Gwaii Haanas and Raising the Legacy Pole

Raising the Legacy Pole, Windy Bay, Gwaii Haanas National Park Reserve, August 15, 2013

The last 36 hours have brought high winds and lashing rains to our anchorage, about 5 miles south of Windy Bay, where today, a  42-foot, hand-carved commemorative pole will be raised, the first erected in Gwaii Haanas in a long time. This morning we find the skies threatening but with patches of blue (sailors call them ‘sucker holes’…) and the winds are only 10-15 knots, down from the 20-30 knots we experienced yesterday, and that were in the forecast for today. We load up a backpack with everything from sunglasses to foul weather gear and board a Canada Parks work boat for a pounding, high-speed ride over to Windy Bay, the site of an ancient Haida village. It is quite remote and open to wind and waves of Hecate Strait; the only way in is by boat or float plane. There is a flotilla of Coast Guard, Canada Parks and private boats rocking at anchor outside; through the morning, swarms of smaller boats ferry people in from anchorages, campsites and other parts of the island.

 

We visited this village on our way south a couple of weeks ago and met lead carver Jaalen Edenshaw, and his apprentice, Tyler. They were counting down the days they had left to complete the pole even then, and today they are working feverishly to complete the final touches. We watch as they carefully shape the feathers on the eagle’s wings, finely smooth the curve the Watchmen's hat, and attach thick pieces of peacock blue abalone shell. With time running out, the carvers walk up and down alongside the pole, examining it from all angles as they make last minute refinements.

The atmosphere is thrilling. Many of the Haida wear traditional costumes. We see hats and headbands woven of cedar bark or spruce root; colorful blankets decorated with appliqued clan crests and abalone shell buttons; leggings, dance aprons, and more blankets woven of wool in the older traditional pre-contact Raven's Wing or Chilkat designs. The many Haida hereditary chiefs here to witness and participate are resplendent in long robes and headpieces decorated with crest carvings inlaid with abalone and hung with whole ermine skins. The dignitaries from the Canadian government and Canada Parks, including Justin Trudeau, son of Pierre, are dressed quite somberly in comparison. Only the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in their bright red and blue uniforms seem festive enough for the day.


I find Duck Soup, our Haida friend and Watchman who introduced us to T'aanuu village with wonderful stories of her heritage. She is working on getting the food ready. The Haida women have been cooking and baking for days. There is beef stew, seafood chowder, sandwich makings, fresh fruit and dozens of home-made pies and desserts. They have outdone themselves. I offer to help and Duck puts me to work. Noreen of Pacific Sapphire, Catherine Williams of Terrapin and I begin slicing cheese, cucumbers and desserts and arranging them attractively on serving trays. It was estimated that 300 people might be at the pole raising; I think there are more like 400-500. The logistics of feeding all of these people in this out-of-the-way place are astounding. Our extra hands are appreciated.

While ropes are attached to the pole, lunch is served to all in attendance. Bowls of beef stew are passed but we choose the seafood chowder, rich and chunky with salmon, halibut and shrimp, and garnished with plenty of herring roe on kelp -- a crunchy new treat we have found we enjoy a great deal.

On a table nearby are tubs of large live purple sea urchins in layers of kelp fronds. A Haida man chooses a nice big one out of the tub and chops it in half with a single chop from his hefty knife. I accept his invitation to try it. Following his example I gingerly avoid the sharp spines and dip my fingers into the bright gold-colored 'guts' to taste my first raw sea urchin. It is surprisingly good, though I admit to a little shudder when I am informed that what I am eating, while considered a delicacy, is still basically sea urchin gonads. I shrug, taste another dip from my fingers and add some to my chowder. I decide I am going to enjoy the intriguing new flavor without further cogitation as to its identity...

The master of ceremonies calls us to gather around the pole, and the ceremonies of the raising begin with a prayer in the Haida language. Then the trio of carvers, Jaalen, Tyler and Gwaai do their blessing, which includes a dance. They escort the matriarch who does the women's blessing of the pole. She dips a cedar spray into a bowl of water and uses it to tap the pole, up one side and down the other. Young girls, including Jaalen's daughters, follow with woven bags full of eagle down feathers. Eagle down is a traditional symbol of peace on this entire coastline. They sprinkle the down on the pole, and it blows everywhere. For a few minutes in the vicinity of the pole it appears to be snowing eagle down...

