Crossing the Howe Sound on Kayak
Ramillies Channel Trip Report - July 30th - August 2nd 2023
Looking back on the various trips and expeditions I’ve taken over the years, my favourite memories always come from those adventures which are characterized by a sort of “stepping into the unknown” attitude, tip-toeing the fine line between doe-eyed wonder and plain ignorance in pursuit of a relatively arbitrary goal. My recent kayaking excursion on the Sea-to-Sky Marine Trail was one of those very mis-adventures, so far in over our heads that the risks involved mostly didn’t register. What ensued was 4 days of rowdy, wet antics in the Howe Sound, and by some miracle pulling everything together to make it back in one piece.
Before
About three weeks prior to embarking, Nicolas planted the seed of a boating expedition into my head. Nic speaks incessantly about his favourite climbing film, Dodo’s Delight, detailing climbers who embarked on a boating journey throughout the Arctic, discovering new walls and engaging in general tomfoolery. Indeed, a trip like that would be fantastic, and really what’s stopping us? The Squamish scene was becoming frustrating, busy, and overwhelming. We both ached for some exploration, to leave the comfy existence of our drive-in campsites and find something a little more raw. Thus, the idea was born. But first, we needed to find boats.
Facebook marketplace is my go-to when I’m deciding to pick up a new hobby. Two-thousand dollars on a new kayak from Valhalla felt frivolous. An inflatable Intex K2 Explorer on sale for 100 dollars? Much more reasonable. A K2 explorer is the type of inflatable boat you’d buy at Walmart to drink beer and float around in, preferably on a small lake with friends. Definitely not the ideal weapon for attacking the Howe Sound. But being quite green, Nicolas and I didn’t know this at the time. Instead, we were quite stoked that the K2 was inflatable (convenient for transport), came with two paddles, and was super cheap. So, he picked it up in Van and we spent a few days floating around in Brohm Lake.. It was also during these few days that Nicolas managed to lose the rudder for the K2, probably because the bag it was stored in had a massive hole. So now, tracking (staying straight while paddling) would be impossible.
It became clear that the K2 wasn’t going to cut it for our expedition, so I took it upon myself to find my own proper kayak and leave Nic to deal with his floating death-trap alone. I managed to track down a beautiful yellow Necky Eliza, albeit used and quite well-loved. She was a rental boat for the UBC Varsity Outdoors Club, mainly used for beginner lessons. The VOC was selling off their old rental fleet to make way for newer, modern boats. I paid no mind to the fact that Necky is an outdated brand and this boat was totally sun-bleached. For 250 dollars, I could have my own 17-foot proper hardshell kayak. So a quick trip down to Vancouver and a couple of Japadogs later, I had a new kayak! Thanks Jem for coming with me.
My new boat struck a small chord of jealousy in Nicolas, because only 2 days later, he showed up to the Chief with another kayak, a proper hardshell boat that sort of resembled a kazoo. It had no hatches for storing away goods, the only hole was the entrance where the seat is. Not quite the ideal expedition kayak but anything would be better than an inflatable. We spent a few days playing around on our new boats in a very choppy Howe Sound, and thoroughly enjoyed surfing around on waves and getting up close to rock faces unseen from the mainland. It was then we committed to making a trip happen - regardless of any obstacle that stood in our way, including the fact that we had only owned kayaks for 2 weeks. I booked time off work, with no idea of specifics but faith that we would follow through.
However, Nic neglected to mention one key detail: his good friend from Quebec was coming to visit him in Squamish the same week we planned our kayaking trip. Nic reassured me that this wouldn’t put a wrench in our plans, Nadeau is totally happy to try out kayaking and we even have the spare inflatable boat for him, meaning he can join our trip. Personally, I thought it seemed dangerous to take the old inflatable boat on a 4 day excursion in the open ocean, especially since it’s recently rudderless, making steering, paddling and navigating next to impossible. But Nic, ever pragmatic, came up with the perfect solution, or at least a solution that would stop my griping. We’ll find another friend to join Nadeau on the inflatable boat, because two people paddling on one shitty boat should equal out to one person paddling on a normal kayak. Nic even offered to put some time into fixing up the inflatable boat to make it a bit safer. I gave in. Maybe this isn’t a bad idea, maybe we won’t die on the open ocean. Thus, the trip planning continued, and our friend Marjorie agreed to join the expedition.
