PWAC Victoria: Lyn Hancock, Writing Sample

The Reading Room

Anything But Desolate

by Lyn Hancock © 2001

Lyn has the knack of making even the most horrendous experience a compelling read. Join her paddling around usually idyllic Desolation Sound in gale-force winds as she seeks secluded camping spots. Published in WaveLength, Feb./Mar. 2002.

"Crivens! I'd better check the kayak!" exclaimed Barry Campbell, resorting in shock to his native Glaswegian as he unzippered his way out of sleeping bag, tent and vestibule to face the howling gale. My paddling buddy had no need to excuse his blasphemy. A heavenly Hand was clearly at work this day in Desolation Sound.

All night, we--and the pesky mosquitoes that sought refuge with us in our tent on the Curme Islands--had been kept awake by the continual noise of waves crashing on the rocks and gale-force winds screaming through the trees. Now in daylight as we dared to look out at a dismal black sky, bushes had been flattened, grasses were tugging at their roots, guy ropes were pulling from their pegs, and the ubiquitous wind still caused heaving white-capped seas. I remembered that Captain George Vancouver called Desolation Sound "a dark and gloomy" place and the local Sliammon people tell a story of how Raven killed the tiresome Wind-Maker and his wife and took away their gusty son. The Wind family was back in control right now.

Despite the gale, our camp was intact. We had made the most of a double-entranced, split-level campsite. Our front door of smooth shelving rock faced southeast to the open sea, a perfect landing site in calm weather with convenient access to a protected camping area. Our back door led down a short path to a cove which at low tide was totally plastered with oysters, mussels and handily-barnacled rocks, and at high tide provided privacy from potential neighbours on the adjacent island.

Luckily, Barry allowed for an expected 16-foot difference between high and low tides and wedged our kayak into the thick salal above the bouldered bank, a lot higher than I deemed necessary, but time would prove him right. As an extra precaution, he even roped the kayak to several surrounding trees.

There seemed few flat places for tents in Desolation Sound but we reduced our footprint by backing our tent, an MEC Wanderer 2, against a large boulder and doing without one of our two vestibules. We placed our kitchen one level below the tent in a narrow protected gully between two rocky knolls. A flat log served as our table, stove and preparation area, and ledges in the surrounding rocks acted as seats, pantry and liquor cabinet. We tied our tarp and tent lines to the limbs of handy trees and used their exposed roots as loops for extra pegs and ropes.

The wind was still fierce, the waves still foaming, but the rain had not yet arrived, and it was amazingly warm. While Barry checked our kayak, I pranced out of the tent in nothing but a T-shirt and picked salal berries still clinging to their stems for our breakfast pancakes. There were at least a dozen other kayakers camped on this island but because of the hilly terrain, convoluted shoreline and large intertidal areas that separated us, we felt we were on our own.

Although Desolation Sound (Marine Park) provides idyllic anchorages for motor boats and is probably the most popular boating destination in British Columbia, it is not as hospitable for kayakers, especially ones who wish to camp. Tall, steep-sided, densely-forested mountains grow straight from the sea, shorelines are steep, rocky and tide-dependent, winds often avalanche down hillsides or blast through inlets, tides and currents are often extreme or at least confusing, and in the notoriously busy summer season, there are too many boats and too few places for convenient camping.

My goal for this summer's kayaking exploration of Desolation Sound was to seek out the best and most secluded camping spots. Barry and I marked our chart with suggestions from fellow kayakers: Adam Vallance of Powell River Sea Kayaking on Okeover Arm who takes his clients to uncrowded places off the beaten track, Heather Harbord of Powell River who wrote the book Nootka Sound but also knows the Desolation Sound area well, and Ursula Vaira who, on her first trip to the area the month before our trip, had ferreted out places of her own. "But," warned Ursula, "you must be prepared to carry your stuff up a considerable way from your landing site."

We hadn't meant to camp on the Curme Islands. Despite their rugged beauty, warm swimming water, central location for exploration of the sound, and classic views of Mt. Denman and the Coast Mountains, our advisors warned that they would be too crowded. Instead, we intended to make our base on the mainland coast beside Otter Island, a suggestion made by both Adam and Heather. We were headed there when the wind changed our course to the Curmes.

