We were cruising  through one of Desolation Sound’s towering fjords when the wind hit 35 knots. This type of a headwind is to be expected in this part of British Columbia, and it made me glad that I was—for the first time in my life—exploring a region not aboard a sailboat but instead aboard a 53-foot Grand Banks trawler with twin 650 hp engines. The term “powering through” took on a whole new meaning.

I’ve enjoyed more than a few sailing adventures in my lifetime—not just racing America’s Cup boats, but also on expeditions to remote places including Antarctica, Cape Horn, Sable Island (off Nova Scotia) and Norway’s Svalbard. I’ve completed trans-Atlantic crossings on sailboats too. Now in my 70s, I decided to try a trawler charter with NW Explorations, which is based in Bellingham, Washington. Our crew included my wife, Janice, who has cruised extensively in Maine and on the Chesapeake; longtime friends David and Christy Elwell, from Florida, who had cruised this area twice before this trip; and Kitty Mountain, also from Florida, but a veteran Desolation Sound cruiser. We were all of similar age, and we all had ­experienced our share of health issues in recent years. Somehow, letting a reputable charter company do most of the planning and make sure the boat was in good working order seemed like a reasonable compromise this time around.

It’s hard to keep me away from a helm, and I particularly enjoyed the solitude of many hours spent running the trawler from the upper deck. The views are fantastic from this perch, with the mountains along Desolation Sound rising 5,000 feet straight up out of the water. I thought about how, when the wind was exceedingly light, it would have been difficult to make progress under sail. Instead, we cruised onward at 9 knots, burning 6 ­gallons of fuel per hour. There was no hurry. We were having too much fun.

Desolation Sound is surprising in so many ways. Often, we would find a suitable cove to anchor, only to discover that the depth next to the shore was 600 feet. We’d have to look elsewhere or tie up to a few trees or rocks. And although the water was deep, it was surprisingly warm during our September cruise. The water was also, often, ours alone, with few other boats around.  

It’s counterintuitive that it could be so (relatively) easy to get to a place so remote, but that’s precisely what the five of us—a perfect-size crew for a trawler this size—had done. We had picked up the boat from the charter base in Bellingham and then cruised over to Port Sidney, Canada, to complete the immigration and customs process for Canada. The New York Yacht Club had organized a few rendezvous of which we took advantage (it’s always fun to compare notes with the crews aboard other yachts), and we were far from the only out-of-towners who were awestruck by the scenery.

Desolation Sound’s remoteness also gave us a liberating break from internet and cellphone service. We stayed busy with hikes, reading, and in-depth conversations about world affairs, the economy, and our grandchildren. We played spirited nightly games, took occasional naps, and focused on some of my favorite things: navigating and steering. The boat had an autopilot, but I like having my hands on the wheel and my eyes all around. Every few miles, an interesting sight or object would appear: a pod of whales, tidal rips, the ever-changing shoreline. The farther north we sailed, away from the impressive waterfront homes of Vancouver and the San Juan Islands, the more remote the scenery got.

After we anchored each afternoon, we enjoyed dinghy trips where we found all kinds of nifty things. We poked our bow into small coves, intriguing creeks, marshes and lagoons. We went ashore and worked our way through thick brush. Climbing was hard work, as was walking along the rocky coastline. We never saw bears or cougars, but we did see fascinating birds in the skies. The osprey clutches a fish with its face into the wind, making flight easier. Who knew?

Two cruising guidebooks were particularly helpful: Desolation Sound & the Discovery Islands by Anne and Laurence Yeadon-Jones, and Cruising Guide to British Columbia Vol. 2: Desolation Sound and the Discovery Islands by Bill Wolferstan. As a rule, the authors ­caution mariners to be mindful of tidal rip currents between islands. They’re correct. A few times, it was nice to be able to power up the engines and motor through passages that would have been challenging under sail. All kinds of boaters embrace the challenge, though; we encountered several flotillas of kayaks, including on one of the windy, rainy, chilly days. They waved happily as we steamed past.

I enjoyed Prideaux Haven, a scenic, protected cove that’s crowded during the summer months but had just eight boats scattered around on the day we arrived. The entrance is narrow and shallow, with Mount Denman off in the distance at about 6,500 feet high. For a (brief) minute, I thought we should attempt to scale the peak. The tidal range was about 18 feet, which meant anchoring with care. In one cove, we looked for the remains of an indigenous peoples’ village. We found only rocks, shells and sand, but it was fun to look around.

A few times, it was nice to be able to power up the engines and motor through passages that would have been challenging under sail.

At other spots, we encountered the fishing and logging industries that dominate this region. Signs ask mariners to reduce speed when passing the fish traps and working zones. On Toba Inlet, we watched a ground crew cut trees while a helicopter hovered over the trunks and grasped them with a heavy-duty clamp. At times, two or three trunks were hoisted together. They were moving 60 to 80 trunks per hour.

