Tim and Gary heading to Grant Bay Photo: Gary Luhm

Cape Scott, Day 5: Raft Cove to Grant Bay - Wednesday
"I've got to surf one wave!"

We just punched out the Macjac River mouth through four-foot surf and Tim feels compelled. He spins his loaded kayak and takes a few strokes. He's surfing. He rudders hard with his paddle. His hat flies off. He disappears behind a cresting wall of water.

Tim's all smiles when he joins me outside the surf zone. "I was leaning so hard on the paddle I could feel the shaft bend," he says.

Surfing a loaded kayak takes a firm hand, strong arm, and confidence. Remarkably, when his hat flew off, it landed on his back deck and didn't wash off.

We start late from Raft Cove this morning at 11:15. Our goal is Grant Bay, twelve nautical miles south. The forecast is southwest ten-to twenty-knots with showers, turning northwest late, swell one-to two- meters. As we round the first headland, Commerell Point, we are bucking a light wind. Visibility is a mile or so. Mist envelops the sea. The rocky shore looms darkly as we paddle. Sometimes the sea suddenly flashes white where a boomer throws spray skyward.

The forest above the boomers and rocks disappears into the fog. The mist is so fine we almost can't see it. The surface of the rolling sea shows no droplets. My glasses, sprinkled with mist, bead up with drips. I store a bandana under my hat, to wipe drips from my glasses. Often, I see the shore better without glasses.

Not so with the sea birds, and there are many. A common loon pops from the gray sea at my bow. My eyes meet a dark eye, a loon face in profile, then he's gone. We see common murre, marbled murrelets, rhinoceros auklets, a few sooty shearwater. Tim spots a tufted puffin.

A flock of birds whizzes by us. They look like shorebirds, but on the wing, identification is elusive. They are tiny and delicate; out of place in the vast, gray, ocean swell. Later, the mystery of their identity is solved. We paddle through a flock, feeding on the water. The birds spin about in the flotsam, flashing their markings; red necks, black and white faces, and the needle beaks of red necked phalaropes.

"I'm greeted by a gray damp dawn, damp sand, damp gear, but no mist or rain."

For a couple of hours, we paddle with only the sea birds for company. We pull into an isolated cove for a break. We expect privacy, but are surprised to discover three beachcombers. They are wearing cotton, and they're soaked. They tell us the beach is a short hike from logging road T-10. One of them, a spry older woman from "Hardy" (as in Port Hardy) has found a glass ball; once used by the Japanese as a fishing float.

We leave the beach and for a few minutes I have good vision, until the weather again mists my glasses. My hands are like prunes.

We enter Grant Bay about four o'clock and land on a sand beach. The beach is an arc of sand with rocky ends, like bookends, and towering spruce above. We hear the sounds of logging nearby.

The tarps go up first, then tents beneath. Mist seeps into everything. Just before dark, the misting stops, and we can see across Brooks Bay to the Brooks Peninsula and Solander Island. It's an inviting view.

Cape Scott, Day 6: Grant Bay to Gooding Cove - Thursday
I'm up at 6, greeted by a gray damp dawn, damp sand, damp gear, but no mist or rain. I stuff my damp sleeping bag into a dry sack. I repeat the dry-bagging process with clothing, food, tent, and finally the tarp that marked our camp. Everything is damp.

We plan a four-mile crossing of Quatsino Sound. The forecast is for southwest wind, ten to twenty knots, with southwest swell one to two meters and occasional showers and sun breaks. In summer on BC's West Coast, south and southwest wind means big low-pressure systems that sit placidly (usually) and rain. West wind brings changing weather. North and Northwest winds bring clear skies and brilliant days, but sometimes at the cost of a whipping wind. The forecast is favorable for the crossing.

We pack the kayaks, take our seats, snap the spray skirts closed, and slide easily off the steep sand beach into Grant Bay. As we paddle out, we hear an explosion of dynamite. It echoes like thunder; road construction. Tim discovers a eagle's nest in a high spruce snag, along the shore. We leave the protection of Grant Bay, and skirt the boomers at Cape Parkins. On Kain's Island, a red government helicopter lands with supplies for the Quatsino lighthouse.

From our kayaks, we see a John Deere tractor, lime-green with yellow trim, and a half-dozen people sitting with the copter on the pad. Tim and I snap some pictures, then turn our attention to Quatsino.

The four-mile crossing should take an hour. There isn't any wind, and the swell rolls by in shades of gray like a color-by-number painting. The wind is northwest, not southwest as forecast. A crossing can never be taken lightly. Distance, wind, fetch and cold water all add to the risk. The same can be said for coastal paddling in general. Often there are long stretches between safe take-outs. Tim and I train by surfing, by roll practice, and by paddling in rough weather with a "safe escape" downwind. The rule is; train for the worst, then paddle well within your ability.

Today, the crossing looks like a cakewalk. We point towards Gooding Cove on Quatsino's south shore. Tim voices a concern about its northern exposure. If some northwest weather blows in tomorrow, we could be pinned on the beach. We raft up to check the charts and confirm our direction. The chart shows numerous rocks and islets off shore of the cove. They are likely to break up any incoming swell driven from the north. We find the hills behind Gooding that show on our charts. The Cove lies below.

An hour later, we duck inside Gooding Cove and discover a beach of fine gravel, ideal for camping. It's early afternoon, the sun pops out. We make camp. In the evening we savor the colors of sunset; the first sunset of the trip.

by Gary Luhm, WetDawg Correspondent