Nic and I spent several days at the public library, daydreaming of different paddles, our ideal trip. Ten, twenty, thirty kilometres per day of paddling wasn’t beyond us, we’re young, fit and overzealous, meaning anything is possible. We learned about the vast network of marine accessible campsites in the Howe Sound, known as the Sea to Sky Marine Trail. These campsites are totally free, as long as you can get there by boat. We decided to attempt a crossing of the Sound and a traverse of East Gambier Island, stopping at a few different campsites along the way, for a total of 3 nights on the water and 60 kilometres of kayaking. We were both eager, and decided it was time to start making an inventory, picking up supplies, food, and telling our adventure partners what they’re getting themselves into. I dug a bit further into researching our proposed route, just to feel a bit more aware of the risks we could be taking.
Through my research I learned that the crossing from Porteau Cove to Gambier Island, through the Thornbrough Channel, has a notorious reputation within the sea kayaking community in British Columbia. The crossing is treacherous in afternoon winds, and quite unpredictable during storms, with swells that could reach over 10 feet. In fact, in 2007, a storm in the channel claimed two experienced kayaker’s lives. The event was a tragedy and a testament to the many occurrences that can cause disaster in the ocean: tides, currents, high winds, water temperature, and other vessels are key safety considerations. Reading about this accident while doing trip research was the first wake-up call I had to the true dangers of sea kayaking. The second wake-up call came from a visit to Valhalla Pure Outfitters, the local kayaking retailer in Squamish. Our party of four went to Valhalla to stock up on all the good stuff we’d need for our trip: dry bags, dried food, fuel, maps, and aquatabs for water purification. Nic also wanted to see if there were any supplies he could repair the inflatable boat with, but the only replacement rudders they had were meant for paddleboards (Squamish, man). He still decided to buy it, hoping we could Macgyver some kind of makeshift rudder that would work for the length of the trip. Of course, the ever helpful salespeople inquired what we could be doing with all these supplies and a paddleboard repair kit. So Nic graciously filled them in, we were attempting to cross the Howe Sound and our inflatable boat lost its rudder, so it needed to be fixed before we set out on our trip in 2 days. Well, this clearly sounded some alarm bells in the head of Valhalla’s kayaking expert, because the four of us got a little lecture:
“Do you even know how to read a map?”
“Kind of…”
“Have you checked the shipment schedule coming down the Thornbrough Channel?”
“There are shipments down the channel?”
“YOU’RE IN AN INFLATABLE BOAT? Do any of you have hardshell kayaks?”
“Two of us do..”
“Well, do the two of you know how to perform rescues? Have you done any kayak trips before? Do you have rescue equipment?”
“No….”
“Good god, you’re all going to get yourselves killed. Now listen to me, I want you to reconsider this trip. If you’re still harebrained enough to see this through, heed my warning. You need to launch from Porteau Cove at 7am, at the absolute latest. The latest! Otherwise you’ll get caught in a windstorm and stuck in the channel. You need to buy this rescue equipment, which you’re required to have by law. And you need to check back in with us when you’re back in Squamish, please. I need to know if you’re still alive.”
He handed us a bilge pump, a paddle float, and a sponge, all meant for emptying water out of your boat if you capsize. Staring at this foreign equipment, I hoped we wouldn’t need to use it. Nic decided to go ahead and buy the paddleboard fin along with some insoluble glue, hoping to glue the fin to the bottom of the boat. As long as the width of the fin was smaller than the width of the hull’s ridges, then glueing it down should work. I left that up to Nic, personally I was not feeling very optimistic about fixing this boat. We each left Valhalla with a myriad of random items, feeling like jesters as the more experienced staff silently judged our inexperience.
Whatever excitement I had was gone. Were we kayaking to our deaths? The boys attempted to console Marjorie, who was having some serious second thoughts. The four of us deliberated for a while, pouring over a map into the wee hours of the night, eventually deciding that we would still go on a kayaking trip, but reduce the distance by about 40 kilometres. I spent the next day learning how to perform kayak rescues in the river with a friend, rehearsing my self-rescues over and over again. Capsizing in the middle of the Howe Sound would turn a nice excursion into a potential epic, and I was determined to do this (relatively) safely. Eventually, I became exhausted from rolling over and over again, bringing my only practice to an end. I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to put my new skills to use in the ocean.
