Bear prints Photo: Gary Luhm

Cape Scott, Day 3: Guise Bay to Raft Cove - Monday
Tim turns on his VHF radio, checking the weather. We haven't had breakfast. We want to paddle today, move camp -- so the forecast is paramount. It's much like yesterday, winds northwest, building from 25 to 30 knots at Cape Scott. An early start should beat the wind.

Heading south, we'll get a good push. We hope it's not too good. We set a nine-thirty AM departure time. An hour-and-a-half to disassemble the tents and stuff dry bags. Tarps that cover our tents, usually the first thing to go up, are the last to come down. We hit the water at nine-thirty-eight. We head south, paddling offshore pushed by a 10 knot wind and following seas.

Our goal is Raft Cove, 15 miles down the coast. The loaded kayaks settle nicely into the swell, requiring few correcting strokes. We paddle well inside the boomers, stopping frequently to watch sea birds with binoculars.

Despite this, we make the seven miles to the Helen Islands in two hours and stop for a break. During lunch, we notice a Swainson's thrush pecking at sand fleas in beach rack nearby. He is gray-backed, much smaller than a robin, but with bigger looking eyes. He has a white eye ring and a spotted chest. He flies off, but returns repeatedly for more sand fleas.

The ubiquitous Swainson's is so often heard on the coast, but never seen. For a birder, this view is a treat. By twelve-thirty, we are back on the water. We thread our way through some inshore rocks, then cross San Josef's Bay. The rocky shore along Cape Palmerston is stunning; green forests, cliffs, pocket beaches and boomers.

Tim catches a wave, surfing, as we cut inside some offshore rocks. He whoops and rides 100 yards or so before the wave flattens in deeper water. His "whoop!" scrambles a dozen harbor seals from their repose on nearby rocks. From the water they spy-hop inquisitively, looking like mammalian periscopes as their big eyes strain for a look at us.

"the waves are cresting at six feet before expending themselves on the beach."

As we approach the day's destination, Raft Cove, we begin to search for a way ashore. Judging by the swell moving past us, the waves are cresting at six feet before expending themselves on the beach. Landing a loaded kayak through surf is dicey.

On the chart, the MackJack River empties into the south end of Raft Cove. We study the option of paddling up the river mouth in order to avoid a beach landing. We paddle south but nowhere can we discern a river mouth. Tim has been studying the surf to the northern end of the beach, and warns me not to try landing there; it looks large and dumping.

We paddle toward the supposed location of the river mouth and finally see it. Tim catches a small wave. I decide not to follow Tim's lead in surfing to the beach. Instead, I move forward cautiously; back-paddling when a wave comes, and paddling hard for shore between waves. As I head in though, the waves are small, so I catch one anyway, and surf it into the river mouth. We camp here for the night.

Cape Scott, Day 4: Raft Cove - Tuesday
I'm up again at five thirty, looking at the new day dawning on Raft Cove. We have sunrise light for the first time. The sunrise clouds pink up briefly, then a warm glow pervades. Sunlight paints the treetops.

Looking west, across the river mouth and surf, the full arc of a rainbow shines brilliantly against the blue-gray sky. It glows resplendently, but it's not a good sign. Thirty minutes later, first the rainbow, then the warm light, and then the dry beach disappears beneath drizzle.

It drizzles on-and off-all day. A pair of loons circles overhead, quacking like ducks. Loons don't quack. Yesterday, we spotted several gray-headed, black-billed loons, presumably Pacific loons. In the bird identification book, the bird's gray face, profile, and call match the features of the red throated loon. This loon breeds in the far north; nevertheless, its range occasionally extends this far south. The red throated is new to me; we have traveled north to meet this loon at the southern end of its range.

The Macjack River makes a perfect curve from its mouth inland, behind a wedge of forest it bends to parallel the shore of Raft Cove. The tide streams in the river mouth and up the Macjack, swelling the river and filling the sand and gravel riverbanks. Tim and I hoist our food with rope and pulleys high out of reach of bear. We launch our kayaks and paddle upstream. The river is broad, as much as two hundred yards from bank-to-bank. The river width varies with the tides twice a day. The tide is in and we paddle up a wide lagoon. Beyond the bank, often leaning over the water, a stately rainforest rises, comprised of cedar, hemlock and massive Sitka spruce. Tim paddles well ahead of me, and is first to come across a family of river otter.

They are frolicking around a huge log, which has collapsed into the river channel. Tim floats close to the otter family, snapping pictures. The two adults watch us, heads weaving. The youngsters are carefree. They nuzzle the adults and scamper along the logs. Eventually, the family retreats into the rootball of the log. Every few minutes, a head pops out to see if we've gone.

"A quarter mile beyond the bank a logging operation is shaving the hills."

The river parallels the ocean half-a-mile before bending away. We paddle up the stream another mile. The whole way, it is broad, tidal and lush green. Kingfishers and merganser ducks are never out of sight. We hear the buzz of chainsaws. A quarter mile beyond the bank a logging operation is shaving the hills.

In the afternoon, I walk to an old trapper cabin near our camp. The alder trees have reclaimed the area around the cabin. The view from the cabin must once have been much like that from our camp, perched on the bend of the Macjack River. The cabin's shingled roof and siding still keep out the rain. Inside it is musty and dark, despite five windows. There are two bunk beds, a wood stove without a stovepipe, a cupboard, table, chairs, a Coleman cook stove, lots of candles, and fishing tackle. Some of the gear is improvised, like an anchor made by binding stones with cloth and wire. A sign above the stove reads "Roof i s very dry, Stove is very close So please don't build very big fires"; a fair warning.

Later, Tim and I hike the shore to the south. We find numerous bear tracks, including a cub. One set of tracks, the first we find, heads toward our camp, then turns around. Possibly the tracks were laid there the evening we landed and set up camp.

The drizzle, intermittent during the day, never relents during the evening. The book I am reading, pages swelling, won't close properly. Inside my tent, the label on a plastic bottle curls at the edges. Dampness pervades.

by Gary Luhm, WetDawg Correspondent