November 14, 1999:
Pushing through 5:30 AM darkness and a dense fog. The fog extends into dawn all the way from Lake Oswego to Willapa Bay, unable to see anything of the Astoria-Megler bridge even while crossing it. I look for Dave about 8:00 AM at the Pig. No boats in the parking lot . . . It amazes me that despite all this, people in grey or white cars still insist on driving in the soup with their lights off.
I stood on the launch site at the Refuge and yelled for Dave. He could have been there, but I couldn't see him. Dave shows up at the ramp shortly after I get there. No exaggeration here, the fog was so thick that we were unable to see from the ramp across the highway --probably less than 100 yards. We sure couldn't see across the bay to the bank of Long Island 100 yards out in the soup. And in this we affixed compasses and bid adieu to landfall . . .
Clumps of spartina appear in the mist, announcing the presence of the eastern shore of Long Island. We were rounding the island counterclock-wise --"that other counterclock-wise" Dave insisted as I took off for the south. The tide was running out with plenty of water in the bay. Some 4.5 feet of water at the lowest point for today's tide, we would have enough for crossing the shoals on the north end.
Mergansers dive out of our path. Pockets of clearing allow us to reconnoiter, but still we cling to the eastern bank as the fog surrounds our boats. Dave keeps calling out bearings, but I in my ongoing modifications of order on the foredeck had arranged the compass in front of the deck bag and can't read the dial. I'm content to just follow Dave --sometimes difficult as he'd drop behind me to check whether that duck was a Bufflehead or a Golden-eye.
Patches of soup and a fringe of treetops ahead of us. This is Paradise Point. I'm trying to decide if we want to bear left (port) or right (starboard) of the trees when we break out of the fog. Now about 9:30 . . . We'd been on the water for half an hour or so. Ahead of us was an arch of fog with a sort of rainbow. Dave informs me that this is a "fog glory," bordered by two columns of brilliantly lighted, arching fog. Sometimes the arches are just ahead of the bow, then farther ahead. Dave asks my heading, not realizing that I can't read my compass. "Jeez Dave," I smirk, "I'm just heading for the center of the glory." (It's just like a rainbow . . . stays centered off your bow pretty much regardless of your direction.)
Rounding Paradise Point, we break completely out of the fog and into clear, blue, sunny warmth. The bank of fog is brilliant behind us and obscures landfall. But ahead is open water, the shore of Long Island, and Diamond Point, guarded by mud shoals and Spartina. Maybe it's the fog obscuring the distances we're traversing. Maybe it's just the warm weather and placid seas. Maybe it's that Dave and I paddle at a complementary pace and don't spend a lot of time waiting on each other . . . Now we're rounding the shocks of Spartina that bound Diamond Head. Every now and again we realize that we're in maybe 18 inches of water . . . Oooops! Working around and to the east of the Spartina and the shoals, now an open boat with four or five people approaches from the north. We're all out on the point and looking west toward Nahcotta.
We paddle up to the boat, as it drifts with the engine off. Making greetings, we all speculate where the end of the shoals stops and a channel across the north end begins. The skipper on the boat points to an oyster field marker out in the water . . . "about even with that marker" he claims. I look across the water. There are maybe a dozen markers sticking out of the water. . . Looking off the gunnels I see oyster shells and sand here and there below me. The boat, off to our starboard, is in water deep enough for its engine and prop. I'm on the edge of the shoal. Dave is behind me and starboard chatting with the crew on the boat.
Working out, balancing a desire to conserve paddling distance and yet have sufficient water that I don't drag the hull across heaps of oyster shells, I finally move into water where I lose sight of the bottom. I cut to the west and start across. Dave follows off my port stern. Oh yeah . . . there's some shells . . . now eel grass waving in the water --pointing south, indicating that the tide is now coming in.
Deeper water now and I'm easily across the point. Dave off my stern and closer to the point evidently is finding shoals and shallow stretches. Only once during a nasty storm, paddling clock-wise and solo, have I crossed the point in ample water. That time I had easily three feet right along the banks of the point -- and ample Spartina to hack my way through too. Hell of a storm then . . . This bay changes so much with tide and weather.
Now brilliant sun! This is like paddling in June, and we decide to take a break on shore to wait for the tide to pick up. Dave relates to me how he was once returning to the ramp at the Refuge and met with a group of paddlers from some local university . . . Dave remarks to the group leader, "Looks like you are about to lose your tide."
And the leader (the Leader!) looks at Dave and asks, "What's a tide?" Too many people paddling and not enough people reading up on the sport . . .
Bagels, cream cheese, apples for a snack. It's about 11:00 now and we're around the point and waiting for the tide to pick up some velocity. (Burch discusses this in some detail "Fundamentals of Kayak Navigation.") I have dried papaya spears spears and offer some to Dave. They're like candy and provide energy. They also aid digestion. Dave is sticking with his "grandma candy" and Snickers bar . . . "Don't want to change directions this far along in life, Geo." he says. No olive oil, but I thought about olive oil . . .