Finally, after a week of planning, waiting, stressing, and Canadian Tire trips, twas the evening before our planned excursion. Lo and behold, absolutely nothing was packed or ready. Food still had to be rationed between us, clothes and gear needed to be packed into kayaks, and I was obsessively checking our map and routing, making sure I had every rock and hazard accounted for. Nicolas and Nadeau spent hours fixing Nic’s boat, attempting to create some bungee deck cords and taking way too long. The afternoon trickled into night and soon we were sorting gear by headlamp in the pitch black. It was past midnight and the boys didn’t even get to fixing the inflatable boat, which was going to be nearly impossible to paddle with in its current state. My alarm was set for 05:00 because of our need to be on the water at 07:00 but at this point, there was so much left to do that we elected to launch in the evening instead, around 19:00 when the wind is supposed to calm. Then at least we’d have the morning to finish up our last minute packing and sleep in a little. The prospect of paddling in the dark was a bit frightening, but as long as I made no navigational mistakes we should make it to our first planned campsite, Anvil Island, before sundown.
Day 1
Nic and I awoke at an agreeable 09:00, ready to tackle a morning of packing before loading up the boats and heading to Porteau Cove. A slow morning turned into a 2pm packing session, and it was around dinner by the time we were actually on our way. What we did not realize is that Porteau Cove on a Sunday afternoon is rife with Vancouverites and Teslas in every parking spot remotely near the dock. There was nowhere to pull over and unload our boats, and these boats were heavy as hell, full of food, water, and gear for 4 days at sea. We snagged a spot at the back lot, about 400m away from the dock, and the Park Operators handed us multi-day parking permits. The Park Operators at Porteau were not totally friendly upon first impression, they seemed hardened, and able to sniff out the idiocy of our night-time launch plan. The Operators watched in amusement from their truck as we attempted to haul our heavy kayaks down to the dock, stopping every 2 metres to take a break. Finally, they drove their pickup over to our gaggle.
“Hey, put that stuff in the truck! Quick! Load it up, we’ll take you down!”, the two men chortled.
“What luck we have! These guys are homies!”, we laughed to one another. It felt like this was the first thing to go right since our trip planning began. Perhaps some kayaking god was smiling down upon us.
We unloaded our kayaks and the fellows wished us safe travels. Everything was ready to go, besides the goddamn inflatable boat. Nic promised to fix the rudder once we made it to our first campsite, Nadeau and Marjorie would have to paddle without it for now. The inflating process is lengthy, involving many compartments, and we were over-inflating everything due to our nerves about manning this tiny boat with so many belongings. Unfortunately, inflatable PVC is not immune to tearing, and when the side compartments were overinflated, they tore and separated from the hull, leaving a gaping 1 inch hole. This could be a trip ending mistake, but luckily Nic remembered the miracle cure - Duct tape! We patched it up well enough and made a few jokes about the boat now having an “asshole”. Time to get into the water. Marjorie and Nadeau placed several huge garbage bags full of their supplies into the inflatable boat, sitting with the bags cradled between their legs.
The nose of my kayak dipped into the ocean, and it felt like I was on a precipice, ready to tumble into some vast unknown waters, quite literally. As I paddled away from shore, a sudden awareness of my own mortality nauseated my stomach. Peering into the ocean, I thought about its ungraspable formlessness and depth, the way it conceals. I started to panic a little. Group of Four Lost at Sea, the newspaper headlines already seized my imagination. There was no time to linger in fear, I already left shore, I already made my choice. I accepted the prospect of a disaster. Anytime you take that grand leap into the elements, no matter how much preparation you have, that first step away from civilization always feels a little vulnerable.
