Lone Wolf Island: Part III

Rhododendron blossoms float above eelgrass in Victoria Harbor near Esquimalt

My last day paddling in British Columbia took me through some of the trickiest paddling conditions of all, right through the harbor entrance. Once inside the harbor, however, the paddling became a whimsical garden journey beneath blooming rhododendrons and past rustic wooden boats. It felt like I was in a Monet painting. If only there were a good place to get a cold beer dockside…

A bald eagle landed right next to my kayak as I ate my breakfast on the rocks up shore.

The tide was coming in on Discovery Island. The water inched up along the clumps of bladderwrack. Tide pools warmed to soupy temperatures beneath the overbearing sun. The pines jostled each other as the wind picked up and whitecaps were already marching down the strait. The wolf was somewhere around, I’m sure, but he would remain a mystery to me. It was all the more reason to visit once again.

My journey back to Port Angeles would have me retrace my paddle strokes back to Victoria, across the tidal rips in the Chain Islands and against the wind and the flood tide. Before I got back on the ferry, I wanted to to explore the upper reaches of Victoria Harbor, which extended about six miles north above the entrance. I was already excited about the long day that I had put in the day before, and wanted a pleasant victory lap.

As it happened, the elements wouldn’t let me lapse into self-satisfied congratulation so easily. The wind came roaring and relentless across the Chain Islands, slowing my progress to a crawl. Once I reached the Vancouver Island mainland, I had to add extra distance to my journey in order to duck in and out of bays where the wind wasn’t so strong. The tidal current was almost as relentless. Once I got to Trial Island, I was basically paddling up a river. I deliberately paddled through thick clumps of kelp in order to avoid the relentless water. The kelp eventually thinned out and then it was just me against the tide. At this point, I was thrashing at the water to keep any momentum going and to prevent the boat from spinning. Still, I could hardly mark any progress against markers on shore.

The current relented a bit once I got past Trial Island, but the wind did its best to pick up the slack. White caps came on short, fast and angry against my boat. The shoreline flattened out and there were fewer points to hide behind. At this point, my bladder was getting strained, but I was unwilling to lose time to a shore landing. There were plenty of people on the beaches anyway. 

I decided to use some exposed rocks as wave cover, and throw feather boa kelp over my deck to anchor the boat. It worked well enough to get to half empty, but then a larger set came in and almost dumped me in.

The biggest challenge was getting through the harbor entrance. The breakwater was beautifully decorated with native art. The hard concrete also created a flat surface for the waves to bounce right off of, creating sharp, unpredictable intersections with the original wave set. Usually, I wouldn’t paddle right next to the wall under such circumstances, but the steady boat traffic to my outside pinned me there like a rush hour pedestrian pressed beside a guardrail.

The wakes added another element to the chaos. I paddled headlong against tide and wind, as waves buffeted my boat from all sides. Up and down I went on the bronco ride. Gallons of water slopped over my deck. There was a small group of people watching from the breakwater. I felt proud that I was keeping cool, doing the minute corrective strokes here and there to get through it upright.

As I rounded the corner, I immediately started surfing waves into the harbor. The flood tide was with me now, and I moved at high speed. No cruise ships were parked in the docks yet, but I was anxious to get past their loading zones sooner rather than later.

I saw a twee little water taxi turning around in the center of the channel — as it took a massive wave broadside, jolting the boat and knocking it into a whole different angle. Watch out little dog! You just wandered into a rough part of town.

Further up the harbor, the big waves from the Strait abated, though the big winds still stirred up dark cat’s paws on the water.

Feather boa kelp on deck

I paddled past the ferry terminal going north beneath a drawbridge. I had to stop here as two high-masted sailing ships gurgled out under motor. 

The harbor noise included the clatter of a backhoe mounted jackhammer, busy smashing the old drawbridge to bits. There was a curious barge mounted up with hundreds of vehicles, all smashed up into a single rectangular box.

Yet the industrial milieu fell away as I continued up the harbor. A long pedestrian bridge facilitated a unceasing stream of bikes and walkers. Lush madrona trees overhung the waters.

There were several boats anchored in the harbor that looked like they had gone a long time without fresh paint scabbed over with seaweed and barnacles. It dawned on me that people lived there. These were the more affordable alternative to the tony houseboats that I had visited on my first day in the harbor. A couple of the boats had tarps set up over them for additional shelter. One may have had a chicken coop. It’s be interesting to learn about the folks who live in the middle of this incredibly expensive town in a free and floating community. I made a mental note that if I practice sleeping inside my kayak, that this could be the ultimate cheap lodging in Victoria.

Victoria gave way to its suburb Esquimalt, where beautiful rhododendron trees bloomed along the water. Petals dropped upon the surface created mesmerizing interplay between the worlds on, above and below the surface. M.C. Escher would have been proud. 

I floated among the color unhurried, letting the tide carry me deeper into the harbor. The current picked up in the narrow gorge around Tillicum, to the point that I could see swirls and eddies as I shot beneath a bridge.

Right before the north end of the harbor, the sand became to shallow to paddle through. I began paddling against the tide once more, though now I had the wind at my back at times. 

The water was greenish, bath temperature. The sight of people wading, an elderly woman in a sunhat practicing the breast stroke, made me feel foolish to be in a drysuit meant for cold water paddling. I was roasting beneath the sun. Being lazy however, I decided it would be easier not to have to pack the suit away inside my kayak, or to manage the extra weight when it was time to lug the boat onboard the ferry.

The tidal opposition became the strongest when I reentered the gorge, The narrows at the bridge there were so extreme that I literally needed to paddle uphill in order to get into the higher water backed up behind it. This I accomplished by paddling as fast as I could on the other side of the eddy line, and swerving into the current at the last minute to break its strength. Even then, I barely made it past the bridge without going backwards.

Smashed up cars onboard a barge

For the past 24 hours I had fantasized about having a beer at a local kayak business, which also ran a dockside pub. Alas, by the time I paddled back to this place, it was already getting close to the time that I wanted to be onboard the ferry. I knew I could probably drink it in time. but I also knew that to truly enjoy it, I wouldn’t want to feel rushed. 

I later calculated that I’d managed to knock out 23 miles of paddling all together. Even on the easy day that I’d planned, I hadn’t relaxed exactly.

With no handy public dock near the ferry, I ended up revisiting the same footbridge where I’d taken my boat out of the water the year before. This time I managed it much more smoothly, taking most of the weight out of the kayak and into a backpack/drybag. 

“You know you can get wheels for your boat,” someone told me.

Customs and the ferry ride were both uneventful, though I ended up striking up conversation with a couple riding motorcycles across country from New Mexico. They were kind enough to watch my gear when we got back to Port Angeles so I could pick it up with my car.

I drove the two miles up to my apartment, began the tasks of unloading gear to be washed with more zeal than I typically have after these long trips. Before I went to bed, I ran around the block. This  doesn’t really make sense if I were dead tired, except, I knew that I wasn’t dead tired. I had more in me. The next time I went paddling, I would prove it.

Bridge inside The Gorge