Group. There were some unfriendly countercurrents in here; I anchored in a patch of bull kelp for a rest and watched the seals watch me. Crossing Weynton Passage, alone for several wide-open kilometers, I followed the urge to sing. I made land at Stephenson Islet for what turned out to be my favourite bit of paddling on the trip: a raft of roughly eighty sea otters and soon after, plumose anemones! The water was so clear that I could watch whole walls of plumose feeding 5-6m down.
An eagle at the edge of Weynton Passage
A whole buncha sea otters!
A sea otter in front of Ksulidas Island
My well-earned shot of espresso in the rain.
I pulled into a bay and finally had a real breakfast. Porridge with apples and almond butter; a shot of piping hot espresso. Kayak camping has its luxuries. As I ate, the rain lessened off. I was undecided about whether to camp there or push to Alert Bay. The gale would come in eventually, but there is a whole lot more to do in Alert Bay if one is wind-bound. The sun began to break through, and exploring these islands felt natural and easy. I was myself again. One more crossing and I made it into the Alert Bay harbour with minutes to spare–I was barely moving forward against the wind as I came to the government dock.
My boat thrashing around in the waves on the Alert Bay government dock.
A minke whale swimming by Cormorant Island
Alert Bay
Ferrying home. “Boats belong *IN* the water!” one of the ferry employees told me several times.
Alert Bay ended up being my final destination–the price of campgrounds proved to be far more than walking onto the ferry with my boat. I went back to Alert Bay the next morning for a day of touristing: a bog walk, a walk in the woods, a nap on a sun-warmed pebbly beach. A swim in cold clear water, long chats with the friendly folks at the Culture Shock café, and many hours at the incredible U’mista Cultural Centre. It was the perfect end to a solo trip that proved to be all about pondering new circumstances, and my soon-to-be new home. I was grateful for the upward trajectory of the unnerving emotions, and am trying to remember this as a lesson in trusting my capabilities.
The trip was my first in the Mainland. It’s not exactly news to recommend this area for kayaking, but I will join the chorus of people who love paddling here. Chasing the lulls between the Halibut winds offered me time to sit with myself in the wet forests and dark waters of the Raincoast, and it’s been wonderful to watch spring break into summer working up here.
Cool trip and amazing photos!