On to Jensen Point. The last time we did this, mid-October, we had a storm blowing through and heavy seas. Today it's sunny and hot! We catch sight of a bird perched on a distant snag sticking out of the water. A cormorant? Maybe an eagle? How about GBH? I paddle back and forth a bit, trying to get the bird against a contrasting background. Yeah, look at the shoulders . . . but how large is it really? I hate it when these sightings turn out to be crows! We approach, Dave inland from the snag, me out more in the water. It hunkers down and then takes wing . . . GBH. OK, that's what I thought. That or a crow . . .
Rounding Jensen Point. Last time this was where I went ashore to figure out how to put down my rudder. I needed it in the heavy seas because my seat back was not allowing me to sit up in the boat, and I was having a difficult time balancing and steering in the heavy, following seas. Getting back off the beach then I got swamped with oncoming waves. Two years ago I paddle by a flock of terns here. I thought they were gulls except for the orange beaks and pompadours. Now the water is placid, flat, smooth. And it's HOT!
Dave wants to stop at Sand Spit. That's a campsite, but I always think the sand spit is the spit of sand just below Jensen Point. Well, Sand Spit IS below Jensen Point, but not JUST below it. We pull into the camp and reconnoiter. Dave decides it's too hot for a wet suit on landfall. I just peel back to the hips. There's a huge, fat spider on the log where we're sitting, some flying termites, and ladybugs, lots of ladybugs. Somebody has cut up the log we were using as a bench by the fire grate. Some of the wood I split on the last camping trip in October still remains. Dave is waiting for an alder tree to finally fall over -- not today though. Dave is timing the layovers. I'm just eating bagels, cream cheese and apples. Karen brought "gourmet" olive oil and bread on our last outing, but she has other plans today. No olive oil, but I thought about olive oil . . . More papaya, another Snickers bar. Dave speculates about retirement announcements and how one becomes a "non-person" when one announces retirement. He concedes that being a non-person seemed like the right move at this point in the politics of running a community college . . . It's a budget thing.
The shore has been scrubbed since October. There were long strings of seaweed, spartina, and driftwood. These are all scrubbed away from the last couple storms. We launch again and choose whether to head straight for the Pinnacle Rock or to follow the shore line and look at wildlife. Straight it is. I take a bearing (moved the compass where I can now read it). Dave works off the port. I'm taking waypoints around the island on my GPS, turning it on and off to conserve the battery. Dave off the port side, I head straight toward Pinnacle Rock. I like being out on open water. Something about being far off shore and the focus of paddling toward a distant point. I don't care if I can see the land roll by. I like to paddle for extended periods toward a far distant bearing, watching it slowly come closer.
Dave works into the shore line. Now he's way off my port side, and I'm way off shore. But the water is flat and smooth. There's not enough wind to keep my glasses from fogging. And it's HOT! I unbutton the skirt to get some circulation below deck. Dave is following the shore now to look at landslides. (Dave likes to monitor erosion. He commented on the erosion of each Columbia River island on our Portland to Astoria run in June.) Ha! The loons are out here, Dave, and laughing too! I like the terns for their pompadours, but I like the loons for their laugh. Several loons out here, and they let me paddle fairly close.
Now Pinnacle Rock creeps up on me. I head to the port side to meet up with Dave. There's a shoal here, and I nearly run aground on it even though I think I'm giving it plenty of leeway. Another waypoint mark. Dave and I float/drift while I'm waiting for the satellites to load up.
Now around High Point . . . another waypoint in the GPS. This is the home stretch. Round Island off in the distance. First time out here with Ben and a Sunday group from Pacific Wave we headed to Round Island and then out to Pinnacle Rock. That was when I thought Long Island was much shorter around its circumference. But this trip has been short. Maybe the tide assist. Maybe the weather . . . I don't think it's because I'm in great shape.
A redtail hawk soars above the shoreline. Dave spots some red headed ducks. I don't recognize them, but then I mistake crows for hawks until they flap their wings. Nice to see the dock coming in sight; I'm ready to get out of the boat and do something else. One last waypoint. The batteries are low enough that the GPS is turning off while I'm trying to read distances around the island. I think I'm getting 13.4 nautical miles, but it's hard to be sure with the low batteries. Besides, I want to get the boat on the truck, go get some food and relax. Set the GPS aside and let's get loaded up!
Hot and clear, it's like June out here except for the yellow/gold foliage. Dave says to follow him to Fultano's for pizza/salad bar. This is "better than Hometown" and right around the corner from Dave and Becky's apt. on the Young's Bay side of town. I crank up KKEE "Golden oldies. We reach the beach!" and follow Dave back into Astoria. I keep wondering about living down here. The golden oldies are from when I was in the Army, music being the one thing then that kept me from going crazy . . . OK, *nearly* kept me from going crazy . . . Is Astoria a nice place to visit or do I want to live here . . .
Good salad bar at Fultano's. I'm doing salads and water these days. Dave has a beer and a Hawaiian pizza. But there's pepperoni on the salad bar and I'm a sucker for sausage . . . Long drive home, and I get back in the dark. That's because it's November, not June . . . even though the weather says June.
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