North... to Alaska?

Simon in the cockpit, underway

Port McNeill, June 29, 2013
Tonight we are preparing to round Cape Caution, an annual minor crisis of planning for minimal wave height forecasts combined with preparing Tenacious an undefined period of time at anchorages in the wilderness. Shopping opportunities (for food, fuel or repair parts) become fewer and farther between the farther north we go, so we try to make ourselves as self-sufficient as possible. The last couple of ingredients for favorite seafood recipes, a spare impeller, an O-ring for the raw water intake, a bottle of Seam-Seal to fix a sneaky drip from a seam of the canvas cockpit, and bags of ice for Happy Hour cocktails are among our final purchases in Port McNeill.

This will be the first time new mates Simon and Jake, aka "The Kitty-Boys," will experience the swell of the Pacific Ocean. Until now we have traveled behind the protection of Vancouver Island, and been quite fortunate with very calm seas. Wish us all luck!




The kitty boys are doing so very well. They are relaxed on board and friendly with everyone who comes over (and everyone wants to meet them.) Best of all, they show no signs of wanting to jump off on the dock and go wandering. Such good boys!  I wouldn’t want to be on a smaller boat though. One of their favorite activities right after breakfast is racing each other pell-mell from one end of the boat to the other. Or from stem to stern, as we mariners say. Then it's nap time...

Pierre's at Echo Bay, June 19-20

Yep, we were all the way up there!

I am well along in my annual process of recapturing my "Nature Girl" persona; or maybe this is the real me? Today my friend Colleen asks if I would climb with her up to the top of the cliffs across from the marina. I reply instantly, "Of course!" but feel some inner misgivings. I have gone bashing though the woods with Colleen before. I know that the experiences are always strenuous and a bit of a stretch for my courage, and always very memorable.

 

We dinghy over to the other side of the bay and clamber up the rocky shoreline to reach the forest above the high tide line. Soon we find the remains of a trail leading inward and upward along the all-but-vertical base of the cliffs. Rainstorms over the last couple of days have left everything wet and slippery. Before long the trail becomes steeper and less defined. We lose it and backtrack find it again a couple of times. Suddenly we are faced with a slick rock face lined with scraggly salal bushes and ill-mannered cedar branches. Thankfully we also find an aged rope, slick with mud and moss, tied to a tree above. A few tugs to ensure the rope still attached and we haul ourselves up hand-over-hand. This turns out to be the first of four places where we must climb using ropes.

 

The trail deteriorates; we scramble over fallen timber and thrusting through various errant and impudent growths before arriving at the peak thoroughly slimed. There we are greeted by spectacular views of the marina, Billy Proctor's buildings and Cramer Passage and her many islands, beyond. I call Patrick on the walkie-talkie so he can get some pictures of us. We can barely be seen from the dock; we can see for miles and miles.

 

Tenacious looks so tiny down there!

Colleen and I relax and enjoy the view for a while before re-tracing our steps. At one point I think I have a foothold on a huge rounded granite outcropping and end up stripping off a massive patch of moss as I slide down the face of the rock before catching a root with my toes. Lucky thing: the next stop is quite a bit farther down. Dirty hands, face, knees, backside, scratched up arms and pine needles down my neck, you might not recognize me. And I am completely happy.

 

Captains Cove Marina, June 3

Tenacious is getting her bottom worked on.  I pressure-wash the gunk off as Patrick greases the prop and changes the sacrificial zincs that protect it. It's a little disconcerting, working underneath this multi-ton hull as she hangs from two straps that we can hear groaning and stretching...
Pictures from the road...
Baby prairie dogs in the badlands! Nothing is cuter, except my two cats.

 