 
Suddenly, in the woods not far from where I am standing, I hear a noise and notice a stand of small saplings shake as if a large animal was moving through them. I swing the video camera in that direction. We are all startled by the sound of a hoarse, croaking shout. Out of the woods comes a Wild Man, half naked, draped in cedar and masked. He leaps out from the trees, flailing his arms threateningly as he repeats his harsh, shouted cries.

The Haida in the crowd who know this story are screaming and shouting in fear.  Guujaaw (GOO-jow), a Haida drummer, artist and leader who was deeply involved in creating and protecting this area, seems to be trying to chase the Wild Man away by following him and beating his hand-held drum. The Wild Man continues to shout and dance. He runs and leaps, squatting and whirling, arms outstretched, reaching and grasping to frighten the crowd. Again and again he reaches down, sweeps up handfuls of dirt and flings them around in his frenzy. He gestures  menacingly at the crowd, but he repeatedly returns to the pole to slap and shout at it.

All the while Guujaaw gets closer and closer, and the beat of his drum is faster, louder, more and more insistent. The Wild Man has completed his circle around the pole and Guujaaw moves in even closer. No longer able to withstand the compelling drumbeat, the Wild Man returns to the woods, snarling and gnashing his teeth. The ceremony can continue. The crowd cheers.

Finally it is time to raise the pole. It's carved and painted creatures represent the connectedness of everything in nature, and the unique protections of Gwaii Haanas National Park Reserve that include everything from the bottom of the ocean to the skies at the mountaintops. At the bottom of the pole is Sculpin, a fish representing the ocean, followed by Grizzly Bear who appears in many Haida oral traditions. Next is a Raven, one of the two Haida clan moieties. Every Haida is either a Raven or an Eagle. The Five Good People Standing Together represent those who stood up against the logging companies and the government of Canada to protect south Moresby Island, resulting in the creation of Gwaii Haanas. A supernatural Wasco is described as a sea wolf. Sacred One Standing and Moving is a supernatural being who holds the post that holds up Haida Gwaii (kind of like Atlas.) When he moves, the islands shake as they did in a major earthquake last fall. Marten is next; when Marten runs up the post holding up Haida Gwaii, he creates the sound before the earthquake to warn the people. The Three Watchmen honor all those who protect and watch over Gwaii Haanas, past and present. Finally, cresting the pole is Eagle with his copper-clad head, representing the sky and the other Haida moiety.

The ropes are attached, padded underneath with blankets to protect the painted cedar and stretched out on the ground. Two lines lead behind the pole and four are in front. An experienced pole raiser is prepared to lead the crowd of volunteers who man the ropes. First he has a group lift the prone pole from its supports and slide it a few yards, tilting it up a bit so its base rests against the side of the deep hole that has been dug.  He calls out to the rope teams, urging them to listen carefully for his instructions. If one rope team pulls too hard, or in the wrong direction, the pole could be damaged, or worse, topple before it is in position. Patrick is stationed on one of the two key center-forward ropes.

With several hundred people manning the ropes the majestic pole begins to rise. I find tears springing to my eyes. The crowd is gasping, mouths open, eyes following the progress of the beautiful carving skyward. I am not sure if it is the ropes or the pole itself, but there is a lot of loud creaking and groaning. We all hope the 7000 pound pole isn't going to crack!

Sooner than it can be imagined, it is upright. The pole-raiser eyeballs the pole from different sides and issues orders for one or another of the colored ropes to tighten or let up. He employs a large level to make sure it is straight. A few more adjustments on the ropes and he gives the order to hold steady and begin filling the hole. From 500 throats a triumphant roar rises to the skies. We have raised a pole, and we have raised the challenge to future generations to keep this uniquely beautiful and mystical place safe. The knowledge of having played a tiny role in this historic moment is immense. It is astonishingly joyful. And it is infinitely precious.

I glance over at the carvers who have been dedicated themselves to this magnificent  monument for the past year, and its design long before that. They watch the process intently, then broad smiles break out when it is safely vertical. I join them as they leap forward to begin the process of filling the huge hole with rocks and shovelfuls of dirt against the base of the pole. Once again, many hands make the work go quickly. A rock brigade forms, passing medium-sized boulders and large rocks to the hole. I throw in a few myself. Another group mans a dozen shovels while others hold long 2x4s in their hands, pounding them piston-like into the hole, compressing the dirt and rocks to support the pole for as long as it stands. It will stand long after we are all gone.

This is the first monumental pole to be raised in Gwaii Haanas in over 130 years. We are witness to history.