Two days earlier, Barry and I began our trip at Adam's Powell River Sea Kayaking base in Penrose Bay at the head of Okeover Inlet, a safer and more convenient place to leave our vehicle than the government wharf, and intriguingly for me, once the homestead of the famous lady cougar hunter, Nancy Crowther. Although Adam was busy launching his next tour group, he generously shared some of his secrets about where to camp, what to see, and where and when to view the best wildlife. But he wouldn't give away any of his favourite fishing holes!

In summer, Adam avoids such crowded places as Prideaux Haven, Grace Harbour and Curmes Islands. ("Go there between September and June.") Instead he takes his guests to Lancelot Inlet. ("Kayakers seldom travel this inlet because they aren't allowed to use it to take a shortcut into Desolation Sound through the private land of Portage Cove at its head.") He is more likely to lollygag in Malaspina Inlet, looking at seals and studying the abundant intertidal life in its nutrient-rich waters. Adam also loves Toba Inlet much further north for its solitude and spectacular waterfalls and, having explored it in a sailboat and anchored in beautiful Forbes Bay, I agree, though Toba's steep sides allow few landing spots for kayaks.

"Most kayakers travel through Desolation Sound on the west side or paddle along Minke Island, a private island in the middle. I'd keep close to the shore of Gifford Peninsula on the east side and follow the coast all the way as far north as you want. Don't cross Desolation Sound which is a very busy traffic route."

Several groups left Okeover Inlet for Desolation Sound the same day we did. One group of about a dozen kayakers headed for camp spots on the north end of Kinghorn Island (where Captain Vancouver made his famous remark about the desolate nature of Desolation Sound), and the west side of the Martin Islands. Happily, we had learned beforehand that an independent group of 50 Boy Scouts from the United States with their leaders and chaperones in a flotilla of canoes and support boats intended to camp in Grace Harbour and Tenedos Bay. We hoped to avoid all groups and find a spot recommended by both Adam and Heather along the Gifford Peninsula just north of Galley Bay.

In the days to come, we were to feel the fury of Desolation Sound at its most desolate but that first day was idyllic. We meandered along the east side of Coode Peninsula, peeked at the oyster leases down Trevenen Bay, crossed Malaspina Inlet to collect clams in the first little cove at the entrance to Grace Harbour, then paddled along the east side of the inlet into the sound. Barry steered me through vast tangles of kelp to get photographs of the marine creatures exposed during some of the lowest tides of the season. "Keep your eyes peeled and look down," Adam had advised. But I was fascinated by the murals made by colonies of sea squirts painting themselves on the vertical rock walls of the shoreline at eye level. They looked like splotches of fresh red and orange paint, not animals at all.

We waited by the precipitous walls and swirling currents off Zephine Head to see if the salmon were biting. It was obviously a hot fishing spot and one angler played his fish for a long time but not long enough for us to see if he landed his catch. Times like those I wish my kayak had a rear-vision mirror. Still, there was an abundance of eagles overhead.

Galley Bay was picturesque and Ursula had suggested a suitable campsite on an island on its northeast side. But the number of private homes that encircled the bay made it seem like a subdivision for Barry and me. We scooted back to the sound through a hole in the wall and started looking in earnest for the site suggested by Heather. By the look on Adam's face when I mentioned that site, it must have been one of Adam's favourites as well, and perhaps he wanted it to remain secret.

By Heather's mark on the chart, it seemed that we had only to paddle around the hammerhead bump of land to the north of Galley Bay and there it would be. However, we missed it the first time and had to retrace our paddle strokes and make several false landings before we found the right entry point. While I guarded our fibreglass Libra from the sharpness of the oyster beds, Barry clambered over logs and boulders to find a short trail through lodgepole pines leading to a well-used camp spot and a panoramic 180-degree view overlooking Desolation Sound and its classic dramatic backdrop. We had used the back door to this campsite. If it had been high tide, we could have lifted the kayak and our gear onto ledges at our front door.

There was only enough level space for a couple of single tents to fit comfortably so we in our two-person, two-vestibule tent scrunched back into the bush that night didn't get much sleep. However, everything else was perfect--a grill and fire pit (which we didn't use after a forestry worker called from his aluminum boat to ask us not to start a fire even though it was legal), a plank for seats or table, a steamed seafood dinner cooked superbly by Barry, a stage to watch the setting sun and the lights of Cortes Island, and an orchestra of wavelets washing against the rocks below camp.