A Jubilation of Dolphins

Johnstone Strait – September 10, 2012
We are underway, heading south in Johnstone Strait when I spot a line of black-tipped ripples a mile or so ahead of us. I take the binoculars and go forward to the bow. The cry on deck goes out: Pacific White-sided dolphins ahead! They are hunting in a long line that moves back and forth from east to west across the Strait. It looks like a dolphin parade except we can’t tell who is the drum major. Every so often the entire line changes direction, presumably when the fish they are herding and feeding upon changes direction. We estimate that there are well over 200 dolphins, maybe 300. They must hear our engine, because suddenly they all turn north and swim to greet us. Boat meets dolphins and they turn in our direction, sometimes leading, sometimes following along, making us part of their play. We are surrounded by the sounds of rushing water against dorsal fin as each dolphin surfaces and submerges just long enough to emit a short “Pifft” sound of moist exhalation and inhalation before submerging again at speed. Cliques of three or four or five of them at a time race in either side of our bow wake, jockeying and bumping each other to see if one of the others is having more fun. Occasionally one will turn onto its side, displaying the characteristic white patch along its lean, rubbery torso, one intelligent eye looking up to see us as we peer down. They swim along with us, speeding up to go ahead, or slowing down to drop back and give someone else a chance in the exhilarating turbulence of the bow wake. Every so often one of them leaps completely out of the water, sometimes arcing gracefully back in to the water, sometimes slapping down tail-first with a loud smacking sound, sometimes rolling sideways in mid-air to land with a huge splash, apparently all for the sheer joy of it.

They seem to be the happiest of creatures with their sleek, flexible bodies and humorous, school-boy antics. Finally, after having run along with us for a couple of miles, the dolphins, with their notoriously short attention span, decide to return to fishing. As quickly as a thought, they turn north, and we are watching their dorsal fins recede behind us. We call out our goodbyes and thank them for joining us for a while. I have read that a gathering of crows is called a “murder,” and that a group of geese is called a gaggle. Perhaps this vibrant mass of playful, joyous creatures should be called a “jubilation of dolphins.” (See a brief video by clicking on the arrow below.)

The Irresistibility of Bears
August 15 – Lowe Inlet
It turns out, I can watch bears just being bears for hours and be perfectly happy. It is what I have been doing for the past several days. The weather is glorious; each day I awake to sunshine on blue water outside the big stern windows just beyond my pillow in our aft cabin. The first order of morning business is a trip to the deck to see what is happening at the waterfall. We are anchored just in front of it and can clearly see the rock platforms on each side of the falls and exactly what the bears are up to, After a couple of days, I can even begin to identify certain individual bears. On these hot afternoons, there is one who seems to have a penchant for soaking in a little pool at the side of the falls. It sits there by the hour in its own private 'cold tub,' watching other bears come and go. A small yearling bear is just learning how to fish and stands next to the falls, flailing his paws and watching the fish go by...we cheer when he gets a salmon! The big bears work fast--they walk down to the 'prime spot,' get in position and catch a fish, either by trapping one against the rock or literally snatching it out of the air as it jumps, usually in less than a minute. They seem to take one fish, carry it up to a flat spot on top of the rocks to eat it, then return to the falls for a second fish which is then carried back into the woods. When the bears leave, the bald eagles go after the carcasses, followed by the ravens. Nothing is wasted.

Francis’s feast

July 31 – Klemtu

We are invited to a celebration at the Big House in Klemtu! We have been here before, the first time was several years ago on a tour by one of the village elders, Francis Robinson, an elder of this village and a delightful, kind, funny man who was Klemtu’s unofficial ambassador for many years. He died in 2010. Last year we met one of his sons, a nephew and a grandson, and exchanged letters with them over the winter. This year we meet more relatives, and are invited to the feast commemorating the unveiling of Francis’s tombstone. Francis's son Gary tells us he has been preparing for this event since his father’s passing, almost three years. The ‘doings’ begin at 3:00 in the afternoon. We find a place near some acquaintances from the village and settle in on the wide bleacher-like seats in the big house. We are surrounded by cedar. Cedar, along with salmon, is the core of life on this coast. It provides everything from building materials like the truly colossal house posts, beams, walls and seats of the Big House, to the medium for the carved dance masks we will see, to the bark from which is woven the traditional hats and headbands worn by many members of the community. At the front of the Big House, a huge cedar log, carefully peeled and shaped, lies prone behind the seats set up for the chiefs and elders. Long cedar benches on either side of the log are for the dozen or so drummers, who will strike the log with large carved cedar drumsticks that look small clubs. Even the large stone fire-pit in the center of the huge sand dance area is fed throughout the night with chunks of it. The sharp perfume of freshly-cut cedar fills the air and its smoke drifts slowly upward to the opening in the roof, high above. Francis’s son George tells me that the smoke of the cedar fire embraces the ancestors. He says his father is with us in the smoke.

