AdventuresNW
I’m in serious bear country, camped on a small floating platform in the middle of a narrow saltwater channel where fishermen sometimes come to sort their nets. Of course, bears do swim, but I feel a bit safer not being on terra firma tonight. Prudence, my eighteen-foot-long purple sea kayak, sits beside my tent. Today, my forty-fifth day at sea, I left British Columbia in my rearview mirror and paddled into Alaskan waters. Roughly 700 miles are now behind my stern, with about 500 left to paddle before my bow scrubs up at the finish line in Sitka, Alaska.
As the sky slowly darkens, I hear men’s voices and the soft thrum of a boat coming down the channel. I roll over, unzip the tent door, and casually watch a biggish gillnetter slowly motor by. The dock gently bobs up and down from the boat’s wake and soon it’s quiet again. I doze off, sleeping soundly until 4:30 the next morning. Blinking the dryness out of my eyes, I peer out the tent door, across the float, and down the channel. It’s time to go. The biggest benefit of camping on a floating platform, besides safety from marauding bears, is the shortened distance to carry gear and boat to the water—a practicably laughable five paces. No sand, barnacles or slippery rocks to navigate. No slopping up and down through the intertidal zone, which in this part of the world can be the equivalent of, or longer than, a football field. I can simply pack Prudence while she sits high and dry on the deck, then wheelbarrow her into the water: slide and glide.
Saying Alaska to me is like saying squirrel to a dog. ALASKA. At first, it stole my heart, and now it’s making a storyteller out of me. I have many stories from my 2022 solo through-paddle of the Inside Passage. This is one of them.
At six a.m., I paddle away into a slight breeze. Hmmm…It’s not a good sign when the wind picks up this early. I stuff my concerns and ride the ebb current out past Tongass Island, then a few miles farther, make a quick stop at Cape Fox to fuel up and pee. Cape Fox, sheltered by Fox Island and a smattering of small rocky outcrops, would have made an ideal campsite with its user-friendly shoreline and sandy beach—except for the multitude of king-size bear tracks firmly embedded in the sand. My decision to continue is easy, and I shove off for another day at sea in a ridiculously small boat.
Prudence feels lively beneath me, responding to the slightest twitch of hips, knees, and thighs. We dance atop the waves, joined at the hip. Manageable—but somewhat ominous—six-foot swells roll under us, lifting us skyward like a nautical roller coaster as they march north up a reef-lined coast—and into the maw of Dixon Entrance. This broad expanse of saltwater loosely defines the maritime border between British Columbia and Alaska. Hecate Strait separates Haida Gwaii from the mainland and is relatively shallow for its massive size. Not-so-fun fact: a large enough wave can expose Hecate’s sea floor. There’s zero comfort in that bit of knowledge. I glance down at my chart, fully aware that Dixon Entrance is where Hecate Strait and the Pacific Ocean collide. I recall that mariners have referred to it as the “Punching Bag of the Pacific Northwest”—and I’m about to find out why today.
Once I begin paddling around the cape, I am committed to whatever the Pacific can and will dish out. Landing spots are few. Incoming waves explode onto the reefs, and if conditions pick up it can become problematic to navigate without busting a boat or a bone. As Prudence and I climb the swells I wonder if this is a stupid idea. I hesitate and consider turning back, but instead, turn the corner and commit to a northwest trajectory, where the wind, waves, swell, and tide all run in the same direction. This is a good thing, but still, big is big. Wind becomes a living thing, first nagging the water, creating a disquiet that quickly turns to frothy anger, sternly reminding me who is in charge.
And then, suddenly, I reach the point of no return, where retreating is equally as dangerous as continuing. It is now a battle of wills, the wind indifferent to my goals. And my immediate goal is simply to stay upright. Prudence and I skip across the waves, leaping from crest to crest, then wallow deep in the troughs.
Kayaking is unique in that the paddler literally wears the boat. Prudence and I are connected by a rubber skirt that looks rather silly when taken out of the context of fitting around a hole in a kayak, but once attached and functioning as designed, it makes perfect sense. The skirt keeps the ocean out—a pivotal feature, especially now. The wind veers clockwise and quickens, blowing from the west. This broadside wind collides at right angles with the southerly swell, and my previous, somewhat tidy big seas become quite unkempt. Bouncing along at six knots, nearly twice my average speed, my paddle strokes morph into bracing strokes, using the flat part of the blade to stabilize the boat while letting the wind and waves propel me forward. But forward toward what? I scan the shoreline, and all I see are cliffs and crashing surf. I furtively glance at my chart and try to make sense of the careening seascape by synthesizing the two-dimensional laminated paper on my deck with the three-dimensional world I am catapulting through. The seas are picking up alarmingly fast, every sixth wave is a doozy, and the sustained twenty-knot winds occasionally and abruptly gust to thirty knots, catching me off-guard.
