Kayak Adventure: A Photo Essay



Hornby Ocean Kayaks employee gets us set up at Tribune Bay

 It was not unlike a movie. We began joyfully, pumped full of vim and vigour for the adventure that awaited. Although it was raining lightly, we decided that today would be our full-day kayak trip. The goal: circumnavigate Hornby Island.

We rented a double kayak from Hornby Ocean Kayaks http://www.hornbyisland.com/Kayaking/contacts.html
and were told it would take about seven hours, depending on the conditions. "But you two look strong," the genial employee reassured us, "you shouldn't have any trouble. I'll meet you back here at 5:30."

"Do many people paddle around the entire island?" Greg asked.

"No, not many. If you want to be picked up early, I can meet you at Ford's Cove, Phipps Point, Grassy Point, or Whaling Station Bay. You should be at Ford's Cove in about two hours. You have a cell-phone?"

Yes, we did. We exchanged numbers.

Photo at Tribune Bay, pre-adventure.
Greg joked: "This will be the photo they use in the newspaper:
'Edmonton couple disappears while on Hornby Island kayak trip.'"

So we set off in calm waters under light rain. "It's so clear," I said, paddling over great blooms of seaweed while bald eagles wheeled and screeched overhead. The sea-sculpted limestone coastline was sculpture-esque, and seals soon began bobbing their heads out of the water all around us. Perhaps it was their large eyes; they seemed to be curiously regarding us.

We paddled toward a colony, and they only let us get so far before they slid back into the sea. There were a surprisingly large number of seals, and few anglers. Only one fishing boat, by Norris Rocks. "I remember a time when it was bumper-to-bumper fishing boats out here," Greg said. "These are well-fed seals."  

Seals, or perhaps sea lions?

All was pacific and well. "So interesting to have this perspective," I said, viewing the shanty-like structures -- basically tarps thrown over pole frames -- folks had erected south of Ford's Cove, and also the million dollar homes people had built along the Lambert Channel, facing Denman Island. You only see these properties from the water.

We rowed toward Ford's Cove and I checked my watch. "He said it would take two hours. It's been an hour and fifteen, and that's with that extra time spent paddling out to the rocks to see the seals."

I did some mental math, and expected we'd loop the island far ahead of schedule. I don't know why I'm such a competitive lass, but Greg knew what I was thinking. I wanted to race. I wanted to impress the kayak rental guy. I wanted to have extra time to "gallivant" on a beach, or possibly two. I wanted our $90 worth.

"It's not a race," he said. "Just relax and enjoy it."

Greg with a pink whistle.

We planned to kayak past the ferry dock and have our lunch on the shore after Phipps Point. It was so calm in the Lambert Channel, so easy. It would have been nothing to paddle to Denman and explore that coast, but we stuck with our plan.

I thought it might be simple to identify where I often took the hilly path down to the water (to find pre-punctured oyster shells with which to make hangings and video crabs doing their funky thing). "Is that it? I think I recognize those logs. Or maybe that's it over there." That sort of thing.

The sun was full on now, and I could feel my skin beginning to burn. But Greg had thought to bring sunblock, so I slathered it on my arms, face, and neck. I'd forgotten that my sunglasses were on my hat, and when I removed it the glasses flipped into the water. Gone.

"Do you want to stop and get your other pair?" Greg asked as we parallelled Shinglespit Road.

"Nah, I haven't worn them yet. I've got the hat," I said. "I'm fine."

Seconds later, those glasses were lost forever.
Fortunately I rarely spend more than $5 on sunglasses. I know me.

The tide was out when we stopped to eat our salmon sandwiches and oranges. We were past Phipps point (map below, so this will all have a context). We crossed the barnacle studded rocks (ouch!) and took photos.

"What a grand day!" I enthused, and it was, truly.

Stopping for lunch.

Tide is out.

Snow-capped mountains on Vancouver Island.

"It's amazing that starfish are mostly deep purple or deep orange. Such extremes."