We followed the advice of the guidebooks at the Yuculta Rapids, a stretch of water with fast-moving currents at the northern end of Desolation Sound. The books strongly suggest transiting during periods of slack water; we experienced fierce rapids about one hour after slack water. Whirlpools, steep and choppy waves, and overfalls were evident as we motored through. Dent Island had a ­seating area where you could watch the churning rapids. We had a great dinner there, and, the next morning, a full ­breakfast before continuing on our expedition.  

I had to smile at some of the waterway names. Two of my favorites were the Hole in the Wall passage, which is a small opening connecting the Okisollo Channel to the Calm Channel, and the One and Only Inlet.

Along the Toba Inlet, we found ancient images of land animals and a sea serpent painted on the shoreline rocks. Equally as mesmerizing was a nearby 150-foot waterfall near picnic benches. One scene was more spectacular than the next.   

At one small general store, I found ­candy bars. My plan was to have one treat per day. The next afternoon, behind the wheel, I was enjoying my 3 Musketeers when the rest of the crew started asking, “Where’s mine?” I took some heat for the next few days, until we came across another general store where I was able to secure a larger supply, along with Raisin Bran cereal for one of our crew who loves it.

We also took comfort in our trawler’s solid hardtop and upper-deck chairs. I had to smile, remembering how, when I was 6 years old, I used to sit on the side of a small boat and marvel at the water gurgling alongside the hull. Here on Desolation Sound, I was still marveling at the water passing by. This instinct to appreciate the view has never left me, no matter whether I’ve been racing on the Irish Sea or from Rhode Island to Bermuda. I thought about my first sighting of the Antarctic peninsula with ice-covered peaks jutting into the sky, the surprising beauty of the Mediterranean, and the lush beauty of the Caribbean. The size of Chesapeake Bay is surprising, as are the endless destinations on the waters of New England. 

I have enjoyed all of it. What a nice life we have, being on the water. A few days after our expedition on Desolation Sound, I started to wonder, What’s next? 

CW editor-at-large and award-winning writer Gary Jobson is a Hall of Fame sailor.

The post Switching Gears: Exploring British Columbia on a Grand Banks Trawler appeared first on Cruising World.

I’d never leave the Sunshine Coast. All there is up there are bears and bad weather.”

Having sailed Keala, our Jeanneau 44i, from her birthplace, La Rochelle, France, across the Atlantic, we found ourselves talking to a gregarious fellow sailor at a yacht club in the warm, protected confines of Sidney, British Columbia, in the lee of Vancouver Island. I told him of our intended voyage, up the inside of Vancouver Island with my sister and her family to Port McNeill, where we’d meet my father, now 94 years old, and his lady friend, Christine, for a cruise north to the next island chain, Haida Gwaii. I’d make the return trip doublehanded along the rugged west coast of Vancouver Island with a surfing friend from Hawaii.

“Lots of fog up there too,” replied our new friend.

In a life of sailing around the world, my father, Donald, has wrung more salt water out of his socks than most of us will ever see. He dislikes sitting in the harbor. The world is full of “harbor-sitters,” as he calls them, trading “horror stories” of deadly gales over drinks while waiting for perfect weather conditions to leave the dock. Although he has been called adventurous, or even reckless, over the years, depending on the observer, I’ve always known him to be a very cautious captain who took my brother, sister, mother and me safely across two major oceans to places as varied as Norway, Turkey, the Philippines and Vanuatu. In all those miles, I can’t recall ever being in a dangerous sea. As kids we missed a lot of school, but we came back with skills such as celestial navigation, and the experience of standing a night watch with the safety of everyone aboard in our young hands.

Among the many places we visited together, one of my father’s all-time favorites was the First Nations reserve of Gwaii Haanas on Moresby Island, part of the Haida Gwaii archipelago, where ancient totem poles still stand sentinel over majestic Haida village sites. When my father told me he wanted to make one more trip out there with Christine, I pulled out the charts. Vancouver Island’s system of ferries, roads and air service would allow me to rotate my crew among three generations, as well as several old friends from voyages past.

My father may well be right about not listening to those dire dockside warnings about bears and bad weather, but our fellow sailor actually did have a point: Why leave the safety and comfort of the inside route? There are cruising grounds enough in the Inside Passage to keep a cruiser busy for a lifetime. Most of the thousands of mariners in places such as Seattle, Washington, and Sidney, don’t leave protected waters, because they don’t have to. With a few notable exceptions, it’s possible to sail through the intricate network of islands and fjords of the Inside Passage from Tacoma, just south of Seattle, to Alaska’s panhandle, without encountering much open sea. And the weather really is better. Summer temperatures in places like the protected Sunshine Coast, to which our friend referred, range in the 60s and 70s, and water temperatures get up to the 70s in long, fjordlike inlets. Swimming is actually a thing.