Message In A Bottle, Godo Beach, August 13, 2013

We are in transit today, and drop anchor for a day exploration of this ancient Haida site. While Patrick fishes in the bay outside, I go ashore and find abalone shells, beautifully rounded white quartz pebbles and kayak camps just above the high tide line. I walk behind a huge drift log and find a green glass wine bottle, the cork still snug and a note inside. A message in a bottle! Once back on board Tenacious we open it to find a note written just about a year ago by a young woman from Haida Gwaii. She released it in Laskeek Bay and it has washed up about 20 or so miles south. She asks the finder to contact her by email (and I will), to add their own note and send the message bottle on its way again. I will do both. First, I compose an email message to the young lady, to be sent when next we get an internet connection. And I begin to think about the message we'll add to the bottle. We speculate about where we will release it -- perhaps it will range farther if we turn it loose in Hecate Strait when we are heading back to the mainland.

Burnaby (Dolomite) Narrows  August 11, 2013

Beautiful Bag Harbour in the morning

For the past few days we have anchored in Bag Harbour, just south of Dolomite Narrows, locally known as Burnaby Narrows. The nights have been spectacularly clear. We have been getting up at around 2am, bundling up against the cool night air and carrying boat cushions and blankets out to the foredeck to watch the Perseid Meteor Shower. It is so dark and so clear, the Milky Way is like a broad pathway through the black-velvet sky. Here you feel that if you had the time, you just might be able to count each and every one of Carl Sagan’s “billions and billions of stars.”

                                                                   
Lying on our backs we count shooting stars and satellites. One night we get to 14 shooting stars and 6 satellites in about an hour. Last night we counted 18 meteors and only 4 satellites in about 45 minutes.
             

Today we enjoy yet another glorious sunny day, and venture out into the Narrows to view the amazing variety of intertidal life that flourishes there. The tidal flow through this shallow passage every day carries a tremendous volume of nutrients. Starfish, crabs, turban snails, sea cucumbers, anemones, clams, mussels, and many varieties of kelp and other seaweeds grow lush and colorful.

At low tide we float over the ever-changing bottom, dodging rocks and reefs and marveling at the diversity of life forms passing before our eyes. The colors are glorious. Some, like the groves of waving kelp, are muted in shades of olive and brown; sea lettuce is in an autumn palette that blends from pale green to chartreuse, through bright yellow, orange and brick red. Algae are neon bright. Bat stars and leather stars are every shade of purple, magenta and blue. They are scattered across the gravelly bottom in constellations that remind me of last night’s sky. Kelp crabs climb acrobatically along the long branches of kelp that undulate with the current. Sea anemones filter the nutrient-rich water that passes across their gently-waving translucent tentacles.

Almost as big as its mother, but still has spots.

Sitka deer browse the shoreline and seem to have no fear of people. I go ashore and take pictures of a young buck as he browses in a little glen near the water. I am close enough that I begin to think about the consequences of being butted by a buck, so I move on. A bit farther along is a doe and her fawn. They only glance up curiously, looking me over briefly at my quiet, but by no means silent, approach. Soon they return to graze the grassy verges and tender new evergreen shoots, even though I am only a few yards away.

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Back in the dinghy we float past a large bald eagle on the rocks below the tide line. He holds a fish carcass in his talons and tears chunks off with his strong, hooked beak. They say that there is more protein per square meter in these narrows than anywhere else on earth. We hear the distinctive rapid-fire call first, then see the kingfisher land on a reef near us. He gives us the full Monty while in full, chittering cry. This is our second day visiting—I could spend a month and never tire of it.

It's either "Check THIS out, baby!" or we're too close to a nest...

But with so many places to go and so much to see; it is time to move on. Patrick has been studying the Coast Pilot and has taken the dinghy through Burnaby Narrows multiple times since yesterday, both at low tide and high tide. He is prepared for our transit in the big boat. Timing is critical; we have to start when there is enough water under our keel to keep us from going aground, yet still low enough that we can still see any dangers. That means I will be standing on the bow, prepared to point out any hazards coming up. Having just read about how a 90’ vessel ran aground here in 2000, I feel the responsibility quite keenly.