Looking toward Hornby, and some indication of how wide the tides are.

I wouldn't be smiling for long.

Energized after our shore lunch and a break, we set out once again, still confidant that we were well ahead of schedule. We tried to identify where Hornby artist Elaine Savoie's property was -- we'd visited her at her studio a few days before. She was very warm toward us, and is a superb artist. We had already spent most of our art budget a few days earlier, but another time, if there is another -- hope so -- we will buy a piece from Elaine.

We came toward Grassy Point, which is a huge rock-beached area -- with some grass -- where people can drive down and park. We were at the "top" of the island. Then we turned the corner.

All would have been grand had we rowed in at Grassy Point, but no, that would have been too easy. A cop out. "White caps," Greg said, and things got harder from there.

I had never done even a medium distance kayak trip before, though I have had loads of experience with canoes, beginning with my high school participation in Outdoor Education at Carpenter High School in Meadow Lake. I felt strong, even though we'd swung far away from the coast and the waves were steadily growing.

There were still seals, and the coastline Powell River way appeared lovely, but suddenly we noticed that the distant sailboats were clipping along with impressive velocity -- in the other direction. Yes, we were battling wind, waves, current and tides. We had three calm hours of kayaking behind us -- the beginning of the movie -- and the next three hours would be freaking hard labour. It would be full on war. 

We wobbled through the waves like a minature toyboat in a gushing spring ditch, waves breaking around and upon us, pounding and soaking us. Let me tell you, this was no time for picture taking. We simply could not stop paddling or we'd be immediately tossed. We hardly spoke. Total concentration was required, and shoulder-wracking paddling.

How hard was it? Well, to paddle the width of a bungalow, it took us about twenty minutes of relentless paddling. Maybe even longer. I kept setting my sights on small goals: that white boulder ... that especially green tree. It was like that. I was grateful that the water was not too cold, and at times I'd dip my hands in purposely to cool my burning blisters and numb my arthritic thumbs.

Greg said something, but it was hard to hear. I asked him to repeat himself."We have to get to shore and wait this out," he said. 

"But what  if it doesn't end?" I kept hoping that around the next rocky outcropping, and then the next, it would be calmer. "The kayak guy can't pick us up except at certain locations, and we're nowhere near any of them."

"Nobody kayaks in water like this, Shelley. This is not what it's supposed to be like. This is extreme."

We soldiered on, and I had no idea how much time was passing or what damage was being done to my body, though it was not feeling good. At times we were 150 - 200 yards from shore. Could I swim it if we were dumped? I felt I could, but it wouldn't be easy with the wind and white-caps. Currents and riptides; that was another matter. I thought that when I closed my eyes later that night I would see only the dark blue waves reaching for me.

"We're going to have to pull in at Whaling Station Bay," Greg said, and I didn't respond. Damn it, I wanted to finish the trip. All the way around the island. I wanted to be able to say we'd kayaked all the way around Hornby. 

But it was requiring a brutal effort, and it was sush slow going. At one point I asked Greg for the plastic-covered map, and he passed it. While I looked at it we lost precious time, the wind taking us backward and undoing the last five minutes of paddling in about thirty seconds.

My shoulder was burning. My hands. And I'd cracked my elbow, hard.

"Okay, I concede," I said, still unable to see Whaling Station Bay. Every once in a while I'd sit up straight and dig in for all I was worth. We argued about paddling in synchronicity: I championed a "heave ho" approach, feeling that we progressed much more efficiently when we were in tandem, whereas Greg, behind me, was often in a different rhythm. "I'm so damn busy keeping this thing pointed into the waves, I can't be worried about rhythm, too!"

We didn't talk, and didn't talk some more.

Finally we could see Whaling Station Bay, but it seemed the distance of the moon away, and getting there via a kayak in choppy water would take just about as long as a lunar voyage. 

"How you doing?" Greg asked.

"Getting tired. "You scared?" 

"No, just frustrated. Most people would have sensibly gone to shore long ago. This isn't kayaking."

