A Tropical Idyll in the Pacific Northwest: Part I Kayaking the Sunshine Coast

My two Teva clad feet poked above the water, framing the view of the mouth of the cove opening into the broad channel that wrapped around us. The silhouettes of several tree-covered islands and mountains overlapped in different shades of pastel and receded in the distance across the channel. I was floating on my back in the waters of coastal British Columbia. Not exactly the Caribbean – no palm trees, no rum drinks with paper umbrellas, and the water temperature was more than a tad or two colder. But the water was warm enough for a late afternoon swim, the scenery was more dramatic, and there was no one else to be seen other than my four sea kayaking companions relaxing after a long day of paddling in the warm bright sunshine of the aptly named Sunshine Coast.

The Sunshine Coast is just a relatively short drive and an even shorter flight northwest of Vancouver (about 3 hours by car but most of that time is spent on two ferries; about 30 minutes by plane). It’s easily accessible but still feels somewhat remote -- most of the coast above Powell River, the “urban” center of the region, can only be reached by boat or float plane. Like almost all of the BC coast, it is strikingly beautiful -- islands of all sizes covered in Douglas fir, hemlock, cedar and madrone; narrow inlets and fjords indenting the rugged coastline; and jagged snow capped mountains in the distance framing long views across wide sounds. But unlike most of the BC coast, the Sunshine Coast is in the rain shadow of the low mountains of Vancouver Island to the west across the Georgia Strait, so the weather is usually sunny, dry and warm, sometimes very warm. The convergence of two ocean currents, one from the north and the other from the south, also keep the waters warm enough for swimming, especially for the hardy Canadians who frequent the coast and the occasional American, kiwi, and European willing to explore beyond the immediate vicinity of Vancouver.

I was here because it was easily accessible and, therefore, relatively inexpensive, not an unimportant concern in this era of bursting economic bubbles and fiscal uncertainty. The trip that lured me here was the seven day “Into the Majestic Mountains” kayaking trip offered by Powell River Sea Kayak Ltd. (PRSK). There were five of us on this trip, our guide Jaime, Kathy and Tracy, a 50ish couple from the San Francisco Bay area, Tania, a 36 year old woman from New Zealand, and I.

The opportunity to paddle a single kayak was another reason why I chose this trip for my annual kayak adventure. I have taken many sea kayak trips over the years, but have rarely had the chance to paddle a single kayak for any length of time. Most trip operators use doubles because they are more stable, not an unimportant consideration when there are relatively inexperienced kayakers on the trip, as there usually are, or when the waters are rough and cold -- challenging and potentially dangerous conditions for even experienced paddlers. The warm, protected waters of the Sunshine Coast create ideal conditions for relatively inexperienced kayakers to try out single kayaks. The four of us, not including Jaime, rotated among two singles and one double so we all had ample opportunity to paddle the more maneuverable singles and go off on our own – but not too far off – to explore the rocky shores or to spend a few minutes in thoughtful silence.

But don’t let the phrase, “warm protected waters” fool you. This trip was no piece of cake. We paddled 10-16 miles a day, probably closer to the upper reaches of that range on most days. In addition, the steep, rocky beaches presented their own challenges, requiring both agility and muscle to shlep camping equipment, food, and other supplies to and from the kayaks and our campsites which were often back in the trees or high on the beaches, well above the tide line. On many days, the kayaks also had to be hauled up at day’s end, and back down to the water the next morning. So, despite the seductive ease of the weather, it was a fairly demanding trip. We ate well, sometimes very well (see shortly), but I still managed to lose a few pounds.

SEVEN DAYS OF SUNSHINE AND SERENITY

At the top of the Sunshine Coast is Desolation Sound, one of the most popular boating destinations in the world. Despite the name, the Sound is anything but “desolate.” It was named by Capt. George Vancouver, one of the first Europeans to discover the Sound, who had the misfortune to arrive on a damp, foggy, ergo “desolate” day.

