During my years of paddling folding kayaks, I had to be very mindful of weather and water conditions. In rough seas, a folding kayak can take on water quickly, and when a big, open boat like a folder fills up, we are talking about an enormous quantity of water.
I used to avoid such a nightmare scenario by confining myself only to easy paddling conditions, where swamping was unlikely. Luckily, we here in the northeastern Pacific live among the longest stretch of sheltered waters anywhere in the world, so I never lacked for delightful kayaking opportunities, even in a folder.
Sometimes, though, when I gazed at a map, my eye was drawn to our outer coasts, and I wondered what adventures I was missing.
Late one December, I heard the call of the open ocean swells more urgently than usual, and this time, I obeyed. I spent a week alone in Clayoquot Sound on Vancouver Island’s west coast, visiting an area that is usually too rough for this conservative folding kayaker.
Route map. I rounded Meares Island counterclockwise.
From Seattle, it takes ten or twelve hours to reach Tofino via Tsawassen–Nanaimo, depending on how accurately you hit your ferry sailing. This time of year, the day is only eight hours long, so at least some portion of the drive will be in darkness.
On the way out to Tofino, I scheduled the dark portion of the drive to occur just outside Nanaimo, but that was a mistake. The narrow, winding Highway 4 was a nightmare with all the ice and rain in the darkness. The Ministry of Transportation did a good job laying down sand on the pavement, but it was still a hellish drive.
Arriving long after dark, I discovered all the official campsites were closed for the season. I car-camped at Incinerator Rock, about twenty minutes south of Tofino. I was the only one there, but it’s not an official camping site, so I didn’t want to set up a tent, even though I had paid the parking fee.
As usual, car-camping was miserable, but as a consolation, the sky cleared, and I saw some beautiful moonlight.
Nighttime at Incinerator Rock. There’s a sense of trespass and alienness in walking a west coast beach under moonlight.
Beach at night. The boundary between water and land is always blurred on the ocean coast.
I launched from Tofino bright and early the next morning. My ultimate destination was to be Hot Springs Cove in the northwest of Clayoquot Sound, but I started the trip with a two-night circumnavigation of Meares Island east of Tofino.
To my surprise, there were very few alcids in the sound. Instead, there were tons of cormorants and grebes. I saw all three cormorant species, including huge numbers of Brandt’s, as well as western, horned, and red-necked grebes. I even saw a pie-billed grebe, one of only a handful of times I’d encountered that species on salt water. There were also tons of ducks, especially bufflehead and surf scoters.
The area behind Meares Island was heavenly, with snow-capped mountains towering over still, blue waters. I was the only boat out there, once I was away from town, and I drifted along, enjoying the birds and clouds.
Arriving in Tofino on a frosty morning. The only waterfront activity was from people traveling to and from the village of Ahousat.
Morning paddle in Heynen Channel. The warming effect of the ocean kept the snowline a few hundred feet above sea level.
Small islands in Heynen Channel. Even when paddling toward a destination certain, it is always worthwhile to wander off-course through mazes like this.
Western grebe in Browning Passage. This is our most handsome, dignified grebe.
Paddling down Browning Passage. The clouds hugged the mountains like cold smoke.
I was surprised and dismayed to see the logging scars on the hillsides. What a lot of forest has been cut down! I hope the money they got was worth what they gave up, because we won’t see trees like those again for many centuries.
The flood tide carried me through to Cis’a’quis, a cedar shingle cabin built by environmental activists. I slept in the cabin, secure in the knowledge that no one else would be coming by in December. It wasn’t so much that it was cold—although it was—or that winter storms were so dangerous. It was more that there simply wasn’t enough daylight to get anywhere. I was the only kayaker out there the entire week.
In the morning, I had to wait a few hours for an ebb tide to carry me to my next Meares Island campsite, Ritchie Beach. The wait for the tide delayed me enough that it was getting dark by the time I arrived at Ritchie Beach. The weather forecast was for strong winds the next day, so I took the time to set up a tarp over my campsite.
By the time dinner was ready, it was full dark. I was sitting on the beach, eating my spaghetti and chicken, when a dark, darting shape of indeterminate size came racing over the gravel toward me!
I did what I always do in such threatening situations: I yelled “Aaaaah!” and kicked over my coffee cup.
The intruding animal was just as frightened as I was. It ran up a tree.
Shining my flashlight on it, I saw that it was actually a small mustelid, no threat to me at all, and really kind of a cool visitor.
Usually, when you see a small mustelid on the beaches in BC, it’s a mink, so I assumed that’s what this one was, too. But when I shined my light on it up in the tree, I noticed some distinctly un-mink-like features: the creature in the tree had triangle-shaped, stick-up ears, which mink don’t, and it had a buffy breast, which mink don’t, and most strikingly of all, its eyes reflected a bright, electric blue light. I’d never seen anything like that before. Minks’ eyes reflect yellow light.