No, it was more like thrashing. With three hours of tremendous effort we finally approached the bay and turned in. Nothing was easy now. My arms felt like they were weighted with anchors.

Two men and their dogs were at the water's edge where we pulled up. I couldn't move. I couldn't get out of the kayak, but knew I had to. I felt a few million years old.

"So tired," I said to the onlookers. "We've been out there for hours. Rough water." 

Looking from the beach to the water was disappointing. You could see the odd white cap, but only when you were out there could you appreciate the wind and hard-going. What a deception.

The smiles below are misleading. We were weak, and shivering with cold and exhaustion.




Greg's arms after the kayak trip: huge.



We had to admit defeat at Whaling Station Bay.
I was freezing and maybe a little delirious.

So this was my maiden kayak trip. "You have to respect the ocean," Greg kept saying. I was pissed that we didn't complete the circumnavigation, but when I finally was able to dig my watch out of my soaking pocket, I saw that it was 4:15, and to go into those treacherous waters again would be ridiculous. We just couldn't manage it.

Ocean: 1     Shelley and Greg: 0

 

We phoned the kayak rental guy who picked us up, and said we'd done well. Thanks for that, friendly kayak guy. As you can see in the map below, we made it most of the way, but still had the peninsula to go around, by the Helliwell Park cliffs.

The story does not end there. When we got home I totalled the damages to my person: from innocuous blisters to an orange-sized bruise and swelling on my elbow. Ow.

But hey, I slept well.

 

   

Where The Wild Things Are

I've been spending time on the beach just down from the cottage on Hornby Island. I get a huge kick out of the sea and the creatures who live in and near it. The dramatic tides are breathtaking, and beachcombing's provided hours of entertainment.

A few days ago I was seated on a log beside the water, thermos of coffee in hand, when I caught some peripheral movement. I turned and there was this strange, broad, ring-tailed creature.

I used my camera's zoom feature, and captured the following. What the devil was it?

I thought bobcat, but took my question to my knowledgable friend, writer Adrienne Mason   http://www.adriennemason.com/information/bio in Tofino.

Adrienne's married to Bob Hansen, Wildlife-Human Contact Specialist for the Pacific Rim National Park, and she shared the photo with him.

He wrote:

"The overall body shape - heavy around the middle - and the shape of the tail suggest to me that this is blonde phase raccoon.

We don't see them often on our side of the island but I recovered a partial hide and tail from a wolf kill on the West Coast Trail with the same shape and colouration."


A blonde raccoon: what a gift! Here's a close-up, below. Very cool. 

Hornby Island Places and People.

All is well. I've revised my poetry and short story manuscripts and sent them off, and finished a submission for a new McGraw-Hill Ryerson anthology for teens.

Happy to have completed two new stories, and am well into a third and fourth.

Glad I brought so many good books along, including The Safety of Objects, by American writer A. M. Homes. I began reading and before long realized a movie had been made from some of these stories. It's a good film, but the stories make for fantastic read. In "A Real Doll," a teenaged boy falls for his sister's Barbie doll and they have quite the interesting relationship. I will certainly be looking for this writer's other titles.

I'm trying to get a complete Hornby experience, as well as work. Here (above) is the community hall, where we've been to a few art shows.

Above, a black-tailed deer visits.

Greg in the garden at the Hornby bakery. We went for Pizza Night and live music on Sunday. Very 1960s, all around.

Above Greg reads Susan Musgrave's novel Cargo of Orchids.

He raves about this book, which I've not yet read.

He says: "It's captivating. You know what's coming but you don't know

how the writer is going to take you there."

The library on Hornby Island.

The Free Store and Recycling Center.

 Clothes inside the free store ... all free.

 Running 5 or 6 days a week. A fair number of hills.

Here I am doing my post-run stretch in the cottage we've rented.

 The Farmer's Market is open on Wednesday and Sundays. I've been twice, and it was different each time. Buskers to booksellers, and some pretty fabulous fudge.