This is not a wilderness but a wild area, an area where humans have worked and lived since the earliest years of the First Nations people who first inhabited the region. Signs of humans, past and present, are all over – oyster farms, vacation homes, boats (both power and sail), and logging. This is all part of the historical, cultural and visual fabric of the area. But the wildness of the place is also easy to see in the scenery and in the wildlife -- bald eagles, loons, ducks, seals, orange and purple sea stars, and the occasional porpoise, as well as in the wildlife that we didn’t see but are there, nonetheless -- black bears, grizzlies further up the remote inlets, and cougars, though from what I hear, you don’t see actually the cougars until it’s too late.

We crossed the Sound the first day of the trip and spent most of the second day putting some distance between us and the boat traffic in and around the Sound, especially the big power boats and the yahoos on deck. But with each day that passed, the scenery grew more beautiful and dramatic, and we felt more remote from civilization. By the third day we were into a semblance of wilderness, a wild, scenic, and serene landscape with few signs of civilization other than the occasional boat, vacation house, or distant patch of logged and partially re-grown forest. We set up our tents on a high, mossy rocky point jutting out into the water and went for a swim in the warm shallow waters of the cove below.

Our fourth day was sheer ecstasy. It was a layover day so we didn’t have to pack up camp and had time for a leisurely breakfast of eggs Benedict with smoked salmon made by PSRK’s owner, Adam Vallance, from locally caught wild salmon. The plan for the day was to poke around and explore the nearby islands and channels. It was overcast at first, and the water was like glass. Everything was hushed. It was one of those magic paddles – a couple of hours of muted light and sound as we glided past rocky banks on the lookout for seals poking their heads above the water and eagles diving for fish.

The sun peeked out, then burst out in full as we pulled onto the beach for lunch. This spot was even more magnificent than our camp site. Beyond the small grove of trees behind the oyster- and mussel-strewn beach was a high point almost surrounded by water on all sides. Stretched before us was a vast expanse of water broken up only by islands and mountains in the distance. This is where we ate our lunch, in reverent silence accompanied by the occasional squawk of birds. After lunch we dug for clams and gathered as many of the oysters and mussels as we could carry to the kayaks and paddled leisurely back to camp in time for another swim before dinner.

The next day we paddled to our last destination, Toba Inlet, a long fjord that cuts deep into the coastal mountains which had been only a distant backdrop for our trip until now. It was another great day of paddling, but the highlight was dinner. Jaime, ably assisted by Tania, cooked the oysters, mussels and clams we had gathered the day before. He steamed the oysters and mussels in garlic and butter and chopped up the clams in the veggie chili. I am a big fan of oysters – raw, steamed, pan fried, whatever – and I eat them whenever I can. I consider myself a bit of a connoisseur, so I don’t think that this is just a case of camping-compromised taste -- where everything tastes good, even the freeze dried crap we would never consider eating at home -- when I say these were some of the best oysters I have ever had! Realizing that we were nearing the end of our trip, we spent the rest of the evening sitting on the beach looking silently at the mountains growing dark across the inlet.

The last full day rivaled Day 4 for highlights. The plan was to paddle deep into the inlet, then return to our campsite for our last night. The first highlight was the waterfall only a quarter mile or so from our camp. Everyone had the opportunity to paddle their kayaks under the waterfall for our only shower of the trip. It was cold but the air was warm so it really didn’t matter. Then after a couple of miles of paddling, we rafted all four kayaks together, hooked two corners of a spare rain fly to the two outside kayaks and rigged the other two corners to paddles held vertical on the decks of the outside kayaks. With this improvised sail, we sailed briskly down the inlet. It was a wild ride with Jaime and Tracy holding the paddles upright, me in the stern of the double holding onto the stern of the two kayaks on either side, and Kathy and Tania just holding on.

In what seemed like no time at all we were pulling onto the beach for lunch. It was one of the most beautiful spots of the trip, except for the logging in full operation a quarter mile away on either side, reminding us yet again of the tradeoff between accessibility and intrusiveness – the easier it is to get to the wild, the less wild it will be.

We didn’t linger long. We ate our lunch, took in the scene with enough tunnel vision to block out the sounds and sights of the logging, then headed back, but only after a few minutes of wrong way white water kayaking up the stream that ran by the beach – i.e., paddling upstream against the current through a small rapids just far enough for a brief thrill. The wind that had been at our backs and filled our sail on the way in, was in our face on the way out. I’m sure I burned more calories heading back than were saved by our brief sail in the other direction, but the thrill of sailing in kayaks down the wild, narrow fjord was well worth the extra work.