We paddled for about half an hour South, intending to cross Thornbrough Channel at its narrowest point. Porteau Cove became smaller as we paddled, the sky became purple and gradually phased into a navy blue. The water was dead-calm, nearly glass aside from the occasional ripple. Despite the ideal paddling conditions, the encroaching darkness decided we would not make it to Anvil Island tonight. I vaguely recalled reading about an impromptu campsite set up on the Eastern Slope of the Sound and South of Porteau Cove. The others agreed to abandon our Anvil Island plan and find this secret site. It was around 9:00 pm at this point, the light quickly leaving and obscuring the shoreline’s details. I knew that we needed to find a steep ramp with large rocks leading to a small treed plateau. In the dark, tired, and starving, every rocky slope looked exactly like the one we were trying to find. We continued paddling past one small bay and into another, with me persuading the others to keep going.
“Please, just past this bend, I’m sure it will be there.”
“Micheala, I really think we should stop soon, even if we don’t find it!”
I was determined, adamantly refusing to sleep on rocks. Finally, after scouring around three small bays in search of any sign of human touch, we spotted it. A small structure above a steep rocky ramp, surrounded by trees. This must be it! We paddled to shore and tied down our boats, scrambling up the ramp on algae covered rocks. Everyone slipped as we struggled to carry all our gear. Cresting the ramp I realized we had found the dream campsite, overlooking the ocean, flat cooking area, and perfect trees to set up our hammocks. There was also a small log cabin, filled with lawn chairs, cooking supplies and logs for a fire. Everyone’s worried gripes turned to giggles and thank yous aimed at the sky, once again it felt like some kayak gods were helping us. We cooked a delicious pasta dish, and spent some time sitting in the lawn chairs we found, staring at the stars. Finally, a break from the antics.
Eventually, Nic and Nadeau got around to their attempt at fixing the inflatable boat. First, they attempted to seal the hole between the hull and the sides with more glue and duct tape, but all the pressing and fiddling actually opened the hole up another 2 inches. Attaching the fin to the boat proved to be more complicated than originally anticipated, because like we feared, the fin itself was wider than the ridges of the hull. If the fin was glued down it would be half hanging off and probably tear the PVC. To our luck, inside the log cabin at our campsite, there was a rusty old hand saw! Nic was so excited, he got straight to narrowing down the fin. Two hours of labour later, and the fin was marginally narrower, maybe by a centimetre. Since the marine glue needed to set overnight, the fin was going to have to be glued down this evening so it could be ready for a 7am start the next morning. I headed to bed, leaving Nic to deal with his repair operations.
Day 2
I stirred at first light, rays from the sunrise shining into my cocoon. Peering out the side of my hammock, I witnessed the most beautiful sunrise I’d ever seen, right from the comfort of my sleeping bag. Pink and orange beams cascaded through the sky, reflected in the glass-like water. My other three friends were also awake, but we did not acknowledge one another and sat observing the Sound in complete silence, astounded. After the light show ended, I called on everyone to get ourselves moving. Once again, we had to be on the water early to avoid wind while crossing the Thornbrough Channel. We scarfed down our oatmeal and broke camp in about an hour, working quickly. Nic waited until the last possible moment to check if the glue had set on the inflatable boat’s fin. Right as we were about to head off, he wiggled the fin to check for stability and the entire thing peeled off. “Calice!” Nic threw it into his bag. That was it for fixing the boat. Nadeau and Marjo were going to have to cross the Channel without a fin.
We began paddling at 8am, an hour later than anticipated but still making decent time. The end goal for the day was Ramillies Channel, a campsite on East Gambier Island. As soon as we left the shelter of our secret bay, the paddling became more challenging, currents and waves rendering our forward paddling futile. My arms were burning. But how could I complain aloud, when Marjorie and Nadeau had the task of captaining the floating PVC deathtrap? Shortly into our paddle, I simply gave them my bilge pump to hang on to, because every 20 minutes their boat would fill with an inch of water. They devised a system of one person paddling and one person pumping water out to ensure they wouldn’t sink. Because the boat had no stabilization system, every forward paddle they made resulted in a 45 degree bank to either side. All their power was sending them side to side to side and never forwards. Nic and I took turns towing the inflatable, to at least get them moving mostly straight. We were going to be in for a long day.