The Feast
We are welcomed to the celebration by Francis’s eldest son . Francis's tombstone is in a place of honor between the seated chiefs and elders and the central fire. Tomorrow it will be taken by boat and placed on his grave on this village’s burial island. Tonight, this good man is memorialized by those who knew him best and the speeches are very moving. At one point, many large containers are carried out and placed in the sand on the far side of the fire. Giant plastic storage tubs, laundry baskets and boxes are stacked in a large display. We realize that this is not just a feast, but a true potlatch. I have been studying the potlatch tradition this summer, so I know that the giving of gifts bestows honor on the giver. In this culture, the more a leader gives away, the greater his status, the greater the honor to Francis. Family members and friends of Francis are called to the front and given gifts of household goods and even cash. The distribution of gifts takes place at several different times during the celebration.

It is close to 7:00 when dinner is announced. Chiefs, elders and out-of-town guests are invited to join the buffet line first. We wait, a little shy, until we see that other visitors are joining the line. Ahead of us is a group of village teenagers, giggling and cutting up, and the two young fishermen who gave us a freshly-caught coho salmon the day we came into the dock here. We thank them again. When we get to the Big House kitchen it is clear that the Robinson family has been cooking for days. There must be a dozen huge aluminum foil roasting pans of salmon alone, each proudly prepared in the favorite way of its contributor. Many more pans of halibut, baked or fried, tempt us. Huge bowls of potato salad and macaroni salad fill in the corners. There is one dish we do not recognize. It turns out to be boiled sea cucumber and we each try some. Patrick enjoys his, I find it tastes a bit like salted rubber bands … but I am glad to have had the experience. Later I learn that the sea cucumber was prepared by Francis’s mother. We carry our plates back to our seats and eat until we can hold no more. And then the dancing begins.
The Sea Monster Dance
The drummers and singers begin their song as the dancer enters the big house from behind a screen. A black cape covers his body from mask to sand dance floor. Crouching low, he bends forward from the waist and moves from side to side on deeply bent knees; his movements mimic those of a sea creature from nightmares, undulating through the lightless depths, looking for an unwary fisherman or careless boater. The carved cedar mask of the sea monster glares out at the audience, seeking, hinged jaw snapping, seeking from one side to the other, tilting inquisitively, stretching forward to see in the dimness. The firelight gleams on the mask’s polished copper highlights. The sound of a carved cedar rattles guides the dancer around and around the central fire. The drumbeat quickens, the singer’s voices grow louder, slowly building to a crescendo. Suddenly, the sea monster spins around and disappears behind a screen as the song and drumming cease. We sit stunned for a moment, caught in the trance of the sea monster’s gaze and the hypnotic rhythm of the drums. Later, we learn that the dancer was our friend Francis’s son Gary, and this is only the second time this dance has ever been performed.

The Chiefs’ Dance is one we have seen before. They wear traditional ‘button blankets’ decorated with a clan crest made from appliquéd fabric and shell buttons. Underneath are dance aprons, also fancifully decorated, often with bells or jingles. Each chief wears a headdress of white fur with a carved frontpiece. Hanging down the back of the mask are dozens of whole white ermine skins. Later they return for the Uplifting of the Babies where each new baby and its parents are introduced to the band. Each chief carries one of the babies, followed by its parents, in a proud dance around the central fire.

There is a dance for each of the clan crests: the Killer Whale, the Eagle, the Raven and the Wolf, each accompanied by the drummers and singers. The songs are simple ancient melodies with words in a language unknown to us. Around us, some of the villagers are singing along. We are asked not to record these dances.Each one is owned by someone here, perhaps passed down through many generations, and only performed with his or her permission.

The Killer Whale dance begins with a single dancer, masked and caped in black. She glides toward the central fire. Her hands are pressed together in front of her as if in prayer; they represent the Killer Whale’s proud black dorsal fin. She steps smoothly, gracefully to the drum beat as if through water, moving her hands up and down, up and down the way that a swimming orca’s dorsal fin first pierces the surface of the water and rises, then sinks below as it swims. Soon, another orca joins her, then a third and a fourth, moving together in timeless patterns around the fire. The Killer Whales are traveling, hunting together as they do in the sea just steps outside the door of the Big House. One by one they leave the fire circle.

Next the Eagles surround the fire, their carved cedar masks have piercing eyes and yellow hooked beaks; white heads and white tails at the end of their black capes make them easily recognizable. The swoop and soar around the flames, arms outstretched, stooping to dive, stretching high to ascend. The chittering high-pitched cry of the eagle is woven into the singers’ chant. Wheeling and diving, the eagles leave the dance floor all too soon.

