This is an anatomical description of a trip my SO and I did a few years ago with some others. It is offered as grist for discussion -- in particular on how we pick paddlers for extended trips. All names and locations have been confused to protect the innocent and obscure the guilty. -- Dave Kruger Astoria, OR -- Our Trip to Never-Never Land We had been there a couple times before, though kept away once for a whole year by official bureaucracy. We knew it was a lovely place for quasi-wilderness sea kayaking, and prime for folks who like west coast paddling at its best. The two couples seemed ideal: one had lived in Northern BC for 25 years, with tons of outdoor experience; the other, a Washington marriage of talented grade school teacher and professional biologist, with a focus on natural systems that would enrich our time in this special place. All were very cognizant of cold-water immersion protection, and paddled conservatively, close to our style. I day-paddled with all the principals a couple times before proposing the big trip. In January, a few days before the permit opening day, we sorted out an itinerary and a rough paddling plan at Tom and Suzy's house, fortified by healthy portions of BBQ ribs and pictures of Fauntleroy Bay, our intended locus for two weeks of day and overnight forays. I made the permit arrangements, and reimbursement checks arrived a week later. The "base camp" motif suited Tom's compromised back, my partner's's now-and-then migraines, and Bill's interest in the natural history of the Bay. We agreed our interests would probably diverge enough we might split the group for a day or two, and made food arrangements to fit that possibility. To consolidate the group, we proposed a couple of overnight adventures on my home paddling ground, familiar to Wendy and Bill from WA, but new to the former BC residents. Negotiations resulted in a weekend to fit Tom's high-pressure business commitments, though less-convenient for the rest of us. The forecast was awful and Tom and Suzy did not make it to Warm Alligator Island, complaining about the difficulty of making arrangements for the care of their cat and black lab. But, Wendy, Bill, my SO, and I had a lovely time ogling wildlife and dodging fearful rain under a blue/brown tarp collage. The paddle out and back was placid, but wet, and very protected. A shred of doubt crept into our minds -- if they could not handle rain in Oregon, with a hot bath a two-hour drive away, how would it be in Fauntleroy Bay, a 4-hour Zodiac stint and a 30 mile logging road to the nearest B and B? We pushed our doubts away, chalking them up to Tom's need to focus on job when working. After all, the guy had killed a grizzly! Time passed, and more money made its way north, suitably reimbursed, for the Zode shuttle and the ferry shuffle of boats and gear. My SO laid out bucks for a round trip flight. We were committed, now. Another overnighter pointed us towards Memorial Day weekend, on Forester Bay, which Wendy and Bill had visited often, again chosen so the busy Tom could make it. Yup -- you guessed it -- the forecast was awful, and S and T canceled at the last minute, to Wendy's intense dismay, for she had coursework for certification hanging over her head. W and B and we two lounged under the tarp, ate fresh-dug clams, and traipsed abandoned roads, spread over three days. W and B cooked massive amounts of food, but we managed! T and S were apologetic, though Suzy did ask me why I insisted on overnight trips before the big one ... "So I know my paddling companions better before I go off for two weeks with them." "Oh." So, we eked out a day trip on home waters, which developed into a thrash into the teeth of a brisk breeze (max. 15 knots) around a turbulent point. Tom, Wendy, and Bill begged off the last two miles, though strong Suzy was willing, and we cut the trip short, salving our wounds with a nice lunch downtown. Tom seemed particularly slow for his body type. "Hmmm," I thought, "that wasn't such a nasty paddle -- maybe these guys will be spending all their time in camp up there." Fast-forwarding to the drive up: we leap-frogged up the interior, gathered groceries in Lord Kumquat, and spied on a breaching whale (over 40 times!) as the ferry took us north overnight to Never-Never Land. My truck groaned with gear and food for four, three singles up top, and our folding double under the canopy as we bumped over to the outfitter. A day later we arrived in warm sunshine to Duck Island, and my SO and I swam and bobbed in the clear water. Eagles soared overhead as we assembled our boat. Suzy and Tom, intimidated by being left behind on the warm-up day paddle back home, had rented a double kayak from the outfitter, their cure for slowness. They insisted we avoid moving camp for a few nights, so the mound of food in their stash would be reduced to a pile that would fit inside their double -- a packing experience they had never had before. Suzy: "I *hate* packing my kayak." My reply: "Oh." My SO's reply (to herself): "Oh, right, dumbshit." My SO is normally very forgiving. A Norway rat obliged them the first night by holing their food stash, reducing the cashew butter and peanut brittle to rodent poop. The next night *all* the food went up on tether. These were folks with 25 years of experience in the BC outback? A routine developed, with each couple cooking a group meal in rotation, and the couples jaunting off on day trips. My SO and I missed the first two, victims of an intense migraine, mediated finally with the aid of hydrocodone. I walked the island, dodged the rain, spied on the brazen raccoons, and kept track of yaks paddling past. Wendy and Bill saw a bear a day and gleaned rock samples, much admired by the rest. My SO and I finally got in a couple day trips, one to explore an abandoned '60's-vintage cannery across the Bay. Some friction developed over camping styles, with the former BC residents less committed to no-trace than the Washingtonians. Suzy partook minimally of the meals others cooked, because she was on a high-protein/high-fat diet, saying "carbohydrates don't work for me." And, an outfitter parked his tour group on the other beach on our island, against the rules, to the dismay of some ... probably because the new arrivals compromised our intertidal flush location! It was time to move ... other groups were encroaching, some paddling past our primo spot, and we had been there for 5 nights, anyway. We took the outside route, because we had already done the inside route to visit world-famous Huxtable Pass, home to acres of spectacular intertidal critters. Two points later we were debating the relative merits of two campsite locations as we eased onto shore against the dark forest, dodging bear poop and black flies, prisoners of geography and our slow pace. Suzy and Tom opted for a nice flat spot near rotting seaweed, a festering mass of flies notwithstanding, and we others picked an airy, rockier spot. Bill's birthday was celebrated in style, with much cleverly-presented tidal wrack his harvest, and we settled in to a foreboding forecast. The next morning, intense cursing surrounding "%$#_at__at_* flies and seaweed" woke us. At breakfast, S and T, tent half down, announced they were leaving. W and B announced they were staying. Nobody discussed their choices. My SO and I were stunned, but opted for leaving, in view of a deteriorating forecast of strong SE winds. Later in the day, our two doubles scooted past bare, spare, Scupper Point, threading a path through acres of bull kelp, as the sky lowered behind. It was to be four days before the pair left behind rejoined us. They made two attempts around our point, but nasty seas forced them to put in a marathon day retracing their route back up the inside. We four spent the time dodging rain, fishing, dealing with Tom's continuing sea vertigo, and eking out our fuel resources. Our tarp site resembled a church, with two large logs forming the pews, and me the usher. We spent a lot of time on the pews ... but Tom's French toast and my 20 lbs of rockfish helped. Our last jaunt as a group led us past spectacular coastline to a stunning cove .. where a day later the outfitter gathered us up in the folds of his rigid hull inflatable and whisked us off to good restaurant food and our B and B. A hot shower and steak rarely had tasted so good. -- Would I do that again? Not on your life!! Lessons learned? Obvious, no? How about a list of things "I wish I had known about Suzy and Tom before I went camping with them for two weeks?" *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
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