British Columbia
Vancouver Island is one of my favorite places in the world. I love the remote beaches where you can camp for days on end without meeting anyone. I love the abundant wildlife that swims or flies right up to your kayak. And I love the roar of the swells as they rise up and break over the rocks.
A circumnavigation of the island would be a major undertaking. It would need weeks or, at my sedate paddling pace, months. It would also involve substantial exposure to the dangers of the ocean, including surf landings and squalls.
So, over the course of several years, I’d been cheating. Instead of circumnavigating the island, I made special trips to only the best spots, timing each trip to achieve the easiest conditions and see the most wildlife: Kyuquot, Clayoquot, the Brokens and the Broughtons. I’d been sneaking in all the good parts of a circumnav and avoiding all the bad parts.
This year’s circumnav substitute was a five-day visit to God’s Pocket and the surrounding islands out of Port Hardy on the north coast. This area had been in my sights for a couple years now, so it was a real treat to finally get out there.
Best of all, my dad was able to join me for this one. We’d been doing short trips together the last two months in preparation for an August trip to Haida Gwaii.
Route map. The drive from Seattle was a full day each way.
God’s Pocket delivered a first-class wilderness experience. At none of the four islands where we camped did we ever share a site with anyone else. The only other person we met on land was a lone logger trudging up the beach on Nigei Island, and the only other kayakers we saw were two guys getting off the water the day we got on.
Dad and I both prefer quiet solitude for our camping over crowds—even friendly ones—so we were grateful for the isolation.
Car-campsite at Scotia Bay. Wouldn’t be Camp Bangladesh without a rope swing.
Departing Hardy Bay. Launching at Scotia Bay not only shortened the paddling distance, it also obviated any need to deal with mudflats in Hardy Bay.
Crossing Goletas Channel toward Gordon Islands. Goletas is known for strong currents and heavy chop during windstorms, but it was benign during our crossing.
Coast Mountains across Queen Charlotte Strait. Queen Charlotte Strait is the part of British Columbia that most strongly reminds me of Alaska.
God’s Pocket Marine Provincial Park was only a small part of this island chain. We were only in the park proper for one night. We wended our way through the Gordon Islands to the east of the park, stopped off in the park on Bell Island for one night, and departed via Balaklava Island west of the park the next day.
The only visible difference between the park and crown lands was the presence of fish farms on crown lands. Dad had never before encountered the noisy eyesores that are fish farms, and he quickly adopted my longstanding position that fish farms are the worst thing to happen to the coast since clearcut logging.
At Bell Island, we encountered our first evidence of a culture that didn’t need clearcuts and fish farms to prosper in this region: a 16-foot-tall midden of shells that marked the campsite on Bell.
I can only guess how old this midden might be, but it’s certainly ancient. Seattle-based archaeologists who have studied middens from similar cultures in Washington estimate that middens in Washington accumulate at various rates between 2 centimeters per century and 200 centimeters per century, depending, I suppose, on the richness of the site and the density of the human habitation.
The average accumulation rate seems to be around 25 centimeters per century, so if it’s fair to extrapolate an average rate from Washington sites to the site at Bell Island, I would guess that the Bell Island midden took around 1,900 years to form—although that figure sits atop a rickety tower of assumptions and should not be trusted.
We’ll see if our own culture can sustain coastal fisheries for as many centuries as the first cultures did. Our record so far from our first century and a half will need improvement.
Entering the Gordon Islands. It’s amazing so many trees can grow on what appears to be a bare-rock cliff.
Narrow channel through Gordon Islands. Though not suitable for camping, the Gordons were absolutely gorgeous for kayaking.
Standing atop the enormous shell midden at Bell Island. According to archaeologist Robert Galois, who got it from William Duff, who got it from Mungo Martin, Bell Island was once the site of a village called Ik’ix’yulis. Nothing else appears to be known about the site. I asked several of the First Nations bands in the area about it, but the only ones who responded at all said they didn’t know.
Alex and dad at Bell Island campsite. Dad’s favorite outdoor activity.
The islands arounds God’s Pocket offered two classes of experience. On the east side, there were placid water mazes that made for easy, relaxed paddling. On the west side, swells from the open ocean rolled through Queen Charlotte Strait, and everything was bumpier, wilder, and more challenging.
In the rougher western portion were most of the cool animals. Dad and I saw forty-nine species of bird on this trip and eleven species of mammal, most of them in the exposed western half. The mammals were: eastern gray squirrel (Seattle), mule deer (I-5), red squirrel (VI), river otter, mink, sea otter, wolf, Dall’s porpoise, humpback whale, Steller sea lion, and harbor seal.