Our course is charted and we begin the run. I am hanging on to my last nerve along with the bow pulpit railing with both hands as Patrick takes us into the first turn. We are running against a 2-3 knot current. I can hear the water rushing along the hull; the sound changes depending the strength of the current and where we are in the channel. We make it through the first turn and are heading for the range markers that show us the route we need to take to avoid reefs on both sides of us. Tenacious’ hull, which, compared to the rugged rock outcroppings lurking just above and below the swirling water, is looking increasingly fragile to me at the moment. The current is pushing us off course. Patrick manhandles the ship’s wheel to yank us back on course and we begin the second turn. I remain on the bow, scanning the water for rocks when Patrick shouts for me to move out of the way—he can’t see the range markers. I move aside and crouch instantly, heart pounding. I know we are clear when we turn to starboard for the last stretch of water that carries us out of the Narrows. I am shaking, but the Amazing Captain Pat is as cool as a cucumber. He prepared for the transit thoroughly and effectively, and executed his plan flawlessly. And am I ever glad it’s over!

Slim Inlet  August 9, 2013

His forehead scar clearly visible, this is a very healthy bear.

While most bays, islands, points and other geographical features up here are named for their discoverers, or more often for patrons, political cronies and nobility back in England who might be able to advance the careers of their discoverers, this little inlet seems to have been named for its shape. On the chart it looks like a narrow, pointed dagger. This morning as we are talking about where we will go next, Patrick looks out from the upper salon and calls the alert: “Bear!”

There is a large male black bear on shore. Because this anchorage is so narrow, we can see him ambling along, turning over rocks and licking up the little crabs and other tidbits that inhabit the intertidal zone. We watch him from Tenacious’s deck for a while before we launch the dinghy to get a closer look. As we approach, he looks up, clearly aware of us but quite unperturbed. He continues to forage and we drift in front of him for about 15 minutes. We are so close we can hear his claws scrabbling on the rocks and his jaws crunching on his finds. He has a large scar across his forehead, but his coat is lush and thick and glossy; his forearms are huge and he is clearly healthy and very well-fed. Patrick says he is the largest black bear he has ever seen, which is entirely possible since the sub-species that inhabits these islands, ursus americanus carlottae is the largest black bear in the Americas. He is simply beautiful.

Ikeda Cove August 8, 2013

After a rainy night we enjoy a clearing sky and light winds that keep Tenacious moving gently at anchor. Patrick is going fishing and I have boat cleaning tasks. 

(There have been a lot of requests for more kitty pictures.)

We are alone in this megaphone-shaped bay so I crank up my iPod and play my ‘favorites’ mix that includes everything from The Beatles and The Bangles to Sergio Mendes and Manfredo Fest. I dance around the boat with sponges and dust cloths; nobody is watching but the cats. When I need a break I pop up on deck and pull out the binoculars to ‘glass’ the shoreline. I find I need a lot of breaks! It’s low tide and I count at least half a dozen Sitka black-tailed deer grazing along the high tide line, their pretty light reddish-brown coats blending in against the background of dried grasses and tree trunks. A lone raccoon patrols the waterline. His bright eyes gaze out over the water, watching for predators from side to side, while his front paws busily feel the muddy bottom for a seafood treat. He looks a little bit like he’s doing a Stevie Wonder impression. Around the other side I see a pair of sand hill cranes, a first for us up here. We have read that they migrate through this area but we have never seen them. They remind me of Sarasota and home, where many spend the winter.
Patrick returns from fishing with a beautiful lingcod for dinner. We’ll sauté the sweet, mild meat in butter, I think, and serve it with lemon wedges and fresh chives from the farmers’ market in Queen Charlotte.

Ikeda Cove  August 7, 2013

It’s the best of all situations for me today—low tide occurs mid-morning, which means I can beachcomb and explore all I want without having to wake up at the crack of dawn… Patrick takes me ashore in the dinghy and I begin a tour of the head of Ikeda Cove. First stop is a point of land that has several deadfall trees on it. It’s a high place I can use to scope the area. There I find the remains of a cabin; wood floor planks and some broken window glass. Scattered around are chunks of greenish stone, suggesting that this was probably a miner’s cabin.  Copper ore was mined here in the early 1900s, and we can see bare areas and tailings on the surrounding hillsides.  

Rusty machinery with foxgloves in the background

I continue around toward the head of the cove; following meandering deer trails up into the forest, then back out to the shoreline. There are huge old-growth trees. The forest floor is covered with hundreds of years-worth of fallen pine needles and topped with a thick layer of bright green moss. It’s like walking on a trampoline. Little sunlight penetrates the cedar, spruce and hemlock branches high above my head.  Bits of antique-patterned china and worn purple glass at the waters edge tell the tale of human habitation, long in the past. I  am surprised to come upon a large, sunny clearing and see what looks like a big garden. I have found the remains of another cabin. I imagine that this miner brought his wife with him, and she must have asked him to cut down the surrounding trees so she could have a garden. The spikes of purple and white foxglove that have gone wild are taller than I am! Below the clearing and above the high-tide line I find rusted machinery, the last few remaining pilings of a wharf and what looks like the logs and thick planks of a barge.