This is not to say that cruising the inside route isn’t without its challenges. First among these are strong tidal currents. The more-constricted passages turn into turbulent rapids with currents in double digits. Since it’s impossible for sailboats and other low-powered vessels to negotiate these rapids, it is essential to arrive at slack water. When possible, we also try to plan for slack ebb or flood so as to carry a favorable current as far along our course as possible. Another challenge is an astounding number of logs. Logging is a major industry in British Columbia, and loose logs, some barely submerged, can disable a small boat, so a constant lookout is required. Tugs towing thousands of logs in huge “booms” may require the entire channel to maneuver, as we found when forced into an impromptu jibing drill first thing in the morning on our way out of port. Common practice is to keep a watch on VHF 16 in narrow channels, and wait your turn after the last oncoming vessel uses the end of the tide to get through. Large car ferries also commonly cross the channels at oblique angles, traveling at high speeds. They always have the right of way, a fact of which they seem well aware.

As our friend forecast, fog became a challenge the moment we emerged into Queen Charlotte Strait, north of the protection of Vancouver Island. It was often very thick in the mornings, which meant keeping an eye on the AIS, radar, nearby fishermen, ferries and logs all at the same time. Most days saw the fog mercifully burn off by midafternoon.

The highlight of the entire route inside Vancouver Island for my sister was sailing into nearby Broughton Archipelago. For once we had favorable wind, and we had sailed 25 miles inland up the Tribune Channel, which became like a fjord between immense rock cliffs. Suddenly a gray whale blew to starboard, while a pod of hundreds of fast, agile Pacific white-sided dolphins reached nearly across the entire channel, surfacing in quick succession. They raced past as a group, so in rhythm that they looked like a breaking wave, much to the delight of my 16-year-old niece, Molly. Furling our sails at the head of the channel, we found the friendly little floating dock at Kwatsi Bay Marina nestled in a steep bowl of mountains. A group of veteran cruisers were surrounded by food and drink, well into the local happy-hour tradition.

Tracy Dixon, a surfing friend I’d met as kid while cruising in the Philippines, met the boat near the old fishing town and First Nations community of Alert Bay, at the north end of the Vancouver Island. After a distinguished career defusing bombs for the Navy, Tracy had just completed a degree in anthropology at the University of Hawaii. He’d already learned about Alert Bay’s famous U’mista Cultural Center, a cutting-edge modern museum that houses a treasure of elaborate and wondrous dance masks of the local First Nations group with the nearly unpronounceable name of Kwakwaka’wakw.

Many of these ancient masks have made epic journeys, only recently making their way back home to this museum. The giving of gifts at great “potlatch” ceremonies was a cultural tradition during which chiefs gained status through their ability to give offerings to the people. This of course put the Kwakwaka’wakw directly at odds with their new capitalist masters. The potlatch was outlawed in 1884, and many irreplaceable works of art were confiscated by the government. Some were sold to private collectors and museums overseas. For the locals, bringing these treasures home to their own land is akin to the return of a long-lost relative, and for us it provides a great opportunity to see masks that hold tremendous power and embody the imagination, artistry, and beliefs of the past and also the living native people. We were also fortunate to see an impressive dance performance by the local Tsasatla group, in which local youths take on the character of traditional masks and costumes of animals and fantastic creatures.

The southern section of Haida Gwaii, on Moresby Island, is a Haida Heritage site called Gwaii Haanas. Home to the Haida for over 1,500 years, the area was abruptly abandoned when smallpox decimated the population. Today there are village sites with large communal houses gradually returning to the forest, and elaborately carved totem poles are still standing. Haida guides called Watchmen, many of them descendants of those who first lived in the villages, now live in cabins at the sites, working as historical interpreters. These are fascinating people, living links to the past. While it’s a privilege to see such archaeological treasures, talking with someone whose ancestors lived here is even better.

The Watchmen appear to enjoy having visitors, and thanks to a permit system, the number of guests is regulated, so they aren’t too swamped by arrivals. We had some great interactions with the Watchmen. An old friend of mine from Santa Cruz, whom I’ve known since my days teaching sailing there during college, Burke Murphy, flew all the way from France to join us. Burke is a shipwright who lives and works in the south of France, where he does fine woodwork on classic sailing yachts. He was astounded to learn that the Haida use Sitka spruce—in his world a prized boatbuilding material—mainly for firewood. The Watchman casually offered to sell him a few ancient trees from the protected reserve, something so ridiculous that we burst out laughing. Like many island cultures, the Haida appear to value a good joke.

Read More from Tor Johnson: Chartering is Raiatea

For us, the old whaling station at Rose Harbor was particularly interesting. On the southern tip of Gwaii Haanas, Rose Harbor is actually the only privately owned area in the reserve. A small group of young people provide home cooking from a rustic cabin to the hungry kayakers and sailors who pass through. One of the people working there told us of a Haida war canoe in the forest, which we found after some searching through the huge cedar trees. It appeared as though the canoe was under construction when it was abandoned, possibly with the arrival of smallpox. The tree had been expertly felled to allow access from below and above so that carvers could shape the hull. The inside of the canoe had been only partially hollowed out, leaving the middle section as solid wood. We later learned that it was common to leave much of the inside intact to retain as much strength in the hull as possible for the precarious task of moving it to the sea. Finding a piece of history like this in its native setting was somehow moving, and in the quiet of the trees we could imagine what this canoe might have been, with a full complement of proud Haida warriors.