The next day, we packed up camp and paddled several miles to our pick up point. After an exciting, 45 minute, high speed ride in a Zodiac, I was soon on my way to the airport for my short flight to the Vancouver airport to meet my wife for a long weekend in what is one of the most beautiful and cosmopolitan cities in North America, perhaps the world. I felt as relaxed as I had felt in months and fitter than I had been all year. I was also as tan as a South American tourist on Venice Beach and as slim as I ever get. Within just a few minutes of landing we were off to one of the many outstanding Chinese restaurants that can be found in this glorious city in a successful attempt to regain some of the weight I had lost during the trip. There is a lot to be said for accessibility, other than its easy to get to.

FURTHER INFORMATION

For more information on the kayak trip and the trip operator, Powell River Sea Kayak (PRSK), go to www.bcseakayak.com. Besides their home made smoked salmon, bread, energy bars and other goodies, PRSK also features top of the line equipment including new, high-end fiberglass touring kayaks.

I stayed at the Cedar Lodge B&B (www.cedarlodgebb.ca) the night before the trip. It is an attractive, affordable, quiet place to stay that is only short drive to the offices of Powell River Sea Kayak, where the trip begins (the friendly owners, Mary and Andy, will drive you there if you don’t have a car), and a 10 minute walk to an excellent gourmet restaurant, the Laughing Oyster (http://www.laughingoyster.ca/).

Vancouver has some of the best, most authentic Chinese restaurants to be found outside of Asia. My personal favorite is Sun Sui Wah Seafood (www.sunsuiwah.com). At the other end of the elegance/cost (but not quality) scale is Sha-Lin Noodle House for fresh, hand cut noodles made right before your eyes. Great entertainment, great food. They don’t have a website but they are easy to Google.

A Tropical Idyll in the Pacific Northwest: Part II Hiking and Backpacking on the Olympic Peninsula

The sun is shining as I pass the town of Sequim (pronounced “Squim” like some kind of squishy, low tide cephalopod) on Washington’s State’s Olympic Peninsula (OP). I am on my way to Olympic National Park, one of “America’s Ultimate Parks,” according to National Geographic Adventure magazine.

Times are tough and money is short, so that is why I vacationed this year on the Olympic Peninsula, home to one of the most diverse and accessible wilderness areas in the United States and one of my favorite destinations in North America. In my opinion the Olympic Peninsula, especially Olympic National Park, offers the best value for the money -- variety, solitude, beautiful scenery, and easy and inexpensive to get to and enjoy once you are there. It is just an hour or so drive and a 30 minute ferry ride from Seattle, and its varied attractions -- a rugged coastline, empty beaches, glacier-capped mountains, alpine meadows, pristine lakes, and thick rain forests – are a relatively short drive from one another.

There is another reason I am here, to see if this 67 year old itinerant adventurer could still haul a fully loaded backpack into the wilderness and survive a few days on my own. From my mid 30s to my mid 50s, I used to do solo back packing trips almost every year, several of them on the OP. It was always a deeply satisfying experience – a meditative, reflective, man-alone-with nature, listening-to-your-inner-voice, getting-in-touch-with-your-primal-self, city-boy-alone-in-the-wild kind of thing. I loved it.

I stopped backpacking altogether, solo or with company, about a dozen years ago as my knees and back started to give me trouble and the goop collecting in my arteries began to remind me of my mortality. But I’ve missed it. So, after getting the go ahead from my cardiologist and my knee surgeon, I decided to give it another try, to see if I could recreate those seminal experiences of my earlier years on the relatively flat, low altitude trails of Olympic National Park.

Before heading off into the wilderness with my overloaded pack, I did a couple of practice hikes first, one on Dungeness Spit, a 6.5 mile narrow stretch of sand poking into the Strait of San Juan de Fuca, and the other to Klahhane Ridge, a 3.7 mile hike from the Hurricane Ridge Visitor Center in the heart of the Park. These two hikes illustrate the accessible but diverse attractions of the Olympic Peninsula – a flat walk along a narrow beach and, just a short 18 mile drive away, a hike up a rugged switchback trail at over 5000 feet.