Next morning, we were awakened by hooves clanking past the tent. I peeked through the flap and saw three deer trotting over the tent pegs on their way to Galley Bay. Animals enjoyed our spot as well. It would have been easier to leave while the tide was high but we savoured the day instead by skinny-dipping in the cove and watching the wildlife. A squirrel nonchalantly rustled through the salal collecting pine cones as I drank my coffee. A chipmunk saucily ate his breakfast on a log while Barry shaved. A whole family of black, yellow-lined snakes slithered all over a boulder beside me on a foraging foray as I took photos. Loons and ravens sang a duet. The fine homes of Galley Bay were just around the corner, luxury cruisers motored by on their way to busy Prideaux Haven, but we felt no envy as we watched from our secluded yet panoramic window on the world.

"The fog's gone but the wind may come up," warned Barry at noon. "We'd better pack up now if you want to get to another campsite."

Loath to leave, but anxious to explore as much of Desolation Sound as possible in the few days we had to spend, I scurried around for driftwood logs to use like railway ties to slide the kayak in stages over 50 yards of oysters till we caught up with the fast-receding tide and resumed our journey.

Mere midgets at the base of giant mountain walls, we skimmed the shoreline of Gifford Peninsula, yearned to explore Portage Cove but didn't to respect the owner's privacy, noted a troupe of sunbathing and clam-digging kayakers at what looked like a suitable campsite in Call Bight, and eventually reached Tenedos Bay.

Seekers of seclusion, we drifted offshore. Despite its almost enclosed bay, its many advertised camp spots, fresh water, outdoor toilets, and short trail to the reputedly warm swimming waters of Unwin Lake, this popular spot was not for us. A slough of boats--kayaks, canoes, dinghies, tenders, speedboats, yachts and rafted cruisers--were jammed together on the heavily-treed east side of the bay. This must be Desolation Sound at its most congested. We recognized the 50-person Boy Scout troupe that had camped beside us in Okeover Inlet. With few, if any, other sites in the sound to suit large parties, the boys would probably be there for the duration of their vacation.

"Let's paddle the periphery of the bay and try Otter Island for tonight," I suggested to my steersman. (On the return journey, we made a quick stop here to experience the doubtful pleasures of log-jammed Unwin Lake but the more exhilarating pleasures of sitting in Unwin Creek showered by a natural waterfall. We did not envy, however, any of the dark rainforest campsites.)

Inside Tenedos Bay, conditions were idyllic with calm seas and clear sunny skies. Some kayaks were pulled up on the beach by an island at the west side of the bay. We rested on our paddles in a little cove at the north end and looked up at a couple of kayakers sitting by their tent on an open grassy knoll. Their kayak sat on a shelf of rock a few dozen feet below. They were probably waiting for a high tide to lift their kayak and perhaps the rest of their gear closer to their camp. Suddenly, the man ran down from the knoll and stood on the rocks looking directly at us. He waved. Not thinking this significant, we paddled away.

By the time we circled the shoreline and reached the entrance to Tenedos Bay where I intended to take photos of the picturesque vertical walls of imposing Bold Head, the wind that Barry forecast that morning was increasing by the minute. I thought that keeping as close as possible to the shore would protect us from bad weather but Barry, much more experienced in seamanship than me, pointed out the disadvantages.

"The combination of wind, current and outflowing tide off the steep headland are causing a mixup in the waters," he managed to explain as we rounded Bold Head and suddenly were hit side-on by strong westerly winds roaring towards us through the sound, wind that was fast whipping the water into white-capped waves. My bow kept plunging below the sea and I felt a tinge of fear. How fast the weather changed! Perhaps we should have stayed in Tenedos Bay.

"Paddle! Fast! Don't stop! Break the wave!" shouted Barry who rarely shouts.

And then above the wind I thought I heard shouts behind us. I turned as far as my paddle skirt allowed and realized that two kayakers in a double were following us out of the bay, trying to attract our attention. They were the same kayakers who ran down the knoll from their tent at the head of the bay.