 

Culturally Modified Tree (CMT)

I cross the meandering creek bed that winds down from the head of the bay and climb back up into the forest on the other side. I find several bark-stripped trees, the scars grown over. This was a resource site where the Haida gathered cedar bark for weaving. 

I walk back down to the beach to call Patrick on the walkie-talkie to tell him about my find. He comes up on deck to see where I am and says, “Stay where you are! There is a mother bear and her cub just around the next point of land from you!” He hops in the dinghy to pick me up from the shoreline and from the safety of the water we watch the dark, furry pair amble back into the woods.

 

Later, Patrick tells me that he could see the mother bear sniff the air from my direction (I was upwind of her) and send her small cub ahead into the woods. He said she looked prepared to defend her little one, and he was quite worried for me. I am a little regretful that I did not get to meet her on the beach.

 

SGang Gwaay or Ninstints Village, August 5, 2013

Today we visit the southernmost of the Haida Watchmen sites, UNESCO World Heritage Site. It's western name was Ninstints, a mispronunciation of the name of the chief at the time of first contact. It is now known by its Haida name, SGang Gwaay. I have been trying to learn Haida pronunciation. They have only had a written language for a relatively short time and the way a word is written gives clues as to pronunciation. When a "G" (or other consonant) is underlined, it is pronounced from the back of the throat, almost swallowed.

All that is left here are mortuary poles, shorter than house posts or memorial poles. The rest of the ones that used to be here were either sold, looted or sent to museums for preservation, with the permission of the Haida in 1957. Mortuary poles are carved with the root end of the tree pointing up. The top needed to be wider in order to support the bentwood mortuary box that contained the folded body of the personage honored by the pole. Our Watchman guide, James, explains that because this was (and still is) a matrilineal society, it was the responsibility of the chief's eldest sister's son to commission the carving of the mortuary pole, and it had to be within two years of the chief's death, otherwise the next in succession could claim the esteemed position.

 

James explains the carved images. They are not gods or religious symbols, but rather they tell stories of the owner's clan affiliations and honors. They remain here, slowly decaying (though there are some minor mitigation measures being taken here, such as removing moss on some poles..) The Haida believe when the pole finally returns to the earth from which it came, the spirit of the chief is freed to continue its journey. The feeling of this place is very special, and we linger as long as we can before heading back to Tenacious.

Gandll K'in Gwaay.yaay or Hotsprings Island,

August 3, 2013

From Windy Bay we continue south to Hotsprings Island, historically one of the most popular destinations in Haida Gwaii for its beautiful pools of geothermally heated water for soaking. Last fall a magnitude 7.7 earthquake just about 30 miles from Haida Gwaii somehow closed off the water source for the pools. We have heard there is one small pool near the tideline that is beginning to fill again. By radio we call David, the Watchman at Hotsprings, and he confirms that he has indeed built a pool just big enough for two and we are welcome to come in. We tie up at the mooring buoy just in front of the site, land the dinghy in the rock-cleared channel and wade the rest of the way ashore. David welcomes us and explains about the earthquake's affect on the hotsprings. Since there is no fresh water source on this island it is speculated that the hotsprings water comes from Lyell Island through an underground channel, and that either the channel was partially closed or the water drained farther down on Lyell. The thinking is that the water levels underground are beginning to rise again, creating low pool. It is hoped that if the water levels continue to rise, the other pools located higher up on the island will fill again, too.

We change into swim suits and clamber down to the beach, marveling at the rock clams that bore holes through the solid rock along the shoreline. How do they do that?? We dip our toes into the water only to find that it is too hot for us. Patrick estimates it is 120 degrees F. We end up sitting just below the hot water pool where its a bit cooler. It's a lovely end to another beautiful day. We hope the water is back next time we come!

Hlk'Yah GaawGa, or Windy Bay, August 3

Yesterday we learned more about the big pole to be raised here at Windy Bay two weeks from now. We pull in to the exposed beach and tie up to one of two mooring buoys. We call the Watchmen ashore on radio channel 6, asking permission to come ashore. In Gwaii Haanas no more than 12 people can be ashore at a Watchmen site. We are met by Gladys and Al who are just saying goodbye to their grandson. He is going up-island to join one of the two groups who will paddle big Haida canoes here for the pole raising. 