THIRD BEACH: DAY 1

For the first of my two back packing trips, I planned an easy three day, two night hike into one of the rugged, relatively remote wilderness beaches that run almost continuously along Washington’s Pacific coast. I chose Third Beach, about a two hour drive from Hurricane Ridge. It was an easy hike in, only 1.4 gently sloping miles through a thick, green forest down to the beach and only a little bit further to the more secluded section at the far end. This was, indeed, backpacking for geezers.

At the trail head, I hefted my pack with nervous anticipation. Would it live up to my expectations? Will I get eaten by a black bear? Will I collapse from the effort?

The latter was of particular concern since the pack weighed at least 50 pounds. In my younger days, weight was not an issue. I just packed what I wanted and figured that I could handle it. It soon became clear that those days are long gone. Although I’m in pretty good shape, my body just doesn’t respond the way it used to. The hike wasn’t a struggle, but it sure was uncomfortable.

It all seemed worthwhile when I reached the beach. Third Beach is about a half mile long, bracketed by a rocky headland at each end. All of the campers on the beach were clustered around the stream at the beginning of the beach, the only source of fresh water. The rest of the beach was deserted, except for a beachcomber or two or the occasional backpacker heading to or from the even more remote beaches to the south which are only accessible via a steep rope ladder over the headland at the end of the beach.

I found a great campsite on a level bench of sand, several feet above the high tide line. The edge of the forest was just a couple of yards behind, and the waves crashed just a few yards in front. Big driftwood logs served as my “furniture” – an easy chair to lean back in, a counter top for my stove, and branches and roots to hang my sweaty clothes. I could see a virtual rock garden of sea stacks jutting out of the water off shore in the distance just past the first headland. I had the beach pretty much to myself.

After I finished setting up camp, I took off my boots and it wasn’t long before I dozed off in the warm sun. When I awoke a few minutes later, I began to feel feral, that state of being that defines the wilderness experience -- a bit funky, but in a good way, and a shift in focus from the obsessive internal buzz of the work-a-day world to the immediate tasks of keeping track of my gear and avoiding the annoying bites of mosquitos and the possibility of the more significant bites of hungry bears.

THIRD BEACH: DAYS 2 AND 3

The next day was pure ecstacy – sunny and warm with enough ocean breeze to keep me reasonably comfortable. I packed a lunch, a bottle of water and a shirt and headed to the rope ladder at the end of the beach. To get to the next beach and beyond requires hiking across the headland at the end of the beach. Trying to walk around it at beach level is hazardous, even at low tide, requiring climbing over a jumble of very large rocks while dodging the large waves crashing all around. So like everyone else with any sense, I worked my way up the rope ladder like a commando – about 50 feet up at approximately a 60 degree angle -- to the top of the bluff overlooking the beach.

It was so much fun, I did it twice. It would have been a different story with a 50 pound pack – very strenuous, a bit scary, and somewhat risky. I watched several backpackers go up and down the rope ladder with varying degrees of difficulty, but most were significantly younger and carrying lighter packs. I was glad that I decided to camp on Third Beach and do this as a day trip rather than try to backpack into the more remote beaches on the other side of the headland.

The 1.2 mile trail across the headland took me through a cool and silent rain forest dappled with sun light filtering through the thick canopy overhead. The muffled thunder of the distant surf was the only sound I heard other than the thud of my boots on the soft, mossy ground, the clink of my hiking poles against the rocks, and the rhythmic sigh of my breath. The trail ended at another rope ladder which took me down to a beach looking out onto a rocky bay filled with the same needle-like sea stacks, some topped with trees, that I could see from my camp site.

I spent the next several hours exploring this wonderland. I poked around in the tidepools, gazed over the crashing surf at the sea stacks, and climbed up another bluff and hiked across the headland to the next beach. I ate lunch and watched the tide come in, then headed for the rope ladder to return to Third Beach. The hike back across the headland was so quiet that I whistled a good chunk of the Thelonious Monk songbook – even more atonally than he intended -- to scare off any black bears hiding in the forest. I hoped they weren’t jazz fans.