We were paddling fast but they were trying to paddle faster. Why? We slowed down only when we heard them yell. "Are you looking for a campsite? You can camp beside us. There's plenty of room. It's the best site in Tenedos Bay. We tried to tell you that when we saw you staring." They gave us the thumbs-down sign when we asked them the latest on the weather.

I was amazed at the couple's generosity and their tenacity in leaving the serenity of their situation to jump in their kayaks, paddle the length of the bay in an increasing wind, and offer such hospitality. I wish I knew their names. We were to take advantage of their kindness later but not then.

"Thanks," said a fiercely independent Barry, "we'll be okay."

But he aborted our plan to continue north to an unknown entity such as the steep terrain and possibly limited space of Otter Island and suggested we head west instead to the Curme Islands before the wind got worse. Their terrain was more varied, much gentler, and seemed a more appropriate base to wait out bad weather.

It was only a mile or so to the Curmes but I doubted at times we would reach it without being sideswiped by the waves and swamped. Barry kept urging me on. "Don't stop paddling. Keep your eyes left. Dig!" Believe me, I dug my paddle furiously into each wave as if my life depended on it--and it did. It's said that Desolation Sound has some of the warmest waters in British Columbia but I didn't want to test them.

Somehow we made it safely across the sound to the islands and paddled into a flat, surprisingly quiet, landlocked meadow of oyster-covered rocks that was to be our back door and pantry for the next two days. A yellow double kayak sat alone in the middle of this meadow, an inviting place to set our tent, if not for the high tide that we knew would soon turn the meadow into an arm of the sea. The kayak's owners, Nevan and his son, Drew, descended the trail from their tent on the other side of the cove to help us lift our stuff well above what we hoped would be the high-tide line. This was another example of camaraderie among kayakers.

Most of the sites we scanned seemed to require hefting gear and kayaks up steep terrain. A team of teenagers, camping tentless under low tarps in the bush above the cliffs, later provided our entertainment and gained our respect by jumping over and over again from their campsite 30 feet or so down to the sea.

Realizing that the weather was worsening and the sun would soon disappear behind the darkening clouds, I abandoned Barry for fifteen minutes and seized the opportunity to race with my camera across the exposed oyster beds to see what was on the other side of our island before the incoming tide cut off access. I reckon the Curme Islands had good reasons for their popularity. Climb one island and there across another bed of oysters were two more islands. Between two of these islands, in a deep channel little affected by the tides, a sailboat roped to both islands was anchored. Such precautions reminded me of my own responsibilities. I snapped what were to be the only sunny photos for the rest of the trip and raced back to Barry. We would be stormbound for the next two days but in the best camp on the Curmes.

Understanding now how fast the weather can change in Desolation Sound and that we might not be able to return to a camp in the evening that we had left in the morning, we took everything with us on a day's exploration of the islands to the north. Prideaux Haven, Laura Cove, Melanie Cove, popular destinations for B.C.'s boaters, some of whom anchor there all summer. A pretty archipelago but not private enough for us and with a reputation among kayakers as favourite places for boaters to walk their dogs. We picked out possible campsites on Scobell, Mary and Melville Islands, but retraced our route south along the shoreline while winds were comparatively calm to try our Tenedos Bay connections again.

Our would-be hosts of two days earlier were no longer camping on their grassy knoll. Barry recommended we wait a few hours till high tide to land our gear and set up camp. And then I noticed a Scottish flag, the Lion Rampant, flying from the mast of the nearest boat, and a Scottish terrier barking at us from the deck. I, not my Scottish paddling partner, was the first to accept the Scottish skipper's invitation to partake of "a wee bit of the bottom of the crater." And after a cold wet day on the water I even accepted a mug of hot chocolate laced with the skipper's Christmas liqueur. Suffice it to say, we survived this warm hospitality until it was time to accept our new host's further invitation to help take our kayak to shore.

Barry and I sat that night on the knoll looking down on the boats in the bay and down the sound to the setting sun. Rain would surprise us during the night and a new storm test our paddling skills as next day we fought our way back up Malaspina and Okeover Inlets but on that evening in Tenedos Bay, there was nowhere else I would rather be. Desolation Sound need not be desolate. It depends on attitude as much as weather.

Lyn Hancock
| Author Profile | More Writing Samples |

Last updated: November 3, 2003 http://www.islandnet.com/pwacvic/hancoc09.html