The right foot is in progress, the others awaits attention.

As they say their farewells we make our way up the steep beach toward the near-complete pole to meet carvers Jaalen and Ty. They talk about the pole as they work. The back of the log has been cut off and the center heartwood has been adzed out. Cedar tends to rot from the center so this will help keep the pole strong. There are still parts of the design penciled on the wood--details of faces, eyes, feet. Their tools are elegant, sharp and wielded with strength and grace. With each stroke, a thin layer of fragrant cedar curls and drop away. They carve in to an angle, then cut away the accumulated edges with a decisive chop.  The delightful fragrance of damp cedar is sharp in the air. 

 

Patrick, ever the engineer, discusses the considerations of water drainage off of the pole, to minimize standing water and opportunity for rot to start. Jaalen says no one has ever asked him about that before, but it is something he has learned about from his mentors. The pole design has no planes that might catch and hold water.

Al returns to take us on a beautiful and tranquil hike through the forest above Windy Bay. We find evidence of long-ago logging, many deer beds, a bold Sitka buck who poses for us, and a tree that is more than 1000 years old. We all pose for pictures. Returning to the Watchmen's cabin, Gladys lets us try on her hand-woven cedar bark hats, each of which represents many, many hours of work. Al explains how he harvests the bark for her. We enjoy paging through an album of pictures of her hats, baskets and other woven items. She is a well-known weaver and teacher of weaving; there are many newspaper and magazine articles featuring her work. We thank them and make our farewells to Al, Gladys and the carvers, still unsure if we will be back here for the raising of the pole. It all depends on the winds and waves.



T'aanuu Llnagaay or Tanu, August 2, 2013

House beams on the forest floor. Houses faced the beach.

Today we visit our first of the ancient village sites where Haida Watchmen are stationed, T'aanuu Llnagaay (TAH-new ULna-gay.) It translates to Tanu Village and we meet Duck Soup, our Haida Watchman and guide, who takes us on a tour of the site. There are no standing long houses, but the downed house posts and beams lie on the ground, mute and covered with thick moss, just where they fell many years ago. A wide path marked by large white clam shells carries us along the shoreline and through the woods so we can get a sense of how the village was laid out. Duck Soup tells us that house posts and poles at several village site have been x-rayed, revealing some that contain shot and bullets from early incidents where Spanish and English ships fired on Haida villages, sometimes provoked and sometimes not. Here, just a few days ago, an archaeologist removed for further study some metal from a post that faces the beach.





 

Duck tells us fascinating stories from her culture and of her life growing up on these islands. She encourages us to come to the raising of the Legacy Pole at Windy Bay on August 15. We're not sure if we will still be in Haida Gwaii then. 

 

Louise Narrows, August 2, 2013

Today’s first adventure is transiting Louise Narrows, a dredged channel that runs between Louise Island and Moresby Island. It “dries” on a 2-foot tide (meaning when the tide level is at 2 feet or lower, you can walk across it.) Pat reads Sailing Directions and the cruising guides to ensure that he knows the route to take. In the narrowest part the channel is only 30 feet wide. Tenacious is 15 ½ feet wide at the beam, so we will have only about 7 feet on either side of us for a little while. There is a small island in the middle of the channel and you have to pass it to port, even though the channel looks like it is wider to starboard. The wrong decision here would put us on a reef, so local knowledge is key.

 

Thinking of boarding, perhaps?

We wait until close to high water and begin our transit. I am on bow watch, ready to tell Patrick how to alter course if necessary. We enter the channel; I have to admit my heart is pounding and my nerves are on edge. I can see bottom straight down from the starboard bow and shout back to Pat to move a little to port.

That’s when we both see the bear on shore. He forages among the rocks off the port bow in the narrowest part of the narrows. We can’t stop, we can’t turn, we just have to go ahead and see what he does. He looks up as we go by, watching our passage with apparent interest. He is a youngster, maybe 2 or 3 years old and around 250 pounds. I look back at him as he calmly walks back up into the forest. Later, Patrick laughs and says the bear probably could have climbed aboard with us if he had wanted to.

 

 

Tenacious in Haida Gwaii

Skidegate Village, Haida Gwaii, July 30, 2013



Patrick & Lydia at Haida Museum

This morning we catch a ride in to the Haida Museum and Cultural Center with new friends, Carla and Colin. All visitors to Gwaii Haanas National Park and Haida Heritage Site are required to attend an orientation session and purchase park passes before entering, so we arrive early and explore the carving shed with its hand-shaped Haida canoes, and the grounds of the compound with the carved poles that represent each of the major Haida villages. The art of carving is strong and alive here.
 

