Wild at Heart - from the log book of Doug Lloyd - long (unedited for Paddlewise) ******************************************* Nootka Sound 07/15/ 2004 to 07/25/2004 Myself, Bill Porter, Mike DuPas, Steve Dirgo, Dale Tangeman, Rob Robinson (trip organizer). Part 2 (of 3) Things were still socked-in at dawn, leaving any gear not in tents very soggy, though not in my tent this time, thanks to a little help from my friends and subtle tent-position shifts. Swift rain clouds continued to sweep over the isthmus saturating the forest canopy overhead. Pregnant drops, each one pausing in the foliage, fell on the tarp with a metric "Drip.drip.drip." Rob had given me a Clive Cussler novel to read the day before. I was soon engaged, turning each page, cocooned in my blue nylon shell while the squalls passed above. In twenty-four years of kayaking the west coast in all kinds of weather, I'd never read a novel before. It was kind of cool to be normal for once, at least for a short reprieve. By mid-afternoon the sun had made a steady appearance through the clouds, meaning it was finally time to break camp "dry" and make the four mile crossing to Burdwood Point. It was also time to break up this little WKC reunion and leave some room for any incoming local yakers - if there were any out there. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, gear started to disappear off the beach, until suddenly it was all gone in one final suction-like down-funneling, with boats neatly awaiting their drivers. I spoke one more time with Barry. He was one of the few paddlers I'd met with a skegless Romany, claiming Chris Duff as his sometimes mentor. Instinct told me he wasn't fully walking the talk yet, but there was a lot of raw enthusiasm expressed from his chiselled face. He was a man who looked like he was surfing the sharp edge of something in life he'd been looking for. I'd muted my testimony about the joys of rough-water paddling while we shared the day before, while Barry had related how he'd taken off from a group in the Broken Islands to have a blast in the whitecaps. I remained polite, hardly in a position to pontificate proper group paddling ethics. Leaving the lovely secluded cove behind, the six of us paddled abreast, appearing like a well-healed formation of comfortable paddlers who knew their place in life, brothers for a slice of time and space seeking the simple rewards that paddling on the water and along the shoreline provide. Mike looked particularly adroit in his blue-on-blue Romany with red deck lines and his blue Chilleaters jacket/skirt combo, stroking through the chop with poise and purposeful movement. I felt compelled to get to know Mike a bit better and find out about some of his experiences in Vietnam. Bill, the quiet but kinetic executive, moved his heavy Romany through the water with a grace and flow rare in an individual relatively new to the sport. We made a B-line for Burdwood on a "one-on-one" sea state (one foot chop, one meter swell). A small channel presented itself, bisecting the island chain of the Pantoja Islands. Water was surging through the north entrance with white-water breakers entering from the south side. Perhaps it would make a good shortcut. Hmmm. I raced ahead to test the route after a short consultation with Rob. A reef in the middle of the way in presented a problem, but I rode the swell over it and blasted through to the other side, cresting over the next breaker forming in the surging confines. The guys could see it wasn't worth the run through, so continued seaward. I decided to surf back through, this time going with the next swell set; gaining momentum on the wave's slope, I ran full speed into the ragged rock wall by the broach-throwing breaker -- finding manoeuvring room too tight for the paddle. Ouch, that took a little bit off the nose of my yak, as the stern fell into a deep trough leaving the bow hooked upwards. The exit wasn' t exactly graceful either, 500 pounds of boat, paddler, and gear slamming the reef on the way out. As I caught up, I mentioned the route was a bit hard on body, boat, and blade. They had kind of figured that out. It was more than just a utilitarian move setting up camp "dry" in the sunshine in the semi-sheltered bay north of Burdwood Pt.: our spirits were lifted aloft with the hope of warm days yet to unfold. I lathered up for a cold-water swim and bath, whereupon another boat raced shoreward. What was wrong with these fishers? Rob had done some good planning picking this beach, an enchanted location in real-time, marred only by powerboat activity. The majority of tents were erected in a perfect shade-line that lost its protection only in the last stages of the day. This was a fine introduction to base-camp camping. I'd never done anything like this before with such specificity. I'd stopped to smell the roses. I continued to soak in the pages of my novel, relaxing in the filtered sunlight and soft ethos of the easy-kayaker life. That evening, as the sun set and misty clouds slowly held intertwined formations above the mountains on Vancouver Island, a perfect panorama of Nootka Sound captured our exclusive attention until squinting eyes could see no more. Wednesday held the promise of poking out toward Escalante Island. Strong outflow winds didn't subside until gone 9:00 am. The forecast called for moderates seas and westerly wind, growing in intensity in the afternoon - the usual case out here. The tide was low, providing an excellent line of natural breakwaters protecting most of the route out. A bear munching along the night's high-tide line perked my curiosity and I moved in to shoot it with my camera. It was one more furry black-blob to add to my picture collection. Upon reaching Escalante Island, Mike was already blown away by the intrinsic naturalness of the setting, fore-fronted by a gentle swell lapping the sand-rimmed features of Escalante's extensive seascape. Rob landed at an unnamed creek cutting through the extensive low-tide sand, soon followed by everyone else. At some point, he lost his hat. I played out on the outer reefs for a time, trying to get the perfect ride back in over the low reef breaks. The previous two times I'd paddled out here in past years had been replete with 3-meter swell plus boomers exploding everywhere the eye could see, with many a near-miss (accidentally on purpose) all the way around to Estevan Point and beyond on both occasions. This time, I took the time to macro-zoom my camera and capture some pictures of the sea life clinging to the kelp fronds. The rest of the fellows washed-up, using collapsible water carriers and soapy fresh-water suds to clean their clothing. The wind and swell picked up on the way back, growing to maybe 15 knots with whitecaps increasing in intensity the further out one looked. Wind waves averaged 3 feet on a 2 meter swell giving the guys a nice west coast bump, with further rebounding off the reef-strew shoreline. The surging shoreline and nearshore reefs provided a demonstrable jobbliness which was perfect for the more intimate paddling I preferred in amongst the turbulence of rocks and reefs, where I am at home and completely comfortable. I zoomed into that. When the swell picked up, I let out the reins a bit, dropped my deep-draft rudder, and headed around the outside of some of the spume-tossed islets for semi-white-knuckle paddling. The surging seas can make an exact transit difficult while threading fast-paced through these high-energy environs, so a good rudder equalizes the higher risk by allowing my Nordkapp to go where I point it, leaving necessary concentration for muscling the fast-forward propulsion, suddenly-required boomer-bracing, and adjusting for route consequences in the ever-changing three-dimensionality presented. Finally back at camp, Rob had to spend some time in surgery with a kinked skeg cable on his big green Aquilla, the "Classic Vlasik," eventually replacing it with a spare. Unfortunately his off-shore-made instrument wasn' t up to the task, leaving the cable's end-strands rather messy and difficult to rethread. I played out off the rocks for a time, riding the swell over and through tide pools, then practiced hooking my bow on exposed reefs until the trough receded, leaving the kayak at approximate forty-degree angles. I eventually tired of this, and headed back to my novel. Not having a heptawing tarp to retire under, out of the arcing sun, I sought shade elsewhere, eventually breaking out the instant chemical ice packs for my painful shoulders. The meteorological high continued building, though it never got really windy in the afternoon nearshore with the 30- to 40-knot gales I'd anticipated and so looked forward to remaining well offshore. Sleep was difficult despite my in-boat drugstore. *************************************************************************** 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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