[Paddlewise] Trip Report - Columbia River Bar

Kevin said:
<snip> It's been a quite somber week, sadly... so how about a trip
report to change
the mood and stir some sea kayaking related discussion?

------

I'm way behind on Paddlewise, but was glad to hear ralph and Ralph are
okay. I have cam sights bookmarked at work for every part of the globe
to track storms and such (on my coffee breaks!), so was able to see the
before and instantly the after from the New Jersy cam (I can usually see
conditions on the Hudson , so can tell if ralph is reporting his trip
conditions acurately :-)  ). It looks so empty now without the twin
towers. I can't even imagine how empty are the lives of the individuals
who lost loved ones and friends. My two young daughters (whom I spend
most of my spare time with now, rather than newslists) and I have been
praying for all of you down there. Saying God bless you seems so
inadequte, however.

Anyway, KEVIN, here is the unedited trip report from last spring that I
sent to my local club newsletter, (which I cut in half later for them).
Dave Kruger was my host, of course, as was someone else very special.

-------

The Columbia River: Risk and Reward

This past May I headed to the US to paddle portions of Oregon’s
swell-battered coastline, and in particular, the salt-influenced section
of the 2000-km long Columbia River and its discharge over the notorious
Columbia River Bar. I came to the conclusion that the “Columbia” is a
river that spills both the silt of pre-history and the flux of
contemporary time into an undercurrent that can sweep away one’s very
soul into the fathomless depths. To paddle here, where the mighty meets
the immutable, is to be immersed by the absolute.

The surface lay still as I dipped each paddle blade consciously into the
caliginous depths of the backwater slough. Evidence of recent slide
activity abounded along the estuary shoreline, miles from the Pacific,
where the rusted, twisted remains of railway track disappeared into the
brackish waters. Further upstream, I was told, there was evidence of a
2-foot drop of the earth’s surface in the region during a massive
subduction quake. I imagined the indigenous peoples fleeing, as a giant
tidal wave washed overland.

Moving out toward the main stem of the Columbia River, I passed over the
shallows of ever shifting sand-shoals and around sensitive island
refuge. Although the scope of the area was broad, sufficient landmarks
were present such that I found it difficult to believe that paddlers had
become disoriented amongst the low-lying islands. My friend from Astoria
ingratiated himself by leading me to all the local historical landmarks,
including Pillar Rock and an abandoned cannery from bygone days of
unprecedented historical Chinook runs.

Record setting temperatures, brilliant sunshine, a well-planned route
with tide, and amicable conversation leant itself to an unforgettable
day I shall cherish forever. As we moved to the rhythm of wind and
current, monolithic freighters passed dangerously close along
serpentiform sections of river, their bellies full with the payloads of
commerce. After lunching and launching, a “sneak route” was used to beat
upwind against the vast funnel winds generated by topography and thermal
gradients.

I headed for Ilwaco the next day on my own, downstream on the Washington
side. I had reconnoitered bar conditions from McKenzie Head and the cape
the night before. The roar of huge tidal rapids ebbing and swirling
seaward brought a lump to my throat. I was grateful for my Astorian host
who had provided me with printed graphs from the seven current stations
employed near the mouth. I’ve learned the hard way to reference such
information with intensity.

The Columbia Bar is two miles wide, located between two massive jetties
extending far into the open ocean. A swell against ebb can see waves
form up to 90-feet high  -- challenging even the biggest vessels. As I
passed the Coast Guard training center at Cape Disappointment beside the
ever shifting Sand Island, it took real determination to make seaway
against the growing flood-tide and threat of building onshore wind,
while attempting to avoid “pop-up” breakers that had refracted around
the north jetty. After the successful and far too easy crossing, I
headed north to take a peak off the end of the mile-long north jetty,
looking for some action.

As I drew closer a dull roar coming over the top from the jetty’s blind
side intensified. Two jet skiers passed, swinging half a mile wide (just
like the State Marine Board’s directions suggested) to avoid the mayhem
off the end of the jetty, where Peacock spit extended 2000 meters
further offshore. A wall of waves broke randomly atop a building current
-- some tumbling forward, some backwards -- as far as the eye could see.

With trepidation, yet utter confidence in my abilities, equipment and
roll, I entered into “no man’s land”. Eventually, the throb of fear
formed a metallic taste in my mouth, more due to the durational aspect:
swept further out into the middle of the mayhem, only the use of
intermittent surf-forward waves enabled a safe transit out. I had to
utilize every skill and reflex I possessed. By the halfway point, I was
down to psychological sleight-of-hand, using positive, reinforcing,
verbalized self-talk to get me out. I dared not think what the zone
would look like on a winter day.

The core of my body ached from the constant torsional adjusting.  An
onshore wind had thrown up a further rambunctious sea state. My problems
weren’t over. On the other side of the jetty, a gauntlet of far shore
and near shore breakers, a 3-knot alongshore current and a dangerous
undertow aimed itself at the formidable jetty. I capsized in the surf
numerous times, trying to beat upwind and up-current away from the
jetty. Clapotis action was irreverent and intense. To complicate
matters, ropes from crab traps pulled taught in the current had laid out
many unwary snares.

When I finally made shore, never doubting I would, I decided not to
tempt fate further  -- that’s part of negotiating risk versus reward. A
deck cable had snapped, my nerves were shot, and my enthusiasm spent. I
proceeded for the next hour to portage my heavy sea kayak over the
50-foot high rock jetty, and then headed on to other adventures along
golden surf beaches, arch-formed islands, and spectacular headlands.



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