The birds were too numerous to list, but the highlight species were Cassin’s auklets and fork-tailed storm-petrels. Both species nest on remote Triangle Island and only rarely come ashore anywhere else. They demand ocean swells and stiff winds. If conditions aren’t rough, they aren’t interested.
It was wonderful to be in a place wild enough and exposed enough to see these two species, both of which came within a few feet of our kayaks as we battled the swells.
Beach campsite on Balaklava Island. We skipped the site at Nolan Point on the southern tip of Balaklava, which looked too dark and wet.
Kayaking in Queen Charlotte Strait. Wind and clouds are the rule here, and the rule must be obeyed.
Unloading gear on Vansittart Island. In our ignorance, we camped on the difficult, cramped east side instead of the more accessible west side.
We woke up early each morning to catch the ebbing tide, an important consideration in light of how near we were to the full moon. Currents were fairly straightforward in this region: ebb west toward the open sea, flood east toward the mainland. The only place we encountered any kind of disturbance was in the northern end of Browning Passage, between Nigei and Balaklava Islands. Here, the ebb flowed north, and where it interacted with the main west-flowing ebb, there were steep, choppy waves.
I was especially pleased to be able to introduce dad to some of our marine mammals on this trip. Living in Washington most of his life, he had seen things like sea otters and humpbacks from shore on several occasion, but it’s another thing altogether to encounter them in a kayak.
Starting on the northeast side of Nigei and continuing most of the way down Goletas Channel, we met otter after otter after otter. At Lemon Point on Nigei, we watched one adult groom itself for half an hour, then drape a piece of kelp over its tummy and go to sleep for the night.
The western half of the trip was definitely my favorite. We lost the water maze, with its playful wonders and fun, but we gained freedom from civilization and proximity to animals. Anywhere you meet more sea otters than people is a good place in my book.
Sea otter at Nigei Island. The sea otters here were more wary of humans than were the otters in Glacier Bay or the Olympic coast.
Mew gull, subsequently renamed “short-billed gull.” In summertime, the legs of this handsome species are a brilliant yellow.
Sea otter with urchin. These clever creatures use rocks to bash open difficult shellfish.
Wolf scavenging on Willes Island. Coastal wolves, unlike wolves on the mainland, forage mainly by beachcombing and only occasionally bring down larger prey such as bears.
We intended to camp at Loquilla Cove on Nigei, but it wasn’t marked on my map. We ended up cruising along the coast until we spotted a suitable beach just west of Lemon Point. When we later passed Loquilla Cove, I concluded that we’d actually benefitted by the error. Our site had a flowing stream, an easy pebble landing, and open views of the channel. Loquilla Cove looked muddy and confined by comparison.
On the way home, we rode the flood rather than the ebb, which allowed us to sleep in each morning. The wind stayed steady out of the northwest, but as the ridge aloft collapsed, it became evident from the approaching cirrus clouds that a warm front was on its way. Soon, rain would come, and with it, the possibility of a low-pressure system with attendant adverse winds from the southeast.
Indeed, the weather radio confirmed a deep low approaching across the ocean, a typical storm pattern for this time of year. Dad and I scuttled back to Scotia Bay in one day instead of two—partly to avoid the low, partly to test our abilities to do long days, and partly to hurry back to our families.
Sunset near Lemon Point on Nigei Island. In Queen Charlotte Strait, the horizon is usually blocked by mountains, clouds, or both.
Kayaking down Goletas Channel. Currents here were strong but straightforward.
Fork-tailed storm-petrel in Goletas Channel. When they alight on the water, they do not mind humans’ approach.
Surf scooter in Hardy Bay. A face familiar to all North American sea kayakers.
We spent one last night with our gracious camp host Bud, swatting gnats and sharing stories around the wood stove. In the morning, we dragged ourselves out of bed before dawn to begin the eleven-hour trip back to Seattle.
My expectations for a trip like this were high, and yet, as always, the coast exceeded them. We saw more wildlife and enjoyed more remote wilderness than I would have dared hope. Conditions were just rough enough to provide a challenge without being so rough that we felt overmatched. And there was so much wildlife it was like being on a Serengeti safari!
Even the logging scars and fish farms couldn’t detract from such a wonderful place. The north coast is a treasure chest, and we were lucky to have enjoyed its richness for five perfect days.
—Alex Sidles