Skills, Susan, skills. Lean forward, paddle well, stay focused. The “big one,” where the largest wave in the marching sets combines with the biggest gust, wobbles me deep to one side, my elbow in the water, knees firm against the upper deck, eyes focused, brain processing, pushing away thoughts that this is the one that might take me down for the count. There’s no getting off this ride.
Waves break up to my chest. I am a sliver on the sea, teetering in a twenty-one-inch-wide kayak. I tip to the starboard. Nine feet of fiberglass and resin in front of me and nine feet behind me, each seemingly wanting to go in opposite directions. The boat, loaded with about 100 pounds of supplies, 25 pounds of water, and 140 pounds of me, wallows and creaks. The Punching Bag is living up to her name, and I have more than a ring-side seat—I’m in the thick of the action.
I spot Tree Point Lighthouse towering over the cliffs, a historic structure I’ve visited on past expeditions. But there will be no visiting today as coming ashore in these conditions would be suicide. Waves are rearranging rocks on those beaches, so I swing it wide instead. Struggling to stay upright, I’ve never been so intensely in the moment as I am at this moment and every exhaustive consecutive moment for the next two hours. Running on adrenaline, my forearms and biceps soaked in lactic acid, I’m thirsty as hell. My water hydration hose hangs just inches from my face, but I don’t dare take my hands off the paddle to shove it in my mouth. My wide-open, icy-blue eyes match the frigid cold of the seas beneath my hull. I wear a dry suit so as long as I don’t become separated from my boat, I might survive a capsize. I might. At least the layers of Goretex and fleece would buy me some extra time.
My brain reviews the mechanics of executing a kayak roll. A maneuver that, if practiced well and often—and in your sleep—can bring you back to an upright position. It entails staying calm while upside down in what feels like the spin cycle of a washing machine. It involves locking knees inside the cockpit, bracing thighs against the inside deck, reaching up with your paddle—which you’ve instinctively held on to—sweeping out to the side, following it gracefully with your body English, keeping your head down, so counterintuitive to reaching for that instinctive breath of oxygen.
Soon, Foggy Point, a low, rocky, wooded peninsula marked by an undistinguished navigation light, comes into view. Just another three miles. You’ve got this. The Punching Bag isn’t done with me yet. She cuffs me one way and jabs me the other. She mocks me with her screaming wind each time I lurch off-kilter in the depths of the waves. Despite her abuse, my eye is on the prize: A group of islands offshore and a bit north of Foggy Point that will offer protection, a sandy beach, and a place to lay my head. But first, I must get there. The only solution is to keep paddling. Each stroke is the destination. All at once, time is irrelevant, time is of the essence, and time is standing still. Time is racing by, and time does not exist. I contemplate these opposing truths while the sea laughs and says yes, each is true, you fool.
After thirty minutes of intensely focused in-the-moment paddling, I paddle out of chaos and gently surf into the safety of the Delong Islands. I exhale deeply, releasing hours of tension and angst. As I catch my breath, my shoulders drop a few inches, and I relax the death grip on my paddle. Now, it’s time to scout the islands for a place to call home for the night. I spot a north-facing campsite with a smooth pebble beach on the northernmost island of this archipelago and paddle toward it. My bow touches land and I release the sprayskirt that has bonded me to the boat and kept the ocean out for what felt like an eternity. Wriggling my stiff body out of the cockpit, I stand up and take in my surroundings. I wipe my salt-encrusted face with my pruny fingers, lower myself to my knees, and kiss the ground that only a short time ago seemed so far away. My water trail angels have just worked some serious overtime.
But my day is not done. Kayakers can’t simply anchor, prepare dinner in a warm galley, and climb into a dry bunk. No, we must carry our kayak up beyond the reach of the high tide and create a roof, walls, kitchen, and bunk anew each night. But I don’t mind. I am safe, and with that gratitude, I begin the process of making my home for the evening.
There are plenty of flat areas to pitch the tent, so I begin the process of unpacking, schlepping gear and setting up camp. It begins to rain so I rig the tarp back in the trees and plop the tent directly under it. I blow up my air mattress and tiny camp pillow, unfurl my sleeping bag, and place my book and headlamp beside my cozy sleeping area. It all looks so inviting that I crawl in and conk out for two solid hours. Of course, when I awake, it’s dead calm. The water isn’t even sloshing.
A curious hummingbird flits by, attracted to “Flo,” the pink inflatable flamingo that rides tethered to my bow ever since I left the safety of San Juan Island forty-six days ago. Bees buzz in the bushes, a few seals play in the bay, and so far, there are no signs of bruins. Time for dinner. If all goes as planned, I will trade this sodden campsite for a warm, dry Forest Service cabin tomorrow night.
Gazing out over the now-calm sea, Mother Ocean reminds me that she will always be the undefeated champion, but I thank the water gods that—this time at least—I was up for the fight.
Susan Conrad‘s jam is long, slow paddles in long, skinny boats. She’s completed two 1,200-mile solo through-paddles from the Salish Sea to SE Alaska, has authored three books about those adventures, and is working on her fourth. Visit her at www.susanmarieconrad.com