I was back at my campsite by mid afternoon. After a short nap in my tent to get out the increasingly hot sun, I leaned back on my “sofa” and alternated between napping, reading and, liberated from the need for conversation, listening to my increasingly languid inner voice. After a while, I even stopped that and just watched a family of deer wander out of the woods onto the beach a few yards away and the fog wrap around the distant sea stacks. It’s for moments like this that I haven’t yet given up on this solitary exercise.

The hike out the next day was easier than the way in, even though it was now slightly uphill. My pack was lighter – no food and less water – but I am convinced that I was just getting used to carrying the weight. The next trip would be the real test -- a four night, 38 mile round trip hike along the Hoh River through the rain forest, up to a 4300 foot-high ridge overlooking the Blue Glacier at the foot of Mt. Olympus, the tallest mountain on the Peninsula at 7980 feet. But first I had to find an air-conditioned motel room. It was getting hot, really hot.

THE HOH RAIN FOREST

I listened anxiously as the weatherman on the morning TV news show predicted record breaking heat in Seattle, 103 degrees F, shattering the all time record for the “rainy” city. The forecast for Forks where I had spent the night was not much better. “Oh well,” I thought, “it should be cooler in the rain forest.” Wrong! When I checked in at the ranger station, I listened carefully as the ranger warned the backpackers in front of me about the heat, a predicted 105 degrees in the sun and 95 in the shade!

She seemed especially concerned when I stepped up to the counter. Maybe it was because I was the oldest person in line (how could she tell?), or maybe it was because I was the only person in line who wasn’t as thin as a wisp. My water filter gave me some trouble on the last trip, so I started to worry that I might not be able to pump enough water to avoid a potentially lethal case of dehydration or heat exhaustion. I did this trip many years before and remembered it fondly. Five days surrounded by the lush green cathedral of the rain forest was as close to eco-heaven as I’ve ever been. But the intense heat on this day washed out the metaphorical color from the trip and made me realize that, even if I wasn’t putting myself in danger, I probably wouldn’t have much fun.

I decided to bail on the back packing trip and went for a nine mile up-and-back day hike instead. That relatively easy hike convinced me that I had made the right decision. With more than a mile left in the hike, I was exhausted and had drained a full Camelback and a 1.5 liter bottle of water.

I headed back to the hellish heat of Seattle. After a sleepless night in my friend’s spare bedroom (no air conditioning), I found a cheap one way air fare home and returned in time for the heat wave that helped spark the largest fire in the history of Los Angeles County.

EPILOG

Despite the heat and my cancelled trip, I still had a great time. Those three days on the beach made me realize that I wasn’t quite ready to give up on solo backpacking. But it also made me realize that if I wanted to continue I would have to go ultra light, or at least figure out a way to trim a minimum of 15-20 pounds from my pack. The problem is I am not sure that at my age, it is worth the expense of replacing my present gear with light weight versions. How many years would I get out of the investment? Should I spend $1000-2000 just to squeeze out a few more back packing trips before I have to throw in the towel and make the full transition to geezer hood?

Maybe I need to try this again and take another shot at the hike in the Hoh rain forest. Maybe next year…..

OTHER PLACES TO GO ON OR NEAR THE OLYMPIC PENINSULA

Point Flattery is the rugged wind and wave battered northwest corner of the State and of the “lower 48.” It is just a short (half mile) scenic walk from the end of the road. Port Angeles is the jumping off point for almost all of the OP and has a certain rough hewn historical appeal of its own. You can also catch the ferry to Victoria on Vancouver Island across the strait to spend the day soaking up the English influence, looking at the flowers in the world famous Butchart Gardens, or walking or riding a bike along sea wall. Quaint, somewhat touristy, but still charming Port Townsend is also worth a stop to check out the Victorian architecture as well as the art galleries, antique stores, fine dining, and the live music. For something different check out Crescent Lake, Sol Duc Hot Springs, and a couple of ferry rides away, the San Juan Islands. Their attractions are apparent from their names. There are also numerous other beaches and rain forests to explore.