They are followed by the lone Wolf, who stalks around the fire, slinking stealthily, large carnivore eyes ever-watchful. She circles the fire, always counterclockwise, to the rhythm the drummers pound out, the compelling, almost hypnotic lub-DUB, lub-DUB of a heartbeat, felt through the cavernous space, felt through the core of my body. Suddenly the beat changes to a rapid staccato. The lone wolf stops, raises her head and howls. She is answered by one of the singers, howling to her in return. The lonely sound echoes through the huge big house, eerie, almost heartbreaking.

In finest potlatch tradition, there is a jokester. Early in the evening, a handsome young man had announced the he was the “lost and found” and if anyone misplaced any item, they should come to see him. He appears now on the sand dance floor after the crest dances, holding up a jacket and announcing that the owner of said article will have to dance in order to get it back. Everyone looks around to check on their belongings, now scattered over the seats. Above us we hear someone say, “Hey—that’s mine – I’m sure I left it right here!” and those who are in the know start to smile. The jokester and his assistants have staged this to tease a guest, who good-naturedly makes his way down toward the fire. The singers and drummers begin a chant and the jokester starts to dance, his movements aping those of the real dancers, exaggerating and parodying them. He dances backwards, holding the jacket high out in front of the poor victim, waving it temptingly and indicating that he must earn the jacket back by doing the same dance. The whole audience roars with laughter at the amusing movements of the jokester, and the pitiful attempt at imitation by the jacket’s owner. This scenario is played out several times throughout the evening, much to everyone’s delight.

It is almost midnight and a 'night lunch' of sandwiches and desserts is served. Now more big plastic tubs are carried out onto the sand. Francis’s family come and open them, first pulling out dozens and dozens of t-shirts and hats commemorating tonight’s celebration. They roam throughout the bleachers, distributing them to the guests. We are surprised and honored to be given these potlatch gifts. More tubs and baskets come out. These are filled with kitchen and household items. Someone lays out many mixing bowls on the ground. Others randomly fill the bowls with differing assortments of hand towels, pairs of socks, kitchen utensils, dish cloths hand-crocheted doilies and potholders, and more. Once again we are each given a bowl full of potlatch gifts. The potlatch is ending. Hearts full, we thank our hosts, and bid our new friends in this village goodnight. We fall asleep, cedar smoke wafting through our dreams. This is an experience we will never forget, as we will never forget our friend Francis Robinson and our many friends in Klemtu.

Sea Otter Suprise

July 30 - Finlayson Channel

We leave our snug anchorage in Mary Cove and set our course westward to the First Nations village of Klemtu on Swindle Island. They have an excellent and abundant supply of fresh water so Patrick and I take advantage of the coming bounty by taking showers and starting a load of laundry in our little washing machine. Patrick is in the shower down below; I am on watch, navigating across the channel and watching out for floating logs, common on this coast. I spot a small-ish one and note that it is not in our path, not a danger to our hull. I turn and continue to scan the surface of the water for half-sunken dangers. I catch myself idly wondering, “Why is that log rolling over?” when it hits me—that's no log -- it is a sea otter! Instantly I drop the boat into neutral and scramble down the companionway steps in search of the video camera, calling “Sea otter! Sea otter!” to Patrick. Seconds later I’m back on the foredeck filming the otter as he floats on his back off our bow. He lifts a paw in what seems like a wave of greeting, and returns to his rolling, grooming air bubbles into his thick fur with his clawed forepaws, insulating himself from the cold water. The otter does a back flip and dives for moment, so I turn to see if Patrick is out of the shower. And there he is at the cockpit door, dripping wet and wearing nothing but a pair of binoculars. This particular moment will not make it into the video …

Grizzly at Khutze Waterfall
Khutze Inlet has been a favorite stop for us since we came in for the first time several years ago. The long narrow inlet leads several miles up into the interior. At the head, a huge grassy river delta and several waterfalls drain the surrounding 4000 – 5000 foot peaks. We anchor just in front of the largest waterfall. It is really many waterfalls that start in the snow fields high above us. When the late morning sun strikes at the right angle, they appear as glowing strands of molten silver, gathered one by one and braided together by a giant, invisible hand.