After about an hour, we neared the Southern tip of Anvil Island and stopped on a rocky beach for a much needed break. Marjorie was very tired in the inflatable boat, so Nic offered to switch places with her for a bit. He’d take the inflatable with Nadeau and she would ride in the sea kayak. She’d never manned a proper hardshell kayak before, I was a bit concerned that she may struggle with the balance, becoming a liability on the ocean. We left our little break spot, and as we paddled out of the sheltered cove I spotted a family of Harbour seals, following us in the water. I shouted “seals!” to the group. Marjorie loves sea animals, and she got really excited, turning rapidly to spot them, but lost balance and flipped the kayak, only 5 minutes after she’d gotten into the new boat. Thank God one of us knew how to rescue. I quickly recovered her from the water, and she started emptying all the water that filled into Nic’s kayak. Thankfully, we were still close to shore. That could’ve been much worse in open, choppy water. Unfortunately, most of Nic’s Canadian Tire dry bags did not keep everything dry, so most of our food was soaked. Nadeau, Nic, and I tried to persuade Marjorie to get back into the inflatable kayak, worried she’d capsize again. While the inflatable is difficult to paddle, it’s nearly impossible to flip. She promised and swore it wouldn’t happen again, and pleaded to stay in the proper kayak. I didn’t blame her, that inflatable looked horrible. On we went. Once we passed the southern tip of Anvil, the water remained quite calm, even into the afternoon. The paddle into Ramillies was primarily uneventful. Spotting our campsite at Ramillies along the shoreline of many identical beaches was a little difficult, but using the map we managed to figure it out. We lost Marjorie for a brief period, she kayaked way ahead of us and totally out of sight. Later, we learned she had to pee so bad that she sprinted all the way to shore to avoid an accident.
By 3pm, we arrived at Ramillies after a long, slow day of paddling. Nic emptied out the contents of his kayak to dry. Most of the wet food dried quickly, like salami sticks and trail mix, but our lunch naan was completely soaked with salty water. He laid the bread on a black rock in the sun, hoping they’d dry out when a giant raven swooped down and took the entire bag. He feasted on the sea-water soaked bread in front of us, and I was powerless to do anything about it. A truly succinct illustration of Darwinism, right before my own eyes.
By evening Ramillies was completely deserted, aside from the odd motorboat speeding by. Nic and I set up our hammocks under the shade of a giant Broadleaf Maple, right on the beach. We swung around all afternoon, watching the water slowly rise and fall. Finally, a sense of sought after peace that had been lacking on this chaotic trip. The four of us worked together on a communal supper, which was scarfed down quickly by everyone. A well deserved supper after a day of hard work. Evening came around, and we all sat on the beach, revelling in the night sky untainted by city lights. It was so dark that I could see ten or fifteen shooting stars. That night, I fell asleep watching the bats catch mosquitoes in the canopy of the maple tree above me.
Day 3
Nic and I awoke at sunrise, eager for another day of adventuring. We debated whether we should continue on and try to make it to Halkett Bay like our original plan, but we were both hungover and decided to remain at Ramillies for a relaxing day on the beach. After making breakfast and sitting around for about an hour, there was no sign of Marjorie or Nadeau stirring from their beauty sleep. In fact, Marjorie had put her t-shirt over her eyes, blocking the sun, so I decided not to disturb her. They probably needed rest after an exhausting day on the water. Nic and I decided we’d do a short morning venture into the Sound to check out Christie Islet, a small spot noted on my map. Christie Islet is located east of the Ramillies Channel, and is a protected sanctuary for 11 species of migratory birds, preserving a key habitat for seabirds and seals in an area that is increasingly urbanizing. We had a relatively short and calm paddle out to the Islet, enjoying the scenery. Our calm was interrupted by a low hum, sort of like the buzzing of bees. As we inched closer to the Islet, the hum gradually crescendoed into many distinct squawks and calls, at different pitches, repeating over and over again. At about 500 metres away from the island, we were still unable to make out the various bird species, but our voices were completely overtaken by the birds’ conversations. It was quite an eerie sound, hundreds and hundreds of birds sounding together in some chaotic choral, almost something out of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. I was ready to get to this island and get the hell out of there. I paddled quickly ahead of Nic and approached the island. Something was moving on the island but I couldn’t make out what. Something big, no, many big things coming towards me all at once! Fifty harbour seals coming towards me! The water started gyrating with the weight of fifty huge bodies jumping in simultaneously. There was about 200 metres between the seals and I. Turning my kayak quickly, I paddled away at top speed, without looking back, afraid of what I might see. Reaching a good distance away from the Islet, I gathered the courage to peer over my shoulder. Most of the seals had made their way back to the big rock, only a couple still lingered. Nic reached me and looked confused, I explained the situation and we decided to circumnavigate the Islet from a healthy distance away.
