The night before my trip, I switched my intended destination from Desolation Sound, on the sheltered waters off the Strait of Georgia, to Clayoquot Sound, on the decidedly unsheltered waters off Vancouver Island. Weather forecasts were predicting that a steady high-pressure system would linger offshore, which, if true, would open a rare opportunity for wintertime coastal kayaking.
Route map. I made the drive from Seattle to Tofino in eight and a half hours, a new personal speed record.
Arriving at Tofino late in the afternoon, I just had time to paddle to Rassier Point before the sun set. The next morning, I took a gamble on Cow Bay on Flores Island. Cow Bay is exposed to ocean swells, so it can be an intimidating place to land. Sure enough, surf on the main beach was large enough to scare me off, but I weaved among the reefs until I found a sheltered landing site on a small sand-and-gravel beach at the west end of the bay. Looking back across Cow Bay after my landing, I was surprised I had been to find a safe line through the breakers that were bursting all over the bay.
A homebuilt cabin was tucked away in the woods. The owner, Rick, put on waders to cross Cow Creek for a chat. Rick and his partner had been living in the cabin for forty-seven years. Today, they were preparing for a motorboat run into Tofino, their first visit to town since November—a three-month, winter-long sojourn without resupply. Rick knew this was an impressive feat. He was proud enough that he found a way to mention it at least twice in the course of our conversation.
Clayoquot Sound is often described by its boosters in grandiloquent terms: a perfect wilderness, possessing a romantic, almost magical purity of natural essence. You might expect such a pristine place to be all but deserted during the stormy month of February, but I encountered people everywhere I went. Beachcombers like Rick had set up cabins on most of the best beaches. A steady fleet of boats traced back and forth among the numerous settlements that pockmark the sound. I met day-tripping visitors at most of my campsites and seldom went more than fifteen or twenty minutes without seeing or hearing the passage of a powerboat. This pristine wilderness was more crowded than some parts of the San Juan Islands!
Landing beach at Rassier Point. Heavy rain fell on the first day, but after that came a week of nearly unbroken sunshine.
Kayaking Maurus Channel. Tides were strong around Tofino but moderate to light everywhere else, even as the new moon approached.
Looking north up Clayoquot Sound from Russell Channel. It had been such a mild winter that most of the peaks on Vancouver Island were already free of snow.
Clouds over Flores Island. Navigation was a breeze, thanks to the many prominent landmarks throughout the sound.
Westernmost beach of Cow Bay. One of the benefits of winter camping is that the highest high tides occur during daylight hours, so it is safe to camp on the beaches even during a spring tide.
Sunrise at Cow Bay. There were about nine and a half hours of daylight each day, plenty of time to maneuver throughout the relatively small space that is Clayoquot Sound.
Mountains and spray off Flores Island. Clayoquot Sound presents particularly rich variations on the standard Pacific Northwest vista of trees, rocks, and water.
Alex at Whitesand Cove. Toward the end of the trip, as the last high-pressure ridge collapsed, stratus clouds moved back in to resume their rightful reign over the coast.
Altogether, I saw forty-seven species of birds, a lackluster tally considering the length of the trip. There were plenty of seabirds, including most of the common species: the Big Four alcids, surf and white-winged scoters, four species of grebes, all three Bucephela, all three cormorants, common and Pacific loons, common and red-breasted mergansers. The most exciting seabird species was the long-tailed duck, which overwinters in large saltwater bays up and down the coast.
The gulls let me down. The only species present were glaucous-winged, Thayer’s, and mew gulls, not any of the other wintertime species. The biggest shortfall, however, came from the land birds. The forests were almost devoid of birds, even in places like Hot Springs Cove and Whitesand Cove where boardwalk trails allowed me to penetrate deep into the woods. I think it was just too cold, dark, and wet for the land birds. Springtime will be a different story.
More surprising than the dearth of birds was the dearth of marine mammals. The only mammals I saw this trip were sea otters, California sea lions, and a single harbor seal. The near-total absence of harbor seals was a real shock. I can’t recall ever spending so much time on saltwater to see so few seals. I’m at a loss to explain why this species was so scarce in Clayoquot Sound. It should have been abundant.
There were wolf tracks on all the large beaches. Several times on Vargas and Flores islands, I heard wolves howling in the mornings. I was expecting a wolf sighting at some point during the trip, or at least a nocturnal visit to investigate my camp, but the wolves stayed away.
On my previous wintertime visit to Clayoquot Sound, in December 2015, I saw fifty-six bird species and six mammal species. This time, I covered far more ground and saw far less wildlife. You just never know.
Surf scoter, Hot Spring Cove. Its wings produce a strong whistling noise in flight.