My father enjoyed the solitude of the remote anchorages we visited, surrounded by immense trees, sea otters and soaring eagles, while Christine, an accomplished artist, made amazing drawings of the scenes. My father has always been the captain who did it all, the first one to tackle any job, easy or hard, so it bothers him that at 94, he isn’t able to do the heavier work of sailhandling. I try to remind him that after all, that’s what he trained me for. I’m just lucky to still have the chance to sail with him.

British Columbia has large numbers of black bears, and the impressive grizzly (Ursus arctos horribilis, or simply “brown bear”) can be found up several inlets, such as Knight, Rivers and Bute. We knew we were in bear territory when we stopped at the friendly, family-run North Island Marina in Port McNeill, the preferred reprovisioning stop for the Broughton Archipelago and environs. The marina’s garbage drop had been literally ripped apart, great gashes in the plywood siding attesting to the formidable power of the bears’ claws. That said, we found most bears to be shy of us humans, the most dangerous of all predators by a long shot.

My shipwright friend Burke was an excellent lookout, and he was keen to see a bear. He picked up the binoculars whenever he sighted anything even remotely bearlike on shore. It wasn’t until we were motoring in to Rose Harbor that he finally sighted a large black bear on the beach. It was a nice sunny day, and we watched as the husky bear ambled down to the water, waded in for a cool bath, shook off, and ambled casually back up the beach and into the forest. We felt as though we’d been shown a little slice of bear life.

Generally, we had fantastic weather. That said, it would be unusual not to experience at least a few powerful North Pacific low-pressure systems during the course of a summer as far as 50 degrees north latitude, and our trip was no exception. Having crossed the notorious Hecate Strait to Haida Gwaii from the British Columbia mainland, we heard gale warnings forecast on the VHF, and headed for narrow Sac Bay, which is almost completely surrounded by steep hillsides, close in to mountainous Moresby Island. Thankfully, both the Canadian and US coast guards regularly broadcast a fairly accurate forecast via VHF, which is updated several times daily. Unfortunately, our perfectly sheltered anchorage turned out to be subject to powerful downdrafts and torrents of rain that created new waterfalls as we watched. Beginning to feel a bit trapped in the prison of our own choosing, we spent our time visiting other boats also hiding from the weather, and ended up making friends with “sailing royalty,” an experienced sailing couple aboard Kinetic, their Beneteau First 47.7, on which David Sutcliffe has skippered no less than five Victoria-Maui races, as well as the Sydney-Hobart. We chatted in their diesel-heated cabin while munching on cake that his wife, Gaylean, had just baked, and listened to buoy reports of steep seas in Hecate Strait. Because it is so shallow—less than 30 feet in places—and open to the south, open-ocean swells tend to pile on top of themselves in chaotic seas. As we listened, reports came in of 15-foot seas at 4.5 seconds. In these conditions, the Hecate would be mostly white water.

As the gale passed with more torrents of rain, I began to wonder if perhaps the surrounding mountains weren’t creating their own foul weather, so we left without waiting for the rain and wind to abate. We found much milder conditions farther off the mountains, just offshore near Hotspring Island. We soaked in the divine hot springs while looking back at Sac Bay, still covered in a hard rain surrounding the mountains, and congratulated ourselves on such a good anchorage choice.

One thing the Pacific Northwest is not famous for is great sailing. Winds are often light and variable, especially in the more-protected areas popular with cruisers. The running joke is that most sailboats here sail with their sail covers on, which actually seems kind of true, or that a sailboat is just a powerboat with funny sticks. It’s really not by chance that the power trawler is the boat of choice for the Northwest. That said, when the wind actually is right, the sailing among rugged peaks covered in evergreens can be utterly magical, somewhat like sailing in an endless mountain lake. We try to get the sails up whenever we can, even if that often means furling them after a few minutes.

British Columbia has such a complex coastline and so many potential anchorages that a good cruising guide is essential. We had the Waggoner Cruising Guide in hand at almost all times, and having Active Captain—Garmin’s crowdsourced, up-to-date electronic guide—on our chart plotter was also a huge help, with many firsthand recent accounts to read. Don Douglass’ several guide books of the area also come recommended.

The anchorages were spectacular, some tucked into the mountains and trees with an inlet only a few feet wider than the boat, with the feel of a serene lake. Others were protected within groups of small islands sheltering them from the open ocean. The Waggoner guide was accurate about one group in particular: the spectacular Bunsby Islands, where we had perfect swimming weather. Waggoner advises that it is essential to stop because other sailors who had done so would inevitably ask if you’d visited, “and you don’t want to disappoint them.”

That said, the British Columbia coast is also a great place to ignore the cruising guides. There are thousands of potential anchorages available, with reasonable depths and good holding. And we found that our Navionics charts were quite accurate but, of course, not infallible. So it’s feasible to find one’s own anchorage, based on the current and expected conditions. My favorite anchorages were those that we chose simply because they looked interesting on the chart, and many turned out to be magical. There is something special about finding your own place, without knowing exactly what you might find there—a little like the first explorers but with a plush yacht.