Today Patrick spots a grizzly bear strolling across the flats near the base of the big fall at the bottom of the valley. We watch the bear stride across grass, rocks and small creeks before he takes to the water of the inlet and swims several hundred yards along the rock wall. We imagine he seeks to cool off (the temperature today is in the 70s) and escape from the horse flies we can see circling his head. He occasionally lifts his head and sniffs the air while swimming. Finally he scents what he is looking for and confidently climbs the steep, rocky shoreline to disappear into the woods.

The Beginning of a Beautiful Summer

July 13, 2012: Ocean Falls
The marine weather forecast predicts gale force winds in the next few days so we decide to wait out the weather tied up to a dock. Ocean Falls has the finest fresh water and friendliest docks on the coast so we come in for some fun, companionship and shore time. The weather has been great all week; there is nothing quite so beautiful as sun shining on snow fields that remind me of colossal lace doilies carelessly tossed atop the mountain peaks surrounding Cousins Inlet. Ocean Falls used to be a booming mill town with hotels, restaurants, apartment buildings, a school, bank, fire department, Olympic-sized swimming pool, tennis courts, etc. Now the wind blows the ragged remains of curtains through broken windows and roof beams sag until they collapse. Semi-tame deer wander around abandoned front yards, nibbling on feral foliage of what were once prized gardens.

On our bike ride today we meet a friendly deer who watches us approach with curiousity but no apparent fear. I get within about 20 feet of his velvet-covered antlers and decide that's close enough. He looks up from browsing on the delicate leaves of wild salmon berries nad ferns as I capture his digital portrait.

I hear some commotion and find a young bear hanging around the back door of a little lodge/restaurant that caters to the seasonal logging crews that make their headquarters here. He has been lured down from the forest by the unexpected bounty of the bag of garbage left out before going in to the burn barrel. It takes several very excited and unjustifiedly brave barking dogs to remind it of the boundaries between humans and bears, and he lumbers off, back to the woods. (But 15 minutes later he is back, just in case anything is left behind...) The young bear's paws are just huge, like a big, black puppy’s.

July 8, 2012: Patrick and the Whale
We have rounded Cape Caution with alacrity and a certain amount of nausea from the ship's cat. Four-foot combined swell and wind waves are do-able but not particularly pleasant. The swell typically comes from the northwest and for at least of portion of the passage, hits us at an angle that puts Tenacious into an unnerving roll. Rather than relying on the auto-pilot, Patrick takes the ship's wheel in hand, reading the on-coming waves and trying to avoid the worst of it, but despite his skill and vigilance the occasional rogue wave knocks our stern quarter into a wallowing slither, or sends an arcing plume of green seawater over the bow to startle us with a blinding splatter across the clear plastic windshield of the cockpit. Pleasant surprises include sighting a trio of orcas heading south and a pair of sea otters, rolling and floating, their be-whiskered faces peering nearsightedly at our passing ship. Three hours later we make the turn into Smith Sound. Finally, the seas are following us rather than rolling us around in the dreaded wallowing motion.

We anchor in a tiny, private nook and soon dinghy out to explore and fish. I am dropped off on an intriguing-looking island while Patrick continues out to a rocky spot where he caught a big fish last year. I from my shell-covered island, and Patrick in the dinghy both spot a humpback whale at the same moment, we call each other on the walkie-talkies. I catch a picture of Patrick and The Whale ... Patrick zooms back to the island to pick me up, and we go back out on the water to watch it lunge-feed, diving down deep and then swimming vertically to the surface with its huge mouth gaping wide to gulp in the herring. With all the excitement of the whale, Patrick and I return to the Tenacious without any fish, but another dinghy trip produces two beautiful lingcod for dinner!

June 26: Beachcombed Treasures

I love beachcombing. I hope to find old glass beads, artifacts and other evidence of early occupation, but stumble upon (sometimes literally) all sorts of other treasures, too. Sometimes it is a shard of old Victorian-era transferware china, a piece of an old lustreware teapot or a bit of blue opalescent glass that must have been part of a treasured ornament. I find bones and teeth and speculate endlessly on what sort of animal they might have come from. Gears from old clocks. Brass fittings from old boats. Enchanting pieces of driftwood that would make a beautiful .... something ... for someone. Many seem to make their way on board Tenacious.