There were so many interesting species of birds hanging out on this big, seemingly barren rock! Several of these seabirds were unlike any species I’d ever seen before, with bright red beaks or white beady eyes, long necks and graceful dives into the water. Of course there were a couple of seagulls, but the black oystercatchers and harlequin ducks really stole the show. What an amazing display of nature, hundreds upon hundreds of birds gathered on this tiny islet, with more variety in species than ever seen in the city. It’s forbidden to dock at Chrisie, so we enjoyed the sanctuary from our kayaks. After snapping our pictures and fearing the harbour seals’ return, Nic and I paddled quickly back to Ramillies for lunch.
Marjo and Nadeau had awoken and made a second breakfast they shared with us upon arrival at Ramillies. We sat around a picnic table chatting for a bit and decided that the day’s mission would be to source more fresh water that we’d need for cooking and drinking. The 8 litres we brought had dwindled down to 1. Marked on my map of the island were several streams that purportedly flowed down from a lake in the centre of Gambier Island. The nearest stream was a 20 minute paddle away plus a walk through the forest. Being well past the rainy season, there was a chance that the stream would be dried up by now, but I tried to remain optimistic as we didn’t really have a choice but to search for water. We paddled south from Ramillies, by the time camp was broken the afternoon winds gained force. Chop and gale picked up through the Channel and we were fighting nature to make progress. A 20 minute journey turned into an hour of toil. With only one litre of water to go around, our physical effort would not be rewarded with rehydration, instead, dry and salty lips as we forced ourselves to take tiny sips from the shared jug. The beach we’d aimed to dock our boats at turned out to be private, but after all that work getting here, no one wanted to find another beach. So, we hauled our one-man ships onto shore and stashed them in the trees, out of sight.
The four of us began walking away from shore and into an ever-thickening old growth forest. Old growth is easily indicated through rectangular 6-inch marks, carved into the tree at about 3 feet high, indicating loggers had been in this forest during the post-WWII boom. The primitive logging methods left scars upon the still-standing trees. Marjorie walked through the forest with awe, it was the first time she’d ever seen untouched old growth. For the first time we were all completely silent, revering the mossy canopy. We spent so long in the trees, pointing out oddly shaped ones, and looking at felled trees that had new saplings growing from their trunks.
Water was still a necessity, although the forest was beautiful I implored we go on and find the stream. Indicated on my map was a small seasonal stream that supposedly existed about 1 km from the beach. A small wooden footbridge we came to in the forest seemed to indicate the presence of a stream, but there was no water under this bridge. An accumulation of brown muck cut a snake through the forest, the stream indicated on my map was more like a murky, unflowing slough. In disbelief, I suggested we keep searching for water, too afraid to admit that this was the only water source in South Gambier. We continued on, walking first West, then South, towards a spot on my map that indicated a settlement. Camp Artaban, it was labelled, with no other information or description offered. Logically, if there is an active camp, there must be water or a water source nearby. Having exhausted our only other option, we set out to find Artaban, despite the lack of information we had about this “camp”.