The only mustelid whose eyes reflect blue light is the American marten, and that’s what this was. I’d never seen one in the wild until now.
Cisaqis protest cabin. In 1984, this was the site of one of the first big anti-logging protests in North America.
Paddling up Fortune Channel. Frost coats the kayak’s bow.
The weather report in the morning called for winds of up to fifty knots, so I stayed on shore at Ritchie Beach. Despite the dire forecast, the local winds were no more than fifteen knots, but by the time I determined that conditions would be manageable, it was too late in the day to launch, thanks to the shortness of the days.
The day after, I departed for Whitesand Cove. The wind was up, and it was a little choppy, but small offshore island broke up the swells and reduced the fetch. Unfortunately, I guessed wrong about the direction of the tidal current, so I had to crawl my way across the sound at about one mile per hour. The rolling swells announced that I was now meeting the open ocean.
At Whitesand Cove, I dumped my kayak in two-foot surf. Luckily, no one was around to witness my shame. Even more luckily, I was wearing a drysuit, and all my gear was in drybags. Nothing got wet, but it was still a pain to haul my waterlogged folding kayak up the beach. I dragged it above the waterline and flipped it over to empty out the water.
Despite this misadventure, Whitesand Cove was a paradise. All I wanted to do was sit on the beach and watch the sun slowly arc its way across the sky.
Catface Mountain seen from Calmus Passage. The Insular Mountains leach the rain out of passing clouds.
Offshore islands in Clayoquot Sound. Even with the many gaps between the islands, they still caused a noticeable reduction in swells.
Approaching Flores Island in light rain. By December standards on the coast, this qualifies as excellent weather.
Camp at Whitesand Cove, Flores Island. Long, sandy beaches are one of the chief attractions on the west coast.
It was a good thing Whitesand Cove was such a great spot, because I decided I wouldn’t be able to reach Hot Springs Cove.
The outside route was out of the question due to rough waters, but the inside route around Flores Island required me to take advantage of a tide change: ride the flood up the channel, ride the ebb out of the channel. In summer, this would have been no problem, but this time of year, the turn of the tide would leave me only an hour of daylight to make the last six miles of paddling. That wasn’t enough time for me, at least not in unfamiliar waters.
I could have broken the journey up into a two-day affair, thereby obviating the need to wait for the tide turn, but then I would require an additional two days afterwards to get myself back to Whitesand Cove, plus probably one full day at the hot springs. I had enough food and fuel to undertake this kind of operation, but I just didn’t have the will. Five days to visit Hot Springs Cove was not worth it, not when Whitesand Cove was so sublime.
Instead, I stayed at Whitesand for three days. There was a network of trails to explore the forest and the other beaches, so that’s what I did instead.
Sunrise in Clayoquot Sound. The sun’s warming rays were especially welcome in the cold of winter.
Winter morning in Clayoquot Sound. This time of year, the sun took a long time to break the horizon.
Campsite at Whitesand Cove. The beach stayed wet all day with frost, spray, and condensation.
Hiking on beach, Flores Island. Although Flores was not large, the rugged coastline and thick forest made it difficult to traverse on foot.
There were culturally modified trees all over Flores Island, both ancient and modern. There were wolf tracks on every beach (though I never saw a wolf). And there were magnificent sunrises and sunsets, shining through the clouds.
After three days on the beach, I paddled back to Tofino in a one-day push. Remembering my error with the tides on the way from Meares to Flores, this time I caught the flood back and barely had to work.
A couple miles outside town, I found a flock of black scoters, the first time I’d seen this species in over four years. There were also long-tailed ducks whistling delightfully at one another and at me. Best of all, a sea otter was sleeping on the surface as I went by. He rolled himself upright and watched me, seemingly surprised to see a kayaker at this unusual time of year.
Culturally modified tree on Flores Island. A strip of western redcedar bark is taken for use in clothing or basketry.
Catface Mountain in Clayoquot Sound. An open-pit mine is proposed that would absolutely devastate the mountain.
Rough beach on Flores Island. The more westerly beaches received bigger swells and made for worse launching.
Sunset at Whitesand Cove. This time of year, this far north, the sun describes only a 110° arc from southeast to southwest, not a 180° arc from east to west.
Even though I didn’t make it to Hot Springs Cove, it was still a wonderful trip. I had every campsite to myself, so I was free to wander around the islands and the sound, visiting the trees and birds and animals. Altogether, I saw fifty-six bird species, and mammals included: harbor porpoise, Dall’s porpoise, house mouse, American marten, harbor seal, and sea otter.
I’m very glad I finally made it out to this part of the coast. The short winter days imposed severe restrictions on my itinerary, but that ended up giving me three days on a beautiful island by myself. Trips don’t get better than that.
—Alex Sidles