Today I hunt along the waterline on a falling tide, alone on a stretch of beach that once was home to hundreds of Kwakwaka'wakw natives. Bears live here now, I have seen them. A mother and cub have been foraging along the cut formed by the outflow of a fresh-water creek. Their pawprints, large and small, are deeply impressed into the sandy mud of the bank. So I keep my ears open and my instincts sharp. Ravens fly back and forth overhead, conducting their raven business at the top of their lungs. Robins and seagulls hop among the bladderwrack seeking morsels. I can hear the high-pitched 'keek-keek-keek' of a bald eagle but don't see it until I am started by a loud splash behind me. I lurch around just in time to see the eagle struggling shoreward, butterfly-stroking with its wings through the shallow water toward shore. His final hop onto the beach discloses his prey: a small flatfish, which it proceeds to tear apart with beak and talons. Later, back on board Tenacious, Pat reports that he watched a similar scene, perhaps the same eagle, enacted on shore near our anchorage.

June 11, 2012: Out to Sea

After a little more than a week of pressure washing, repairing, shopping, stowing, cleaning and hauling, we are almost ready to leave the home dock in pretty Ladner, BC and begin our summer journey. We have hauled Tenacious out for her annual bottom check. She doesn't need bottom paint this year, so we pressure-wash the winter's green growth off and change the sacrificial zincs that protect the prop and other metal fittings below the waterline from the depredation of seawater. It's a little unnerving to work beneath our multi-ton hull. She is suspended by two (hopefully brand-new or at least recently-inspected) canvas straps hanging from a 100-ton Travellift.

We take it for granted that cloudy skies on the day we leave the dock is an omen that fine weather will follow us all summer ... The whole boat is filled with the fragrance of peonies; Patrick bought a huge bouquet for me at the Ladner Street Market on Sunday and I supplemented it with wild honeysuckle from the roadside. Our summer adventure begins.

Sunny Days and Starry, Starry Nights

Happy Anniversary to Us! September 1, 2011

Today we celebrate 20 years! As we reminisce this morning, neither of us can believe 20 years have passed since our wedding day. The memories of that day remain so fresh in our minds. We were surrounded by so many of the people we love that day, and tonight we are lucky enough to be anchored with dear friends who have invited us for a celebration dinner on board their boat. This morning we awoke in Nimmo Bay to see a mama black bear and her two young cubs beachcombing nearby - a special gift! It is truly a happy day for us. (That is Jessie the Cat in the photo instead of me. She was complaining that she wasn't getting any visibility ...)

What a Drag ... Bottleneck Inlet, August 24

We pull up the anchor at Lowe Inlet at 6:48am today with the full knowledge that it will be a long day. Our destination is Bottleneck Inlet, a good 12-hour run south. As we log our lat/long and weather conditions every hour, the only variation seems to be whether the sheets of rain are just relentlessly falling, or actually lashing the decks. We are grateful to pull in to Bottleneck Inlet. As its name implies, the entrance is through a narrow channel. It widens a bit, flanked on both sides by steep, tree-covered mountains. As you go farther in until it shoals off into a long tidal mudflat at the head. At 6:20 in the evening we drop the anchor in soft mud between a large power boat and a smaller sailboat, and take a brief dinghy tour of the inlet. We dine sumptuously on Patrick's home-made pizza and turn in.

All is calm, all is bright -- until about 1:30 in the morning when suddenly, a roaring wind awakens Patrick. He turns on the instruments; the anemometer reports over 30 knots blowing straight down the mountainsides and slamming into our decks. In the pitch dark we can see the anchor lights of our two boat neighbors. They are getting closer. Our anchor is dragging.

Patrick starts the engine and we dress in foul weather gear in record time. Because the mountains are so steep (and probably because we are in a rush) the GPS is taking forever to get a satellite signal, and then the display screen in the cockpit won't start. Even with our spreader lights on we can't see enough of the geography of the inlet to safely move the boat and get her re-anchored. From the bow, I can just see the outline of the mouth of the inlet and even though we still don't have electronics, I point out the way for Patrick to steer us when we get too close to the power boat for comfort. Finally the GPS acquires signal and we can "see" where we are well enough to safely re-anchor. By the time we shut down the boat, the strange "willawa" winds have dropped as quickly as they came up. I get very little sleep for the rest of the night.

