Photo: Rob Lyon

Clerke Point is a long shallow reef running for a mile diagonally out from the southern tip of the peninsula. From our perspective, it looked like a solid line of crashing combers. I was terrified when I was here last. The reef was kicking up to enormous proportions and the idea of paddling out and around did not even fly. Instead, after much deliberation I had surfed ashore at the river mouth and stayed over night. In the morning it was a skate.

We had our sails up as we skidded WIDE around the corner that day, clipping along at three or four knots with bow spray in our faces, salty on the tongue, with coyote howls whistling out of more than one throat. I twisted around in my seat to see how everyone was doing and could see three other sails dotting the deep blue of the north Pacific!

Aiiieee!

To our left the peninsula jogged up toward rugged, snow capped peaks of the interior. I could even see the scar near the top of one peak where the Canadian air force jet crashed in 1988. Ahead of us, toward the east, the reefs and islands, rocks and beaches of Vancouver Island, winked out in the glare of sun.

It felt wonderful to have finally rounded the Brooks, with the prediction of continued high pressure and sunny days ahead. In the lee of the massive peninsula the frisky northwesterly wind ducked out and we picked up our blades again, veering west between Baker and Cutler Rocks on our way through the Checleset Ecological Reserve.

We paddled past the O'Leary Islets and found a solitary bull sea lion basking on rocky sea swept crags. The bulls weigh in at about a thousand pounds and are territorial, a potent combination. We cut him a wide berth.

We paddled through a cluster of small islands and reefs off the tip of the Acous Peninsula until we found our campsite for the night. A gentle sea breeze ruffled the tips of the trees. A full moon flooded the water with a twinkling ivory light. We lingered around the fire later than usual that night, but did not chatter, I noticed, as much as we had lately. A tangible feeling of relief and relaxation seemed to suffuse everyone.

"On the beach we discovered three or four small trade beads nestled in among the black pea gravel, vestiges of trade here in the 1800s... "

Next morning we were on the water at an easy hour, threading our way through the islands. We beached our kayaks on a gravel beach at low tide. Poking around in the salal we found a fallen totem pole decaying. On the beach we discovered three or four small trade beads nestled in among the black pea gravel, vestiges of trade here in the 1800s. Cedar held a bead between his fingers and looked up. He said: "It's a different take to realize people were living out here at one time, not just paddling through."

"No kidding," I said. "This is home turf for the Checleset and Kyuquot First Nations. They've been living along this stretch of coast for thousands of years."

We dawdled in the Barrier Islands, making up for those stormy days north of the Brooks. We worshipped the hot sun. We made a hot tub with a piece of black plastic and languished in the deep succor of hot water. We played guitar and Frisbee on the beach, and caught more salmon and barbecued them over driftwood coals, relishing the fatty meat. Each night, we slept the sleep of the journeyman paddlers, and arose each morning to a touch of sunburn and a familiar tightness to the muscles. We were well into the bones of the journey now, and the routines, the drills, were second nature, as was finding that easy point of balance on the water at the base of our spines.

A feeling of langour enveloped us, something I've noticed toward the end of long expeditions. Similar to fatigue, but harder to shake. Somewhere in the body a thread of lethargy would allow us to lay down and nod off whenever we wanted...something I could never do at home. Colin, our scientist, thought it might be the prolonged effect of nitrogen in the air.

We made the long crossing from the Bunsby Islands to Spring Island on September 8th, and hung out on Spring Island for another day. The final leg of the expedition was bittersweet. From Spring Island we had roughly 15 miles of paddling, most of it up a deep inlet. We portaged our boats over a sandy saddle on Spring Island and launched from another steeply sloping pea gravel beach, this one without a rude shore break. We slid right down the beach on stones smooth and round and free of barnacles. Like a bob-sled launch, we held each other's boat in turn until everything was ready, then let go...splash!

The day was warm and the winds were light as we paddled through the outskirts of Kyuquot. Native homes on a couple of outlying islands all had skiffs or makeshift docks. The occasional native commercial troller would zip past, heading out to fill its hold or returning to the village with its catch of the day. We passed floating bottles and occasional oddments of trash and I could feel the gradual loss of vitality to the unbridled exuberance of the open coastal waters. I felt sad, reminded of the mixed bag of civilization that lay ahead.

We passed through a cluster of small islands and headed up Crowther Channel to the narrow pass at Surprise Island. Ahead of us lay seven or eight miles of hard paddling as the tide had begun to ebb. It was a tough, long haul and offered plenty of time for personal closure of the glorious episode behind us as well as an opportunity to gather ourselves for a return to civilized life looming on the horizon.

Long live Mother Ocean.

Postscript: We passed through customs into the San Juan Islands at the international border early the morning of the 11th of September, mere hours before the border shut down in the aftermath of the infamous events of that day.

by Rob Lyon

Lyon owns and runs a sea kayak outfitter / guide service in the Pacific Northwest. Check out his site at www.lyonexpeditions.com