Common goldeneye, Father Charles Channel. This species is the least approachable of the three Bucephala.
Long-tailed ducks, Russell Channel. The male of the species, at left, regularly emits a comical, nasally honk, like a duck trying to imitate a goose.
Marbled murrelet, Millar Channel. This old-growth-dependent species was the most abundant of the alcids, a testament to the high quality of Clayoquot Sound’s remaining patches of unlogged forest.
White-winged scoters off Flores Island. Compared to the more common surf scoter, this species tends to linger farther offshore.
Common loon, Hot Springs Cove. Common loons were present in large numbers throughout Clayoquot Sound.
Red-necked grebe, Father Charles Channel. This individual appears to have already begun its transition to breeding plumage.
The big fears for coastal kayakers during winter are low-pressure cyclones and high swells. I had excellent luck on both fronts. Even when the high-pressure system off the coast dissipated, it was promptly replaced by another ridge of high pressure. The result was six days of nearly continuous sun, broken only one afternoon by a two-minute period of slightest drizzle. I had packed my heaviest rain gear for this trip in anticipation of frequent low-pressure systems, but I ended up needing more sunscreen than polyurethane. On some beaches, on some afternoons, I didn’t need to wear anything at all—at least until the sight-seeing helicopters or the motorboat-driven picnickers showed up.
The ocean swells were similarly cooperative. Reports from the buoys offshore at the Brooks Peninsula and La Perouse Bank described waves generally under four meters in height. By the time these moderate swells made it past the various bars and reefs, the surf they created was generally under one meter in height on most beaches.
Kayaking Calmus Passage. What a pleasure to paddle through such scenery on a sunny day.
Paddling through sea foam off Flores Island. The foam had an unpleasant, oily taste, like old seaweed.
Kayaking a narrow slot near Halfmoon Bay. I propelled myself through the canyon using my hands instead of my paddle.
Kayaking among islets off Flores Island. The west side of Flores offered a perfect balance between wild ocean swells and beaches and protected inside passages.
Sunset at Halfmoon Bay. Halfmoon Bay on the west coast of Flores Island is not named on any charts or maps I saw, but I learned the name after the trip, when I belatedly read John Kimantas’s guidebook.
Stars seen from Halfmoon Bay. The hunter Orion is our quintessential wintertime constellation.
The big attraction in Clayoquot Sound is Ramsay Hot Springs in Hot Springs Cove. Hot Springs Cove routinely appears on lists of Canada’s best hot springs. It’s not the largest, the hottest, or the most comfortable, but its natural setting, perched above the surge-washed rocks of the open coast, cannot be beat.
I had read somewhere there is a shortcut to the hot springs from the east side of the Openit Peninsula, but I wasn’t able to find it. The east side of the peninsula is partially developed with private residences and docks, and I didn’t want to risk trespassing. Instead, I landed at the commercial boat dock in Hot Springs Cove and followed the boardwalk trail to the hot springs.
There were a dozen visitors off a tour boat already in the hot springs when I arrived. A dozen people is about the largest number the springs can comfortably accommodate. We all took turns soaking in the deepest pools and sitting beneath the steaming hot waterfalls that pour down the cliffs. Submerged in the hot water, gazing up into the deep blue sky, I felt my heart racing even as my eyes drifted shut. When the other visitors returned to their boat, I spent a delicious hour alone in the springs before hurrying back to my campsite in Halfmoon Bay before nightfall.
Steam rising from Ramsay Hot Springs, Hot Springs Cove, seen from kayak. During low swell and at high tide, it would be possible but difficult to land a kayak directly at the hot springs.
Large western redcedars on the boardwalk trail to Ramsay Hot Springs. Western redcedars are some of our liveliest-looking conifers.
Stairway to Ramsay Hot Springs. The temperature where the water emerges from the rock is around 122°F (50°C), but the water cools considerably by the time it reaches the waterfalls and soaking pools.
Contemplating a life well lived in Halfmoon Bay. On both days I camped here, a powerboat came by to drop off picnickers.
Morning frost on kayak, Halfmoon Bay. Overnight temperatures dipped below freezing but rapidly warmed during the day.
View down Millar Channel. I fought a spring-tide ebb most of the way around Flores Island, but the adverse current seldom rose above one knot.
Consistent with my observations from other parts of the coast over the past two decades, the numbers of sea otters in Clayoquot Sound seemed higher than ever. While not as abundant as in Kyuquot Sound to the north, there were individuals and pairs of otters in most channels.
The California sea lions were concentrated in the vicinity of fish farms and other human infrastructure. Like the sea otters, the sea lions also seemed to be prospering under the modern-day marine mammal protections.