The orientation session only takes about an hour. We collect our park permits and enter the museum with its well-presented displays about Haida history and culture, and the flora, fauna and natural history of these islands. I enjoy seeing the collection of artifacts from the old village sites!

Herring roe on kelp

We decide to enjoy lunch in the museum café and are very glad of it--we have seafood chowder, home-made by a local Haida woman. It is delicious and peppery, full of salmon, halibut, clams and chunks of a local delicacy: herring roe on kelp. When the herring spawn in the spring they lay their tiny eggs in the billions on the long, wide bands of kelp leaves. The Haida carefully collect these leaves, cut them into large chunks, then dry them. It has a delicious light flavor and is surprisingly crunchy. Mmmmm! A real treat! If we come back, we hope to try the octopus balls (made of ground octopus.) We hear they are quite delicious, too!

Graham Island, Haida Gwaii, July 29, 2013

A bald visitor on our spreader

Fortuitously, we meet wonderful fellow boaters on the dock at Queen Charlotte, and accept their invitation to share a car for a drive to the north end of Graham Island. Our first destination is the site where a rare golden-needled Sitka Spruce tree was cut down by an eco-terrorist in 1997. It is a tree that was revered for centuries by the Haida, and beloved of many visitors. The route takes us off the 2-lane highway and on to a gravel logging road. A short hike into the bush takes us to the site where the tree still lies on the forest floor. Because it's golden needles are the result of a genetic anomaly, it can only reproduce through cuttings. Some were taken after the tree was felled, and are growing in protected places. A local fellow we meet at the site tells us that there is another large, mature golden spruce here in the islands, but it's location is being kept secret...

We continue down the logging road until we reach the trailhead that leads to an ancient Haida canoe that is still deep in the forest. It lies at the foot of the huge cedar stump from which it was cut. Its final shape is just beginning to emerge from the log--the bow lifts up several feet higher than the gunwales, and narrows to form a thick, sturdy prow that could brave the highest seas. The stern echoes the same shape. The inside of the log has just begun to be hollowed out.
History tells us the Haida ranged all over these islands and carefully chose a cedar to test for worthiness to become a canoe. First, a test hole was cut and burned into the base of the tree to test for rot in the heart. Despite the aromatic oil that help to prevent rot even in this moist environment, cedars tend to decay from the inside out. If the tree's heart is solid, it is felled with tools and fire. In order to lighten the canoe, which would have to be hauled out of the woods to the nearest water to be floated back to the village for finishing, the canoe would be roughly shaped just where it fell. We will never know why this one was left behind in the woods...

We continue north to Masset and Old Masset village. Because logging and fishing industries are struggling here, there is little left in the towns but a few pubs, restaurants and snack bars. We see some totem poles scattered through Old Masset, and move on to find a surprisingly good late lunch at Pearl's Chinese Restaurant. Hunger is the best sauce, and after all of our hiking, we are hungry!

Hunting for treasures, Agate Beach, Tow Hill behind

Our next stop is at Agate Beach on the north coast. We face out to sea; the next landfall is Alaska! This beach is famous for its wave-washed white and honey-colored agates. I collect all that I can carry, and all that I can convince Patrick to carry. I'll have to sort through them and choose the prettiest later. Ahead of us, toward Rose Spit, Tow Hill rises from the shoreline, driving today's airborne moisture up over its peak and causing a cloud cap to form. What a stunning day.

Queen Charlotte City, Haida Gwaii, July 27, 2013

We have crossed Hecate Strait!  This is a first for us; we have never been to Haida Gwaii, formerly known as the Queen Charlotte Islands, about 60+ miles off the north coast of British Columbia. The combination of timing (for the best chance at good sea conditions in the Strait) and the intestinal fortitude to attack the crossing of some of the most feared waters on earth has kept us away until this, our thirteenth year cruising the Pacific Northwest coast. Hecate Strait is a large and relatively shallow body of water that is directly in the path of storms that form in the Gulf of Alaska and sweep down to the mainland and east. Because it is so shallow, waves form quickly and are easily influenced by the conflicting winds that tend to intersect here. This level of unpredictability has kept us (and many boaters) from even considering a crossing in the past. This year we decide that our experience, combined with prudent planning and enough time to wait for fair winds and low wave height reports from the relevant ocean buoys, will allow us to make a safe crossing.



