It was an unrealistic three-day time frame to finish the roof, clean up the worksite, host Greg’s “Unfinished at 40” birthday party, and get ready for a sailing trip the next day. But somehow by sundown on the third day we’re at the dock on our Gulf Island 29, and I am already having a good time. The kids are asleep in the V-berth, the boat’s provisions are stowed and we’re ready to cast the lines at first light for a week of adventure north from Quadra Island into Johnstone Strait and beyond to the Broughton Archipelago.
At 06:30 Greg’s alarm goes off and it’s still dark. I offer a hand but don’t protest when he says he’s got it, pulling the comforter up to my ears to ward off the autumn chill. The ebb pushing us north starts at 08:00 and by the time I’ve put the kettle on and made tea, we’ve reached Chatham Lighthouse, the entrance to Johnstone Strait.
Dalua has doubled her usual travelling speed with the current and we pick up two more knots when I raise the genoa, taking advantage of the following southeasterly. The morning sun reaches us and the kids emerge from their cocoons to sip hot chocolate on the deck.
So north it is, off on a sailing safari to look for some wildlife, following the routes of the migrating salmon to show our children some of fall’s magic.
Into the Wild
Mowat and Maese sit on the bow, taking turns looking through the binoculars trying to be the first to spot something cool. I sit with them amidst their chatter and unsuccessfully try to tell them that when you’re quiet you can often hear the wildlife before you see it. Mowat, a competitive six year old, cheers when he sees the spray of two Dall’s porpoise who come over to our boat to bow ride, much to the utter delight of the dog, who looks like he’s watching a tennis match as the black porpoises weave about our boat.
Our timing is perfect. We’ve made good time travelling the 40 miles up Johnstone Strait and are just ducking into Havannah Channel when the weather changes. Strong northwest winds are predicted to build to 40 knots, and the rising wind starts barreling down on our little blue boat. We are heeled over and I check on the kids in the cabin and make sure everything is stowed properly. Tucked into the islands we take down the sails and motor, lining up the markers through shallow Chatham Channel and out into Cutter Cove, adjacent to Minstrel Island.
Greg puts up the awning as a light mist falls and I make up the “Big Bed” turning our quarter berths/table into a king size bed. Immediately the kids are swinging off the companionway ladder and somersaulting onto the mattress.
Dinner is leftovers from the birthday party but I can’t face the smoked salmon dip one more time, so the remainders go into a zip lock bag punctured with a fork and over into the crab traps.
Knight Inlet Safari
I have to laugh as I crack the crabs for cream cheese and dill omeletts the next morning, remembering what they had for their last meal. The kids joke we should have put some birthday cake in the crab trap as well.
Breakfast done, we sail into the heart of Knight Inlet, travelling the 23 miles into the mainland where the mountains stand like sentinels, a turquoise opaqueness hues the water, and the fjord’s steepness makes me feel like I am entering a sacred place. A hush falls over our boat as we take in the shock of the smoldering remains of Knight Inlet Lodge and memories flood back of the wonderful summer I spent guiding here in a grizzly bear habitat.
Seaplanes pick up day guests leaving the cove and the estuary becomes quiet again, with the exception of the excited chatter of mew gulls gorging themselves on spawned salmon. Eagles dot the rainforest boughs encased with thick moss, a flock of gulls scatter as two teenage bears wrestle in the shallows, rising up on their hind legs in faux fight. The kids’ jaws drop, the last time we were here Maese was a baby in a tote at the bottom of the boat and now she can’t take her eyes off these gorgeous cinnamon-coloured bears. We are all holding so still that I am surprised when Mowat points out a small bird has landed on my head. Wildlife safari indeed!
The tide is dramatically dropping and we paddle out past the sunken trees, scarred by many a propeller, before returning to deeper water. Motoring back to our black lab, he is surprisingly friendly to us even though we had revoked his shore privileges.
The Glendale Grizzly Bear Trust boat viewing guidelines asks boaters to stay in their boat, stop at a 50 metre distance (let the bear move closer, not you) and respect the three strike rule that if a bear looks up at you directly three times find another bear to watch. These bears are habituated to being observed and don’t generally look up unless they are bothered. I likened them to great grazing cows and stoic fishermen eating endlessly then dozing off like some relative, post Thanksgiving feast.
Upstream with the Salmon
It’s so cold I can see my breath and I wrack my brain for a lunch menu I could turn the oven on for. I put in some English muffins to toast, poach some eggs to serve with Boursin herbed cream cheese and tomato slices from our garden. We diddle around and check the crab traps, which are loaded with mostly females, and the kids have a conversation with a gigantic sunflower star.