On most coastal kayaking trips, the most aggressive camp robbers are the crows and ravens. Here, unusually, it was a different corvid, the Steller’s jay. While the crows and ravens maintained a respectful distance, the jays hopped right into camp and pecked through my things. I keep a clean camp, especially here in wolf country, so the jays did not find much to steal. Disappointed, they busied themselves with digging in the sand for amphipods, all the while keeping an eye on me in case I dropped something edible.
Cormorants on rock off Sharp Point. All three Pacific Northwest species are present here: double-crested, pelagic, and Brandt’s.
Sea stars and anemones off Flores Island. Every square centimeter of surface supports life on this coast.
Sea otter, Russell Channel. The presence of this species is a sure sign that you have come to a special and beautiful place.
California sea lion, Millar Channel. In the narrow channels, the males’ barking honks could be heard for miles.
Killdeer on frosty morning in Cow Bay. This species and the black turnstone were the only shorebirds I saw.
Chestnut-backed chickadee, Whitesand Cove. This was the most abundant forest bird species, but even so, I saw fewer than thirty throughout the course of the trip.
Steller’s jay, Halfmoon Bay. Sand clings to its bill, a remnant of its diggings to extract amphipods from the beach.
Hermit thrust, Whitesand Cove. This species is the most approachable of our thrushes, excepting the ubiquitous and well-urbanized robin.
Pigeon guillemot, Father Charles Channel. Ninety to ninety-five percent of the guillemots were in their white, winter plumage, shown here, but a handful of individuals had already transitioned to their black, summer plumage.
Bufflehead, Millar Channel. A handful of the most exuberant males had just begun to perform courtship dances, but most were content to hang out peacefully with their bros.
Brant, Stubbs Island. This is the Pacific subspecies, Branta bernicla nigricans, sometimes called the “black brant.”
Commonly on these week-long trips, I will experience one or two frightening moments on the water, capsizes or near-capsizes caused by unexpectedly powerful wind, waves, or currents. No such shocks occurred this time. Other than the leaky rainfly on my ancient tent, the only untoward event occurred when I dropped my handheld GPS unit into the water while unloading my kayak at Cow Bay. I didn’t notice the missing device until nightfall, by which time it had spent three hours in the swash, being battered up and down the beach by the waves and the rising tide. Wet sand intruded into the battery compartment during this ordeal, so I had low hopes for the device’s survival. Still, I scrubbed it out with a toothbrush, rinsed it with fresh water, and tucked into my pocket overnight to dry inside my sleeping bag. Amazingly, it booted up the next morning without any trouble and functioned normally throughout the rest of the trip.
Whitesand Cove, on the southeast end of Flores Island, is one of my favorite parts of Clayoquot Sound. BC Parks and the Ahousaht First Nation have built a first-rate network of boardwalks through the forest, with signage to explain historical and cultural events that occurred in various places. I spent two days in the cove, to give myself time to fully explore my surroundings.
The most intriguing cultural site was a series of low sand dunes at the east end of the cove. A sign here said, “Hundreds of years ago, a man saw sea serpents sliding down the sand dunes.” No further explanation was given.
I did not immediately rule out the possibility that this short story could be a reference to actual sea snakes, as in natatorial saltwater elapids from the tropics. Tropical and subtropical species do occasionally stray into the waters of the Pacific Northwest, so it’s not impossible. I myself saw a live sea turtle in Puget Sound some thirty years ago, which taught me that marine reptiles can survive in our waters, at least for brief periods. Over the long span of history, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if there had been occasional irruptions of sea snakes as far north as Clayoquot Sound.
I asked one of the Ahousaht guardians about the sea snake story. He told me it was more likely a reference to a vision someone had once had at the dunes, not a literal description of sea snakes. I was crestfallen to learn these had only been psychological or metaphorical sea snakes, not living reptiles, but the guardian did not seem to mind the difference. He asked if I had had any spiritual experiences on the coast. I think the answer is no. I seem to lack the knack for things like visions of sea snakes slithering down sand dunes. For me to have the same experience, I have to see the genuine article.
Sunrise at Whitesand Cove. This time of year, the sunrises and sunsets take nearly an hour.
Sand dunes at Whitesand Cove. One of these days, someone is going to find a tropical sea snake slithering down these dunes.
Moss shoots, Whitesand Cove. The structure of the forest replicates itself in miniature.
View from Whitesand Cove. Cumulus clouds herald the arrival of dense, cold air.
Coming to the coast in winter was a gamble, but the thing about gambles is that they sometimes pay off more richly than lower-risk investments. Luck was with me this time. Clayoquot Sound in February delivered a first-class kayak-camping experience. The magical aspects of Clayoquot Sound might have been less accessible to me than to others, but even my boring old, literal mind could not fail to be enchanted by this coast.
—Alex Sidles