Kitties relax at anchor in Keswar, in the 'cat bird seat'

 

And safe it is! Beginning from Keswar Inlet at 6:00am, we experience every kind of weather from cold, damp fog to brilliant sunshine, and nothing worse than 2-foot wind waves over a low, westerly swell from the Pacific. The kitty boys never bat an eyelash. We navigate to the mouth of Skidegate Inlet, which runs between Graham Island, which makes up most of the northern half of Haida Gwaii, and Moresby Island where the southern half begins. As we approach the shallow sand bar out in front of the entrance to the inlet,  the ebbing tide is running against the prevailing winds, kicking up pyramid-shaped waves that crash into our bow and spray our windows with salt water. We are soon past the fracas, and drop anchor in mid-afternoon. Our anchor finds thick, strong-holding mud just off the Skidegate village reservation and despite 15-20 knot winds through the bay, we find a peaceful night, swinging and rocking gently in this fabled and mystical land.

 

In the next few day we plan to explore Queen Charlotte City (including the Haida Museum and Cultural Center), pick up some fresh produce and a few staples, then go on to Gwaii Haanas, the Haida's "Islands of Beauty" with their ancient village sites, totem poles, hot springs, wildlife and largely untouched wilderness.

 

Swanson Bay, July 14, 2013

For the past several years we have sailed past Swanson Bay on our way to Gardner Canal. We would see its weathered old red-brick chimney that peeks over the tops of the trees, and wondered what might be left of the old pulp and sawmill that was here almost a hundred years ago. Today, we are here, anchored off the mouth of a creek whose outflow is keeping Tenacious from swinging in too close to shore. There are several promising-looking beaches along the bay front, but I ask Patrick to drop me off near the remains of the largest section of barnacle-covered wharf. In the clear water beneath the dinghy we see thousands and thousands of bricks, some stamped with the names of their manufacturer, others draped with colorful starfish. There must have been a large structure built out over the water on these pilings.

I sit perched on the bow of our inflatable dinghy, gumboot-shod feet stretched out in the water ahead of us so as to feel the bottom, so I know when I can jump off. The trick is to gauge when it’s shallow enough that I don’t flood my boots, and deep enough that we don’t abrade the bottom of the inflatable on rocks and barnacles. Patrick poles out to deeper water using one of the paddles, hunting for Dungeness crab to scoop up in the fishing net; I wade in to shore.

Among the scarred and rotting pilings I find huge chunks of rusted machinery, what looks like pieces of track from some kind of conveyor belt, broken bottles and shards of many-patterned pottery and china. Farther up the beach, above the high-tide line, I find evidence of old buried steam pipes, uncovered by storm-driven waves. I’m imagining they would have carried steam from the giant boilers that ran the mill out to heat the living quarters of the workers, farther down the shoreline.

I begin bashing through the dense tangle of salal, huckleberry and fallen timber, looking for the old chimney. From the water, I have a general idea where it is. Once in the dense moist dimness of the woods, it’s harder to know just where I am. For a few dozen yards I am on a narrow trail and I think other visitors must have tried this route. It peters out near the creek bed that runs alongside the mill site. Either I’m going in the wrong direction, or I will have to continue deeper in through the thicket without the benefit of the trail. I can see white water over huge boulders upstream, and hear the rushing water. The tide is rising and the salt water is heading up the creek to meet the fresh, as the fresh rushes down to meet the bay. I am reminded of bears that fish the creek beds in rapids like these. Then I decide maybe I don’t need to see the chimney up close. I breathe a sigh of relief as I turn back out to the comforting openness of the intertidal beach. Sometimes you just have to listen to your inner voice.
 
Walking along the tideline, I see another opening in the woods. I climb over two huge downed trees and under another before I look up to see a multi-story concrete building with huge door-like openings in the walls up its sides. The brush has grown in close around the foundations of the structure but there is a mossy pathway around its base, so I clamber in to see what is left inside. I use a convenient log that has fallen, slanted to make a slippery, moss-covered bridge into one of the openings, and climb up to look. In the spooky darkness I can make out huge drum-like cylinders with sagging piping connecting them to other hunks of decaying machinery. I am guessing these were boilers that provided steam to power the mills. It is cold and damp when I crane my head to look up to see patches of blue sky through the collapsing roof. Looking down I can see that the floor is collapsing, too. I won't be going in any farther!

It feels good to get back out into the sunshine once again. Soon we will pick up the anchor and continue north.

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.