I wake up early this morning hearing a strange sound; a long drawn-out high-pitched wail. It sounds like one of those whale song albums, but I thought those were recorded underwater. It is repeated a couple of times so I roust myself out of the sack and go up on deck to listen more closely. Standing on the aft deck in my jammies, the single wailing cry is joined by another one, and another. I realize I am listening to a pack of wolves howling up in the valley.
We are anchored at the Europa Hot Springs and are enjoying two-a-day baths. It is an indescribable luxury to have a hot soak in the cool of the morning, with an evening bath to look forward to at the end of a hot, humid day. Some one has left a pool thermometer here, and the water temperature is 105 degrees. Ahhhhh.....
Gardner Canal, August 2-5 One simply runs out of superlatives. Patrick says it's as if Switzerland has been plopped down into the ocean. I find it hopeless to try to capture the grandeur with a camera--the scale of the
beauty of this place is far beyond capture by a mere lens, and I despair at trying to select a photo or two that could possibly represent this experience. This long inland Fiord is lined with rugged, steep mountains that fall steeply into the water, a mixture of ocean saltwater and glacier run-off fresh water. In their slow, inexorable movement to the sea, the glaciers all around us grind rock into a powder finer than flour or talc, and it colors the meltwaters, making them appear milky. During these glorious sunny days we seem to float in a sea of opaline turquoise blue. In the pristine air, the mountains that surround us are spectacular. There are waterfalls just everywhere. We have been anchoring in huge, deep bays, finding the little slivers of anchorable space between the tidal flats that dry at low tide and the almost-bottomless bays.In Chief Matthews Bay we take the dinghy up the river valley that empties in to the bay. It's course twisted and turned around huge pebble dunes built by last spring's floods. We have to dodge dozens of downed trees in the waterway--many that still have leaves or needles on them. They remind us of just how recently the spring-melt floods have ripped up those forest giants by their roots and sent them crashing down the valley. We can see dozens of slide chutes where countless tons of rock and biomass have broken off to slide thousands of feet down the mountainside, carrying everything ahead of them, finally to crash into the bay, leaving long streaks of bare granite and piles of broken rock and twisted, splintered wood at the bottom. I would not want to be in t
his anchorage in the early spring when meltwaters are running fast!Another dinghy cruise takes us back out to the entrance of the bay where Patrick has spied a waterfall behind a little spur of mountain. We take the dinghy into the narrow opening - we can hear the crashing water and see the rising mist, but the bottom of the falls is still hidden. Farther and farther into the little nook we poke our little inflatable. The acute corner where the falls end is so tiny that it is only when we are actively getting drenched by the spray off the falls that we finally see where they meet the water. I can almost touched the rock walls on either side of us, and we both laugh to see a pair of harbor seals playing in the turbulent water. It must feel like a Jacuzzi to them!
Cameron Bay, Gil Island, August 13 This morning Patrick takes me ashore at the head of Cameron Bay, the site of an old First Nations reserve. I imagine that this place was a valued resource to them. In an area where shorelines are rocky and steep, a long drying tidal flat like this, especially with a salmon stream, would provide a bounty of foo
d and other materials. Clams whose forebears fed this village are still here. Near the mouth of the creek on the east side I find an ancient rock fish trap, bared at low tide. The line of rocks piled across the river bottom just before it broadens into the bay form a chevron that would have guided salmon into cedar-bark nets and baskets on a dropping tide.The salmon are beginning to come in here. Pat has seen a group of a dozen or so milling around near the mouth of the west creek. I see two carcasses on the flats farther upstream. A bear has stripped the protein-rich belly meat and roe, and eagles have been tearing away at the rest. I am sorry to interrupt their meal as I approach. They adjourn to
a nearby tree to watch me--I'm sure they wonder about my intentions toward that fish! As the eagles and I watch each other, I noticed movement along the rocky shore. A mink hurries over a boulder and into the shadow of a fallen tree trunk. There are far too many bald eagles in the trees here for a mink to remain exposed for very long.The carnivores are gathered here for sure. The salmon spawn plays a huge part in this ecosystem. The eagles are gathered--I spot more than 20 in the western bay alone. The ravens must be having a convention. I can hear dozens and dozens of them in the forest. They make forays out to the flats in hopes of finding a fish carcass not too closely guarded by the eagles. Their vocalizations are astonishing, ranging from sounds like clicks and knocks to whistles, whoops and something that sounds disconcertingly like a cat meowing.
Bear sign is everywhere. I narrowly avoid a pile near a huge downed cedar log in the woods near t
he shoreline. It is beside the colossal stump it was cut from and its upper surface is flat and smooth, covered with a thick layer of cushiony moss. At first I think I have found a house post from a big house, but the flat plane only goes about 30 feet down the log. I climb on top of the log to investigate and see the explanation: a plank, inches thick and split by hand from the log lies next to the parent log. It, too, is covered with a heavy layer of moss. More evidence of the ancient culture that once thrived here.Lowe Inlet, August 15
A last-minute change of plans brings us back north in to Lowe Inlet. On our way up Grenville Channel we watch four humpback whales lunge feeding all around us. They dive down near a school of small fish or krill (always leaving us with a jaunty flip of the flukes), then turn and head back to the surface, mouths wide open to capture their meal. We drift with them and the current, watching their lazy feeding patterns. Pat drops a line over the side, baited for salmon. Soon we hear the buzzing sound of the reel letting out. He has one on the line! Patrick reels it in and I man the net to haul in a fat, beautiful silvery-green coho that weighs about 25 pounds. We enjoy dining on fresh salmon!We enter Lowe Inlet late in the day and anchor in front of the falls, facing east. An evening dinghy cruise takes us close to the falls at high tide. Rock formations on either side look like
perfect hunting platforms for the bears. We drop a small anchor in the pool in front of the falls to hold us in one place to watch all the action. The water around us is alive with salmon, some swimming deep, some milling around with their dorsal fins above the surface, and some doing practice leaps, warming up for the big moment against the falls. A pair of harbor seals cruise the pool silently, hoping to catch a fish off guard. They are joined by an otter, also looking for an easy meal. Waves of salmon suddenly begin thrashing their tails, propelling themselves forward and upward, launching fearlessly into 
the unknown of the falls. Some make progress, others strike the rocks with a meaty 'thunk' and slither and flip themselves back into the pool for another try. Pat says quietly, "Bear," and like an actor making an entrance from stage right, a large black bear comes out of the wings of the forest and takes the granite stage, lit by the lowering sun. A Greek chorus of bald eagles and ravens perch on nearby branches, twittering and squawking of their hopes the bear will have a successful catch, so they can take their own turns at the carcasses. The little theatrical has a happy ending (for all but the salmon!) The bear carries off his prize. The drama of the food chain continues its long run here in Lowe Inlet.Our second afternoon at the falls brings us more bears to watch. Each uses different
methods, from snatching leaping fish mid-air in their jaws, to pinning them down on the rocks with their huge paws. One little cub makes half a dozen forays to the edge of the rushing falls. He nervously approaches the edge, watching the leaping, thrashing fish for a while before gingerly dipping the tip of his paw in the cold water. Each time he backs away, the look on his face clearly says, "Surely they don't expect ME to do THAT!?" as he trundles back into the forest, only to reappear and approach the falls again moments later. I wonder about the "Stage Mother" bear back there, encouraging his multiple attempts...