 Above and below, Little Trib(une) Bay Beach. Clothing optional.

The water is gloriously warm. I only got to the beach once, but I swam for hours.

 Inside Westside cottage.

Another day at the Farmer's Market.

I require new promo photos. These were taken on the beach.

I likely won't use either one; I'd far rather be on the other side of the camera.



When a deer walks right up to you.

When a deer walks right up to you--I mean right up, so you can see the moisture on its nose, maybe, you think, you're all right.

When hummingbirds hang in the air beside you, hey, maybe you're not so bad.

When a garter snake makes an appearance in the grass below your step, 

then climbs that step, and spends the afternoon there, his tiny head moving back and forth as if sweeping the air for invisible flies, little tongue flicking

into the cracks between the wooden boards, both of you quiet, and mindful of the other, what's the story there?

Does he live here?

Are you the interloper?

Hornby Island. And writing all the time.

Song for Solitude.

The lake is Greig Lake, and it is really "home" for myself, my parents, my siblings, and our offspring. North of my hometown of Meadow Lake, SK, it is one of a score of clean, cold, paradisiacal lakes in the Meadow Lake Provincial Park. We've had the family cabin for a few decades now, and to be out there in the forest and hear the loons, share stories and eat s'mores around the campfire, or quietly watch the sun set over the water is to injest a kind of medicine.  

There is no running water. To "flush" the toilet, one dips a pan into the pail beside it and pours water (from the public tap) down the hole. But each year there are changes we call improvements. This year's big deal was the installation of a phone ... an old hang-on-the-wall style as big as a kleenex box, but reliable. Also new: for $2 per 30 minutes, those who must may check their e-mail at the store.  

But let's go back to that porch. I love to bask in the semi-privacy of the screened-in porch, and watch the human and animal traffic parade by. How unusual and welcome that two-legged passersby were in fairly short supply this particular week, and four-legged--namely, deer--much increased.

I love informal meals in the porch, and to play cards out there, but what I like best is to be alone there, and to write. 

Excerpt from work-in-progress (not the beginning):

She loved the cabin, and even with the children playing loud, abrasive music and slapping each other’s thighs behind her, she felt herself relax when they pulled up, finally, and she put her foot on the ground.



“It’s a bit of a work-in-progress,” she said, as Del pulled out the imprisoning suitcase.

“I thought it had been in your family for years,” he said.


“Yes, it has.” Her favourite part was the long screened porch that culled most of the afternoon sun. No one dared add or subtract from it. At one end an old stuffed couch no one ever sat on was parked beneath a window like an abandoned car. Above this hung a rope upon which towels and wet bathing suits were hung. There were an odd assortment of hats--free for the wearing--slung on nails. A sweat-stained navy blue visor. A yellow ball cap advertising a minor boy’s football team. Her mother’s old, collapsing sun hats. A cowboy hat. Even a toque. Beside the sofa was an ancient wooden cabinet that came up to Ellen’s waist. “What’s in here?” Jodi was asking. “Any good stuff?” There were the perennial tubes of tennis balls, a lantern, a can of Muskol. Hanging above them: the requisite deer horn candlelabra, though no one in the family ever shot a gun. There was a table which was round without a leaf, and four chairs that did not match. The table was covered, usually, in a vinyl cloth: the current example had a design of Italian postcards and the word "Olives" was written in script across the images. She'd cut some wildflowers and display them here; she always did. There were odds and ends for angling--fishing rods, a net, and the red and white spoons that pike went for--and sand pails, an air mattress that may or may not hold air. There was a pail for baling water from the canoe, or putting out campfires. There were tennis racquets, and a broom, and old board games including Scrabble and Rummoli. A bare board ceiling, and pink insulation stuffed like cotton candy between the gaps. There were dead flies stuck like pieces of gum into the corners of the windows that wrapped three sides of the verandah, and on the window ledge, a heavy pair of bronze beavers whiich were not specific enough to be considered artful, and not practical as bookends. If the beavers had eyes they’d see the passersby meandereding along the sandy lane in front of the cabin, licking ice cream cones, beach towels slung around their necks. Campers and others cottagers enroute to the mini golf or the main beach, where Ellen had grown up, swimming between the buoys, suntanning and eating sunflower seeds, and, occasionally, tipping the canoe, just for fun.