The estuary has just enough water to explore, so we load into the zodiac and slowly putter upstream, drop the anchor midstream and wait quietly. The estuary’s golden grass is high above us and the wind sends it in waves as we lie against the pontoons and soak in the October sun. The tide rises until 17:00 so we slowly make our way further upstream to the big pools the salmon are schooling up in. Greg lowers his Go Pro camera in the underwater housing that he’s attached to the whisker pole and captures hundreds of salmon lining up like some bruised battalion waiting to spawn and die—the bears being their last hurdle.
We find a place upstream as far as we can go and I hold us in place against the current. The kids were good for the first two hours but like wound up kittens they now need some exercise. Five more minutes I promise.
Our patience is rewarded by a mum and a fuzz ball of a yearling crossing the river. Just when we’re set to go again, two young bears exit the bush metres from our boat and start fishing in the pools. The bears gorge on salmon, and wanting dinner ourselves we’re more than pleased when they’ve had their fill and moved on, so we can head home too.
Beating around Blackfish Sound
Knight Inlet’s predictable morning outflow winds make for a pleasant trip out of the inlet. Mowat spots a pod of Orcas but they are travelling fast, slicing through the water chasing salmon. I prepare cream cheese and prawn omelettes and we eat on deck, the sun finally rising over the tall peaks of the mainland.
The warmth is short lived as the sea fog envelopes our world and Greg turns on the radar. Making our way out between Midsummer and Crease Island we can just see the tops of White Cliff Islets as the mist breaks around us but not quite the rest of blackfish sound. With no need to rush we turn off the engine, make tea and sit on the bow with the kids.
That’s when we hear them. Great exhales and inhales, trumpeting sounds and high-pitched squeals—humpbacks! The fog magically parts just around our boat and we see a heart shaped exhale, knobby backbone, short fin and then the classic tail up and dive down.
It’s Thanksgiving Day and such a perfect start. That is until Greg breaks the key off in the ignition while stepping into the cockpit. “Do we have a spare?” I ask in a small voice. We do. I warn the family how careful we have to be. Maese, who has always been an old soul, wisely suggests we take it out when we are not running the motor. Good idea!
Crossing Blackfish Sound takes all day as we enjoy hanging out with the whales. I prepare our thanksgiving feast between viewings, roasting the Brussels sprouts in oil and sea salt, broiling the butternut squash in butter and garlic, caramelizing the sweet potatoes and roasting the lemon pepper chicken breast to be served with cranberries from our bog.
Greg drops the hook in an unnamed cove off Hanson Island and we have our happy hour on Sprout Islet where the kids can burn off some energy before our feast. The humpbacks are feeding out in the sound and the last of the light is turning the mainland mountains pink.
I pick some kinnikinnick, or common bear berry, whose green leaves were dried as a smoking mixture for First Nations. the red berries will make a nice centerpiece for the table.
Dinner served, beverages for all in tall plastic wine cups—which the kids think are very fancy—we each make a toast and share what we are thankful for before feasting on a scaled-down version of one of the nicest family Thanksgiving dinners I’ve ever had.
October Offerings
Please no fog I ask, as I wake in our watery world in Crease Island Cove. It’s a clear blue and calm fall morning and I can hear the humpbacks from our bed. Mowat and Maese are bouncing off the cabin walls. Time for some exercise, but en route we can’t resist watching the sea lions at their haul-out near Cracroft Point, and Greg films underwater some curious sea lions amongst the bull kelp.
We land the zodiac on a sandy beach and discovering wolf tracks we keep the kids close. It’s hot enough to be summer and the kids strip off and play in the water. It’s a stunner of a day, not a breath of wind and we can see all the way out to Queen Charlotte sound and Cape Caution.
Motoring towards Sointula, 50 white sided dolphins join us and the water turns white with their acrobatics. The dog can barely hold it together, his legs shaking like a leaf. The sun is starting to dip and we are reluctant to go to a shady anchorage, so we motor out to the middle of Queen Charlotte Strait to barbecue steaks for dinner. Dinner alfresco, we watch the humpbacks all around before anchoring in Mitchell bay, Malcolm Island and going ashore with the dog for an evening stroll.
It’s our last night together before I get off in Port McNeil for a week of work as deckhand/naturalist aboard The Maple Leaf, swapping places with a crew member and friend who will help Greg get back to Quadra.
The children are asleep and Greg and I sit in the cockpit, sipping a scotch, watching the stars reveal themselves like one wish at a time. I wish this family trip wouldn’t end. The last few days have been completely relaxing and looking back at our GPS travelled route, we look like a whirligig beetle on a ponds surface, in and out and around the islands of Blackfish Sound, no direction but the ebb and flow, as we floated about watching and listening to the whales.
The week’s cruise was a fantastic sailing safari. Our kids are now full of tales of the many salmon, bears, dolphins and whales who wove their magic into our days. Our family has much to be thankful for.