Bears Will Be Bears ... Lowe Inlet, August _

From our anchor position directly in front of the falls I can sit, warm and dry in the cockpit and watch to see if any bears are fishing. In between the raindrops I notice a large black bear casually making his way to what we have deduced is the prime fishing spot near the base of falls at high tide. It has a ledge where he can secure his hindquarters, leaving paws and jaws free for fishing, and the water seems to flow in such a way that the salmon are drawn to jump there. From our up-close dinghy observations it is clearly the place where the largest number of salmon hurl themselves upward into the falls.

Our bear positions itself and in less than 30 seconds has secured a fish in his mouth and trapped another against the rocks with a paw. Juggling two fish while climbing up the bank proves beyond him and he ends up losing them both. He persists and almost immediately catches another fine salmon. He carries it in his mouth to what we call 'the platform' and lies down, totally relaxed and holding the fat fish in his forepaws. He begins to tear off chunks of red flesh with his huge incisors. I try to ignore the fact that the fish's tail is still flapping ... This Nature, red in tooth and claw. He catches several more salmon, eating just the fat-rich bellies and roe sacs, leaving the rest on the ground for other scavengers, and finally leaves the stage.

Moments later a smaller bear appears. Constantly looking over his shoulder, he makes his way to the bottom of the falls and takes up his position in the prime fishing spot. He is clearly not as experienced as the larger bears and is taking much longer to catch a fish. Suddenly a big adult bear appears at the top of the falls. He sees the young bear in the best fishing place and rushes toward it. The smaller bear, deafened by the roar of the falls in full spate, doesn't hear his larger cousin coming and is utterly surprised when he feels teeth on the back of his neck. The big bear gives him a shake by the scruff of the neck and challenges the smaller bear for the fishing position. The small bear is in a quandary: he wants to fish, and he wants to defend himself, but he knows the larger bear will win in the long run. He's got an attitude though! He flattens himself belly down on the sloped rock and bares his teeth, paws reaching up to slap the big bear looming over him. They scuffle. They jockey for position. We can literally see the bears reaching a sort of detente. The big bear scoots over a little to one side. The small bear sees his opening and scampers, tail tucked, up the shortest route back into the forest and safety. Now I know why he kept looking over his shoulder! Mr. Big Bear calmly moves into fishing position and promptly snatches a fish from the falls. He, too, retires into the forest to dine. Meanwhile, outside in Grenville Channel, Captain Patrick catches a nice coho for us!

Starry, Starry Nights, Chief Matthews Bay, August 9

We have been enjoying glorious sunny days and the stunning solitude of Chief Matthews Bay in the Great Bear Rain Forest. The scale of this place beggars description. Tenacious, anchored bravely in the northwest corner of the bay, looks like a bathtub toy. Sheer granite peaks rise thousands of feet, almost perpendicular to the water. We watch the depth sounder as Patrick noses our bow into the spray of yet another roaring, pulsing waterfall (there are dozens of them here.) Just a few feet from the rock wall we register no depth. It is so deep our sounder gets no reading. We haven't seen another boat in days. Snowfields extend down to the waterline in places. Wearing my sea boots, I 'skied' at sea level in BC in late August! A long, lazy dinghy tour of the waterfalls takes us outside the mouth of the bay to our "secret waterfall" hidden behind a spur of the mountain. Getting close to the base of the falls takes some courage as the volume and roaring of water splashing down into the narrow channel (only a few dinghy widths near the base of the falls) makes me feel a little claustrophobic, but the pidgeon guillemots have no fear. Here's one who caught a fish. With their sleek haute-couture black feathers, red mouths and red feet they remind me of supermodels wearing Christian Laboutin shoes!

It is almost 2am. The sky is so clear and the air so still that we wrap up in blankets against the dew and lie on the deck to gaze at a trillion stars. Satellites cross the sky in every direction. We count shooting stars (we never remember to look up exactly when the Perseid meteor showers are) and manage to spot at least a half dozen, two of which have huge tails almost like comets. We are eventually driven back inside by the chill. It feels good to crawl back in between the warm flannel sheets again.

A Seal's Gotta Eat Europa Bay Hot Springs, August 6

Big smiles break out all over the place as we pull in to Europa Bay, home of our favorite hot spring on the coast. We are finally enjoying day after day of warm, sunny weather and we have the bay all to ourselves. No need to be overly fastidious about the wearing of bathing suits in the hot springs. We scrub and soak, soak and scrub at least once a day. In the evening, we sit on the fantail and watch the salmon jumping in the bay, warming up for their imminent upstream heroics. The local harbor seals and otters are watching, too. I caught this one enjoying a little tail ...