Periodic blue triangles stapled to trees and marked with an “A” guided our passage to Artaban. We climbed and descended into a south-facing valley which gradually opened to a bay, as indicated on my map. Artaban was located at the northernmost point of this bay. Music echoed as we neared the water, at first difficult to make out, then becoming clear. Ed Sheeran? Was I hearing right? Curiosity overtook the four of us and we rushed towards the water. Buildings came into view, located in a large treeless clearing adjunct to the narrow bay. A long dock extended through the bay, sail boats anchored nearby. As we neared the clearing, a white sign marked our entrance into what seemed to be the camp. It read: Camp Artaban, Christian Summer Camp, NO TRESPASSING under any circumstance. I laughed and laughed, of course this mysterious Artaban we’ve been after turns out to be a bible camp blasting Top 40, hidden in the serenity of the forest. But, our water problem still persisted. The camp was clearly active and children were running around everywhere, so there had to be water, however the clearly emphasized NO TRESPASSING sign made us wary. Although Christianity preaches good samaritanism, I was nervous about soliciting water from these campground workers. It takes another level of religious zeal to devote your entire Summer to working in a Christian Camp and we weren’t exactly the Christian role models you’d want around your children. Nadeau had vodka and a legalized recreational drug in his backpack, I wasn’t even wearing a shirt. We weren’t exactly puritan. The four of us debated the consequences of trespassing or searching elsewhere for a stream. If we were to die of thirst or at the hands of religious zealots, I choose the latter. We nominated Marjo to be sent into Artaban, against her will. She looked the most normal and was by far the friendliest in our group, the logical choice. “Make sure you really exaggerate how thirsty and lost we are”, I advised her. Hopefully, we’d appeal to the Camp’s Christian spirit of giving and leave unscathed with full jugs of water. What seemed an hour went by before there was any indication Marjo was coming back. Finally, she returned to the entrance where we were waiting, beaming with 8 litres of water in hand. Relief exhaled through all four of us. Without the pressure of finding freshwater, a lunch on the dock at Artaban could finally be enjoyed.
It was nearing supper when we left Artaban. Our party travelled back North through the old growth forest, to where we’d stashed the boats earlier in the day. Calmness gripped the Sound, no winds and a high tide allowed for easy paddling to Ramillies. The deep and even blueness of the still ocean let me slip into a meditative rhythm in each paddle stroke. Breathe-lift-push-pull-breathe-lift-push-pull, the mantra cycled through my inner monologue until the plastic shell of my kayak scraped the small rocks at Ramillies. Dinner was prepared, laughs were had, and of course drinks shared on the beach as we watched the sunset turn into stars.
Work, climbing, Squamish felt like lifetimes past. Here on this solitary island beach, we were castaways, only concerned with food, drink and one another’s company. The absence of the daily hum-drum left so much space to notice and truly appreciate nature’s beauty. Driftwood on the beach and oddly shaped oyster shells became pieces of fine art that captivated my attention for hours. It’s amazing how, in the absence of technology, I felt studious and appreciative of my immediate surroundings again. I never voiced any of this to my companions, but I know they felt the same way about the hidden magic of this place, held in the awe-struck silent moments we shared so many of.
Day 4
The dawn of our final day at Ramillies was slow, we were not paddling towards some adventure but back to the mainland, where the sanctity of Gambier Island could not be preserved. As a compromise and a celebration, we agreed to get huge enchiladas upon return from the local Mexican punk cafe, Sunny Chibas. Marjorie and Nadeau struggled on the paddle back to Porteau Cove, as the duct tape patch-job from three days prior ceased to hold, causing the gaping hole to re-open. Nadeau tried to plug the hole with the garbage bag full of his belongings, which seemed to work as a temporary fix. Progress was slow, but with two of our companions half-sinking trying to maintain speed was futile. Shore feels deceptively close when paddling through a large body of water and every paddle made adds mere inches to the kilometres that must be spanned. Kayaking is, at times, less physical and more mentally rigorous. Spirits were low among our party, but the tantalizing prospect of Mexican food powered us ahead. At long last, after a 2-hour crossing of the Thornbrough Channel, we reached the East side of the Howe Sound, only a short half-kilometre paddle back to Porteau Cove and our cars remained.
We arrived at Porteau around low tide and were greeted to a spectacular display of sea life. Thousands of mollusks clung under the dock at Porteau, crowding on top of one another, fighting for a space on the metal poles. I’d never seen so many clams and mussels in my life, if it hadn’t been for the Red Tide warning we would’ve had a clam feast. Pulling our boats out of the water, I looked back at the Sound. Seagulls called, and a Grey Heron perched on the beach. The low tide extended the shore, families were playing in tidal pools. A saltiness to the air permeated my nose, establishing it deep within my centre. A true, deep sense of stillness washed over me, nearing almost contentment had it not been for the nagging grumble in my stomach. The four of us left Porteau heads held high. Although our trip was completed in an unorthodox fashion, without proper kayaks or paddles, our spirited imagination and the few resources we had allowed us to eke out a kayaking expedition in the most eclectic fashion. That is a badge I will wear proudly.