And soon there would be a menagerie of shoes on the porch floor—the girls’ flip-flops and sneakers. Del’s ugly leather sandals and her own summer footwear, one pair of black flip-flops, one pair of white, and a pair of sneakers, just in case they were hiking and had to run from black bears.  


Do all artists have certain special places that fire up the creative pistons? I hope so. I've been fortunate to have a few such destinations, but certainly that little table with the mismatched chairs in the porch is among my most important.  
                             

__________

I heard today (via Kate Braid at the Denman Island Readers and Writers Festival), that Glenn Gould said: "Isolation is the indispensible component of human happiness." Edmonton Poet and reviewer Bert Almon, in his review of my book The House of the Easily Amused for Canadian Book Review Annual 2009, said:

"Many of the poems are pervaded with what the Japanese haiku poets call sabi, a delight in solitude."

Years ago, while living with my family in Saskatoon, when I'd sit at the piano I'd often play popular songs in which solitude was the theme: "Sailing" (by Christopher Cross, circa 1980): "If there's one thing in my life that's missing, it's the time that I spend alone ..." and Supertramp's "Lord, Is It Mine?": "I know that there's a reason why I need to be alone ..." 

I can't function without a degree of solitude in my life: this I've always known and, as often as possible, sought.

Usually my visits to the lake are far too short, and this year was no exception. Five nights? Well, I take what I can get.

This time my partner's teens, as well as his daughter's best friend, joined us at the lake. It was a frenetic time, with the aforementioned high school reunion, and family, and the kids--everyone coming and going, the cabin door with the squeaky spring swinging several hundred times a day.

I taught two dogs how to open that door via a shank of rope knotted to the door handle. The rope remains; the dog's don't.

What else remains is a sign my daughter taped on the bathroom door when she was perhaps eight or nine-years-old.

"You'd be surprised how many people forget." It's true. For some inexplicable reason, newcomers, especially, seldom remember to close that bathroom door after use, and then quasi-toxic fumes spill into the cabin proper, and it is not a pleasant thing, not at all.

I did get a few hours in the porch alone this July. Greg and his son were fishing at nearby Rusty Lake, the girls were getting some male attention on the beach. It was blissful, and magical: I came up with three ideas for new short stories.

Below are images of some of the folks who swung the cabin door this summer, while I was there, for five sweet nights in early July.

Anna and Greg

Nephew Brandon (a WHL hockey player invited to the Phoenix Coyotes training camp this year) and Heidi

Sister Crystal and niece Jenna

Greg, Eric, and Anna

Nephew Tanner and Bella

Apart from the restorative qualities of the lake and forest and seeing family and old friends, I have another reason for relishing my time in and around Meadow Lake. My (former) dog, Jackson, is living with the wonderful Lajeunesse family not far from the lake. But it;s bittersweet to visit him. He's not forgotten me, and it's terribly hard (for all of us) when I drive away and he cries.

Here are some photos of the boy at his new home.

 

Carpenter High Class of 1981: Thirty Year High School Reunion

From left: Shelley Leedahl,Linda Merasty, Rick Leschuk, Denise Steier, Craig Hayashi, Shelley Leschuk, Darla Cooper, Penny Griffith, Rob Goezee, Barbie Hamilton at Greig Lake, SK, July 2011

 
Some of the finest friends I've ever had ... they've known me since I was 10 years old.

Darla Cooper

Linda Merasty

Friends on our deck at Greig Lake

Shelley and Phil Cutting

  

Rob Hayashi, Shelley Leedahl, Craig Hayashi, Darla Cooper

Penny Griffith

Shelley Leschuk