Our descent of Vancouver Island’s west coast was late in the season (September), so most of the fishing lodges had emptied, and the few cruising boats that travel the west coast had mostly moved on. Our first stop on the outside was Guise Bay, on the extreme northwestern tip of the island, just inside notorious Cape Scott. Although untenable in southerly winds, it’s a paradise in northerlies. As proved the rule on the west coast, we found ourselves the only boat anchored off an immense crescent of white sand beach. In fact, we rarely saw another boat.

Yuquot—or Friendly Cove, as Capt. James Cook nicknamed it—was fascinating as a place where First Nations and Europeans have long collided. An old church represents this long struggle, with stained-glass representations of treaties between Spain and England asserting their influence over the area.

At Hot Springs Cove, a half-hour hike along a boardwalk paved with treads carved with the names of visiting yachts from all over the world, brings you to a small and magical hot spring with a hot waterfall you can stand under. It’s essential to catch it before hordes of tourists arrive from Tofino via high-speed boats around 8 a.m., or after they all leave at 6 p.m. Tofino is BC’s surf mecca, and while it is a quaint town with amazing beaches, it’s so full of marinas, high-speed RIBs and seaplane traffic that it feels more like Miami than the secluded west coast of Vancouver Island.

We encountered rough seas a few times on our trip down the outside coast, usually when we put to sea a bit hastily at the tail end of a gale. The thousands of off-lying rocks necessitated careful navigation, even with the excellent digital charts for the area. Being bluewater sailors, we didn’t have a problem with the near-constant Pacific swell, which conversely helps the navigator by marking shallow rocks with plumes of spray.

Keala hosted several generations on this voyage around Vancouver Island—my sister and her family, several sailing friends from around the world and, of course, my dad and artistic Christine, in some of the world’s most pristine cruising grounds. It looks like the years have failed to dull my father’s enthusiasm for cruising. He still feels the same about sitting in the harbor and could barely sit still for a day, even during gale warnings. He prefers to carry on, despite the bears and bad weather.

Tor Johnson is a marine photographer based in Hawaii. You can view more of his work on his website (tjhawaii.com).

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In this traveling life, I’m always a visitor, wherever I am. I’m transient, not of the place I was, the place I am, or the place I’m going. I maintain a visitor’s mindset. I walk with my head up, noticing things. I greet everyone. I try not to offend.

Up here in Northern British Columbia and Southeast Alaska, there are lots of First Nations/Native American communities. The first one we visited was Bella Bella, BC, where we hopped off the waterbus and onto the docks of the Heiltsuk First Nation. The air was damp and humid and we ducked into the Thistalalh library/coffee shop/community center/gift shop where we sat down, opened some books, and soaked up the local culture.

The young gal behind the counter greeted every middle-aged-and-older guy as Uncle. A group of activists held a short meeting to develop a strategy for curtailing illegal bear hunts. Two residents worked out the details of a used smart phone purchase.

We left to walk north towards the town dump; we’d heard there was a free store next to it where we might be able to score a replacement for the jacket Eleanor lost days before. Trucks passed us on the winding road and the girls picked berries from along the shoulder. Three teens, all boys, headed our way, laughing and shoving each other.

I nodded and smiled at the first, “How’s it goin’.”

He nodded and smiled, “Moe-gee-oat-eh.”

“MOE-GEE-OAT-EH.” I repeated enthusiastically, carefully extending the greeting to all three of them with a big smile.

I waited until they were out of earshot.

“Did you hear that?” I asked Windy.

“Hear what?”

“Moe-gee-oat-eh, it’s a First Nations greeting. We need to remember that.”

Windy started laughing, snorting.

“What?! What’s so funny?”

“He said to you, ‘It’s muggy out, eh?’ and you repeated it back to him like a crazy man—ohmygod I’m gonna pee my pants.”

–MR

In our twenties, we traded our boat for a house and our freedom for careers. In our thirties, we slumbered through the American dream. In our forties, we woke and traded our house for a boat and our careers for freedom. And here we are. Follow along at http://www.logofdelviento.blogspot.com/

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Del Viento- British Columbia

“Look, those signs are all about CYA.” I said, “The government puts those here to keep from getting sued. It’s certainly not going to take us two hours each way, those are just estimates based on people who stop to rest ten minutes out of every twenty.”

I had the girls in my corner and the fact that Windy loves to hike meant there was no further discussion, the Robertsons marched on. And up.

The sign was right about one thing, the trail—there is no trail, let’s call it a route—the route is not maintained. But people had clearly passed before us, and abundant blazes made it possible to find our way. And this route was a climb—no wimpy switch-backs—nearly straight up a mountain, through a dense, beautiful forest. The smell of the conifers was invigorating and the four of us continued enthusiastically at a pace that could last no longer than nine minutes.