Mysterious Khutze Inlet, August 4

After weeks of cold and rain, I am perhaps somewhat understandably enthralled with sunshine. I keep taking pictures of sunshine ... This morning the low clouds sinuously entwine themselves in and out of the valleys like long-bodied white Angora cats around the mountains' ankles. The waterfall is beautiful. A pair of humpback whales come to visit. A chorus line of harbor seals line up on a floating log, arguing and grumping, bumping and jockeying for their space in the sun. It is a spectacular morning.

The Wetter the Better?

July 27, 2011 Shearwater, Denny Island

It isn't raining! This exclamatory remark, loaded down with irony and sarcasm, tells a large chunk of the story of our summer sailing adventure so far. The Northwest coast has been plagued by wave after wave of low pressure systems, bringing storms, rain, cold winds and fog. The grey skies, cold and damp are taking their toll on our spirits. All we want to do is cuddle up on the banquette with blankets and good books, in the light of the brass oil lamp. That said, we have had some wonderful experiences in the 7 weeks we have been out.

July 24 Ocean Falls

This is our 6th day here; we are waiting out a series of storms here at this friendly dock. Today I use the hose at the fish cleaning station to swamp out Jessie's kitty litter box. Kneeling at the edge of the dock, I fill the empty box with water from the hose, scrub the bottom and dump the water into the chuck, when a sudden movement catches my eye. A harbor seal pops up right next to me, startling me a bit, looking at me with a world of hope and curiosity. I say hello to him, as I realize my splashing near the fish-cleaning area has led him to believe I have some nice, fresh fish offal for him. I inform him that, sadly, I don't have any tasty bits for him. He cocks his head and gives me a reproachful look. Surely no human could disappoint such a face! But I assure him that in fact I have no fish guts on my person, or I would surely share them with such a handsome seal. He coughs with disgust and shoves the water with a front flipper, splashing me, and disappears beneath the surface of the water just as suddenly as he appeared moments ago. Next time, I'll bring something for him! (This little blonde seal was relaxing on the log breakwater when we went out on a dinghy cruise last evening ...)

July 17 Indian Island

We anchor in a little basin near Takush Harbour, a favorite spot. Yesterday we came around Cape Caution, the aptly named point that marks the boundary between the southern and central coast of BC. It is the beginning of a difficult stretch of water that is open to Pacific swells, and can make for an uncomfortable passage. We always time our passage carefully, based on weather and wave height reports, and yesterday's journey was not too bad, (Jessie the Cat, who experienced some seasickness, may dispute this) and we are happy to be safely anchored in a tiny little cove that is almost completely hidden from sight. In the early morning silence, a mink makes its way along the rocky shoreline at low tide. Later, Patrick returns from a fishing expedition, triumphant, bearing a 40" lingcod which we will be dining upon for some time to come. Lingcod is a delicious firm, white fish. The process of cleaning and fileting it was intensely interesting to Jessie the Cat, who just about turned herself inside out winding around our ankles to make sure we knew she was available to assist with those pesky little fish scraps. She loves sushi!

July 1 Pierre's at Echo Bay

We always enjoy visiting our friends at Pierre's and this year we shared the Canada Day celebration with over 100 other boaters of many nationalities. Prime rib was on the menu, along with baked potatoes, veggies, salad and brownies for dessert. Pierre and Tove Landry really know how to throw a party! Last year our nephews Nate and Sam were with us for this event. We miss them!

June 29 Claydon Bay

A low tide, a stretch of beach and the promise of beachcombing gets me out of bed early this morning. We layer on the fleece vests, jackets and life preservers, top them off with raingear and head to the edge of the forest where we find a young black bear ambling along, turning over boulders to lick up the tasty beach crabs that hide underneath. He takes a look at us, but finds the breakfast buffet spread for him on shore much more interesting. In the mist of the early morning we can hear him crunching the shells of the mussels he is eating. His claws, turning over the barnacled rocks, are huge. A bald eagle in a nearby tree crying it's twittering call over and over. We watch the until the bear disappears back into the forest.

North--and South Again... August 18, 2010

Europa Bay, July 31 (Sorry - I just realized I have changed the 'order' of the blog - usually most recent to earlier, this time, earlier to most recent. Can't figure out how to change it without re-entering it all, so please bear with me this time~~)

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 this 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 food 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 the 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...