“Climbing the trail to the trapper’s cabin is like taking the stairs to the top of the Sears Tower—twice—with a boot-camp training obstacle on every third landing.”—Chuck Gould, Waggoner Cruising Guide, as read after-the-fact by the Robertsons

After an hour, surprised we hadn’t yet reached the cabin, we began joking that the two-hour estimate was based on records set by competing, professional mountain climbers. “Ha, maybe it’ll take us four hours to get to the cabin!”

After two hours, no cabin in sight, we stopped joking, fearing the two-hour estimate was based on records set by competing, professional mountain climbers.

Note Eleanor repelling down this slope with Windy below. From here, they would make their way behind the roots of that fallen tree and then shimmy down in the crack in the rock, foreground.

“Wow, this is something else,” I said.

“My legs are going to be very sore tomorrow.”

“Do you have any water left?”

“The trek cannot be considered a walk, or even an ambitious hike. Anything less condemning than ‘hand-over-hand-scrambling-climb’ would be insufficient to describe several sections of the accurately labeled, ‘primitive trail’”—Chuck Gould, Waggoner Cruising Guide, as read after-the-fact by the Robertsons

“Look at the girls, I’m glad they’ve reached the age where they can do this. If they get through this, this family can do any hike,” Windy said.

“Of course they can do this; if I had only 65 pounds to carry up this hill I’d be at the top already.”

The girls still laughed and talked non-stop, evidence that they did not yet know fatigue. I realized the next development stage is where they don’t need us at all, where they leave us on the boat so we don’t slow them down.

It was wet and every rock was slick. We shimmied along cracks in a wall of granite. We climbed under, over, or walked along the tops of countless fallen trees. The girls used a rope to repel, the only means to navigate a particularly steep slope.

“In many places, the trail climbs 30 feet or more up nearly vertical rock outcroppings. The only way up is by natural ladders formed by exposed tree roots. Rivulets follow the invisible trail, creating muddy and slippery morasses where substantial footing is needed.” –Chuck Gould, Waggoner Cruising Guide, as read after-the-fact by the Robertsons

In our third hour, we nudged each other along by sharing fantasies about what we’d find in the cabin.

“There’s a huge ice box filled with Dogfish Head 60-minute IPA.”

“And root beer!”

“And a couch.”

“And four pints of Haagen Dazs!”

“And a shower”

“And a bed.”

And then the trees thinned before a couple-hundred-foot-high wall of rock there was no way we would be able to climb. Just at the base, the route leveled and went sideways along the mountain. A waterfall we’d heard in the distance was now booming. We picked up the pace, our breathing less labored. And just like that, in front of us, the remnants of a trapper’s cabin ten yards from a raging waterfall.

It was clear immediately that there was no fridge, no couch, and no shower, but our relief at having made it was prize enough. We stepped around in the overgrown floor space beneath a tangle of rotting, fallen logs, only the first foot of the vertical wall still apparent. A frame of rusted iron bedsprings was tucked into a corner and we wondered how in the world someone got it up here.

And then we sat to share the slim pickings Windy stowed in her backpack for a 30-minute walk.

“How long did it take us?”

“Two hours and forty-five minutes.”

“That was hard.”

“Yeah.”

“And it’s going to be technically harder going down.”

I thought of all the slick, steep steps we took to get up here.

“That was probably the best hike I’ve ever been on.” Windy said.

“Me too!” the girls echoed in unison.

Victorious in the trapper’s cabin, waterfall behind us.

This is looking over our transom as we motored out of Princess Louisa Inlet the next morning.

I__n our twenties, we traded our boat for a house and our freedom for careers. In our thirties, we slumbered through the American dream. In our forties, we woke and traded our house for a boat and our careers for freedom. And here we are. Follow along at http://www.logofdelviento.blogspot.com/

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Del Viento at Chatterbox Falls

I keyed the VHF mic: “Securite, securite, securite. This is_ Del Viento_, a 40-foot sloop, inbound Malibu Rapids. Any opposing traffic, please come back on 16, over.”

We were 100 yards from the entrance to the narrow, winding pass, copying the protocol we’d observed over the past thirty minutes as slack tide approached. Currents are critical to navigation up here, especially in narrow passages like this where a deep-keeled, cruising sailboat under power can be overwhelmed by the whirlpools, overfalls, and rapids they can produce.

Malibu Rapids is the entrance to the Princess Louisa Inlet, our destination nearly 40 miles inland from the Strait of Georgia. This trip up Princess Louisa Inlet is a detour from our dash north to Alaska, but well worth it, we were assured.
I advanced the throttle and began our transit.

About Malibu Rapids, the guidebooks use hyperbole to emphasize the hazards of approaching when the 9-knot current is running. We were careful to time our arrival for slack tide. The guidebooks also say that upon approach, we may hear crowds screaming from the Malibu Club,* but that we shouldn’t worry, they are just spectators watching and applauding the yacht transiting ahead of us. But today there would be no screams, it was too early in the season for that and only a few boats were waiting to make the pass. And because of our timing, our transit was uneventful, just me steering our boat through a couple of tight, boulder-bordered S-turns, like driving a semi through a drive-thru. (We’ve been through other rapids since, about a half-hour before or after slack tide and the currents have made it turbulent, Del Viento yawing back and forth, even being quickly swung 90-degrees before sliding sideways into the next contrary flow, the helm and throttle ineffective.)

This is what our entrance to Princess Louisa Inlet looked like. A picture just doesn’t do it justice. And look at Windy in short sleeves and sun hat–we couldn’t have had nicer weather.

This was nearly the end to a day-long passage, most of which we spent either slack-jawed or smiling. We started off in the Malaspina Strait before heading northeast up the glacial cut Agamemnon Channel to Prince of Wales Reach to Jervis Inlet and finally Queens Reach, off of which was Malibu Rapids and the entrance to Princess Louisa Inlet. For nearly the entire day, Windy and I agreed it seemed just like we were motoring up the valley floor of California’s Yosemite National Park—there was even a granite wall of a mountain that resembled Half Dome. It was big and dramatic. Five-hundred to a thousand feet up on the lush, densely forested slopes, raging waterfalls appeared as streaks of white, run-off from the still-snow-capped peaks. The scars of massive rockslides were dwarfed by the enormous scale of everything around us.

And now through the Rapids, the mountains on either side of Princess Louisa Inlet closed in dramatically and rose near-vertically. We poked our heads out from under the bimini just to look straight up past the trees to the narrow band of blue sky above. We glided along for about 30 minutes before the channel turned an revealed Chatterbox Falls, about a mile ahead.

It raged at the head of the Inlet, with several minor falls on either side as we approached. Even 500 yards away, we could hear the roar of rushing water over our Yanmar.

The prime anchorage spot is directly in front of the falls, where we dropped the hook in 40 feet. The local current from the falls is swift, about 2 knots, and so there we stayed, rock solid for two nights despite contrary winds and tides.

We’re only doing about 3 knots, but that didn’t diminish the girls’ enthusiasm for the ride.

The next morning we set about exploring, soon coming across a sign at the head of a trail that practically begged us to not continue to the abandoned trapper’s cabin.

“Abandoned trapper’s cabin? How cool does that sound?”

“Cool, yes, but that sign’s like the one over the gate to hell in Dante’s Inferno.”

“Let’s just see what it’s like, how far we can get—we can always turn around.” I said.

Windy nodded and with the girls in tow, our little family headed up the trail.

--MR

• The Malibu Club was once a swank resort built in 1945 by Hamilton, the name behind the variable pitch aircraft propeller. He was introduced to the property by Mr. Boeing and his remote resort was popular with the likes of John Wayne, the Kennedys, Bing Crosby, and Bob Hope. But five years after it opened, it was shut down and abandoned one rainy night. Then, in 1953, an organization called Young Life bought it for $300K. Since that time, they’ve hosted teenagers here from around the world, offering spiritual guidance and passing yachts to scream at.

This is our entrance to the Malibu Rapids, Malibu Club overlooking. If any of you can help me convince Windy that we don’t need a bike on deck, I would be grateful.

I__n our twenties, we traded our boat for a house and our freedom for careers. In our thirties, we slumbered through the American dream. In our forties, we woke and traded our house for a boat and our careers for freedom. And here we are. Follow along at http://www.logofdelviento.blogspot.com/

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Del Viento- Windy, beach

Do you remember when not a single grocery store in America sold pomegranate juice? When you first heard of acai berries? When tofu was hard to find? Before hemp milk, goji berries, and tempeh?

Well, I’m glad you’re here. I’m about to announce The Next Big Thing.

Are you ready?

No—wait—first, some background.

Just nights before we left Victoria, our friends Jim and Tricia aboard Falcon VII gave us a briefing, pictures and stories and need-to-know info from their multiple trips north to Alaska. We hung on every word and studied every image.

Then they told us a secret.

They said we’d find it just at the high-tide line. They said to pick only the tender ends. They said we could eat it raw or sauté it. They said it is salty, delicious, and nutritious. They called it…sea asparagus.

We tucked the info in the back of our minds and then bid Victoria a warm farewell. Neither of us gave sea asparagus a second thought.

Then, a week later, anchored off Galiano Island, in a little cove near Montague Harbor, we sat quietly in the cockpit and listened to a clear, authoritative voice coming from a large group ashore. An interpreter was lecturing a bunch of city kids ferried over from a Vancouver school. Maybe we would learn something…
“And here, just above the high-tide line, is…does anyone know what this is called? No? It’s sea asparagus—everyone pick off a bit and try it.”

Ten minutes later, Windy, the girls, and I were ashore, poking around the area where the sea-asparagus-eating group had been.

“I think this is it,” Windy said, nibbling on a tender green shoot. “Funny, I always thought this plant was called pickleweed.”

We harvested a bunch and rowed back to Del Viento to make dinner—a sea asparagus-inspired Asian stir-fry over brown rice. It was very good.

And then I learned more about this stuff. It is amazing. It doesn’t need fresh water to grow, it’s high in protein, rich in polyunsaturates, and it’s hyper-photosynthetic (meaning it sucks carbon dioxide out of the air really fast compared to other plants).

And that’s not all. A company in Mexico is apparently farming this stuff on the banks of the Sea of Cortez, in Bahia Kino (where they filmed most of Catch-22, by the way) to turn it into biodiesel. In England, they call it samphire and they’re already eating it with butter or olive oil. In other parts of the world, they call it umari keerai and grow it for livestock feed. The Sri Lankans feed it to donkeys.

And Windy was right, pickleweed is a San Francisco name for this stuff. Botanists call it Salicornia.

Mark my words: It’s only a matter of time before some clever entrepreneur partners with an M.D. to claim sea asparagus contains the specific micronutrients you need to boost your memory, strengthen your immune system, and prevent cancer. Next thing you know, sea asparagus (or maybe the marketing folks will opt for umari keerai) will make the list of Ten Superfoods You Should Be Eating Every Day. Then, the next time you’re in the produce section of your local grocery store, it will be right there, packaged in neat little bundles and wrapped in cellophane, next to the collection of fancy mushrooms, like it’s been there forever, and priced exorbitantly.

But for now, we’ll keep munching away for free—it is supposed to be even more prolific in Southeast Alaska, where our bow is pointed.

Bon appetite!

--MR

Eleanor harvesting sea asparagus on a Strait of Georgia shore.

I__n our twenties, we traded our boat for a house and our freedom for careers. In our thirties, we slumbered through the American dream. In our forties, we woke and traded our house for a boat and our careers for freedom. And here we are. Follow along at http://www.logofdelviento.blogspot.com/

The post You Heard It Here First appeared first on Cruising World.

Del Viento- Canada

The time for safe and comfortable passagemaking in the northern latitudes is past. Del Viento and her crew are going to settle in for a period. We made it to 48-degrees north, a 3000-mile leap from our 20-degree starting point in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. We’re two degrees north of Fargo, North Dakota, though we expect a temperate winter here in coastal Victoria, British Columbia.

Since embarking on our voyage we’ve been either working, working, working on our boat or moving, moving, moving in our boat. Our time in Victoria will be a welcome respite—assuming Victoria is where we settle…

We cleared Canadian customs here in the inner harbor late yesterday and began seeking a home, a spot on the water we can park Del Viento and live aboard through the long, dark winter season. From afar, and months in advance, we attempted to secure a Victoria slip without success. We decided to arrive and see what doors would open for us.

With the recommendation of our friends aboard Nyon, I pinned my hopes on the Canoe Pub Marina. It is a collection of about 15 slips behind the Canoe Pub, a warm, wood place where I could spend hours off the boat, sitting in front of a fire with a stout—or maybe it’s a brandy and a book. People who worked there would know my name. I’d have a tab. When people asked where I lived, I could say, “Over there, on a boat behind the pub.” But alas, it is not to be. We met with the marina manager yesterday, a white-haired salt named Paddy who lives on a 65-foot topsail schooner. “The news isn’t good. They’re kicking us all out, removing the pilings tomorrow.” Despite his poor fortune, he regaled us with one tale after another and sang for us on the dock—no doubt a bit influenced by gin. He told us about his first guitar lesson from Pete Seeger and his close friendship and admiration of Utah Phillips. We wished him luck and continued our search.

Windy and the girls had their hopes pinned on the Coast Hotel Marina. It lacks a pub—or at least a pub with any character, but offers both an indoor and outdoor swimming pool and Jacuzzi. Approaching the marina, I was encouraged by the tell-tale sign of a live aboard community: potted plants on decks. As we pulled in, a resident on his power boat put down his guitar and stepped around his inflatable palm trees and parrots to come help us secure our lines. He directed us to the friendly staff in the hotel lobby. “Nothing now, but if you’d like we can add your name to our wait list, it’s running about two years for a boat your size.”

We were already rejected by two of the three small marinas on the far western end of the harbor, in the Esquimalt township, and that left the three city marinas. They boast front-and-center locations, but we’d been warned away from each of the city marinas for various reasons: because the walk to the showers is long, because of the noise of the float planes, because the docks are open to curious tourists. But here we were and we needed a place to secure Del Viento for the night.

We side-tied to an expensive transient dock ($1.50 per foot, per night) and found it to be pretty nice. We walked up to the office to inquire about long-term moorage. “I don’t know. I know we have a wait list and everyone is coming back for the winter this week. Come back in the morning and talk to Michelle.” In the morning things were more encouraging. “I don’t know. Uhm, there may be a spot for you in front of the Empress—it’s a long walk to the showers and the docks are open to the public during the day—but you’ll need to talk to Thora to be sure.” I later talked to Thora and learned that we’d have to wait until Michelle returns Wednesday to get a definitive answer—but it sounds hopeful. We may have found home, a place to be until late spring, when we’ll be on the move again, charging up to Alaska to experience her wilds.

–MR

I__n our twenties, we traded our boat for a house and our freedom for careers. In our thirties, we slumbered through the American dream. In our forties, we woke and traded our house for a boat and our careers for freedom. And here we are. Follow along at http://www.logofdelviento.blogspot.com/

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