Return to Solander: Surviving Cape Cook
The rugged Brooks Peninsula on the west coast of Vancouver Island beckoned again. I had yet to visit Solander Island by way of North Brooks and rounding Cape Cook, and so came about this latest paddling adventure. Solander in the fog was magical. Wildlife and ancient old growth forest captivated us. Pristine, expansive surf beaches and rocky islets sparkled in the sun. The swell and crashing waves of the exposed coast, as always, energized us. But we hadn’t bargained for the perilous conditions the day we paddled around Cape Cook. |
Henning and I launched from Side Bay at around noon on August 3, 2017. We were glad to be on the water bound for Heater Pt. to escape the many campers/ fishermen and the extreme heat. The water was bumpy with moderate swell and wind and I welcomed the familiar roar of the exposed coast as waves crashed over rock in the distance. Sea otters amidst glistening Macrocystis (kelp) beds greeted us at Heater (a 1hr paddle) where we lunched and discussed continuing on to the Bonner Islets or even to the long white sand beaches near the Crabapple Islets. Despite the lure to get to Crabapple as quickly as possible and await good conditions to navigate Cape Cook, we heeded the gale warning and stayed put. Whitecaps did materialize later in the afternoon, so we felt justified, and planned to depart very early the next morning to take advantage of another calm morning.
We were none too pleased to hear the heavy machinery and blasting for the construction of a logging road in the hills behind Heater Pt. It is sad that coastal old growth forest is still being logged – why are we still not valuing intact old growth forest ecosystems and instead relying on plantation trees? Thankfully the Brooks Peninsula is protected from logging.
Unfortunately, we both slept badly and at 4 am, from within our tent, heard the wind howl. I felt somewhat disheartened: gale force winds were in the forecast for the next days, and if mornings were not paddle-able…. Yet when we got up three hours later the ocean was relatively calm. We made the hasty decision to pack up and depart as quickly as possible. This resulted in us not doing our usual thorough sweep of the camp and Henning leaving his only pair of long pants behind on the beach below the tideline. We opted for a direct crossing from Heater to the beaches near Crabapple, but it seemed to go on forever (3 hrs) with wind and rougher water the last hour. During the crossing I got a little agitated when I glimpsed two large mysterious white shapes below me – dolphins? When finally onshore, having chosen a landing spot where the surf was minimal, I felt pretty weak, in part due to a headache and nausea that had developed earlier. Henning erected a tarp to shade us from the hot sun, and as we watched the sea become a spectacle of frenzied whitecaps, we felt thankful that we were safe on shore. We had to move camp three times to get out of the strong wind and blazing sun – despite not feeling well I doggedly lugged gear back and forth. I voiced to Henning that hopefully tomorrow would bring a better day.
Unfortunately, we both slept badly and at 4 am, from within our tent, heard the wind howl. I felt somewhat disheartened: gale force winds were in the forecast for the next days, and if mornings were not paddle-able…. Yet when we got up three hours later the ocean was relatively calm. We made the hasty decision to pack up and depart as quickly as possible. This resulted in us not doing our usual thorough sweep of the camp and Henning leaving his only pair of long pants behind on the beach below the tideline. We opted for a direct crossing from Heater to the beaches near Crabapple, but it seemed to go on forever (3 hrs) with wind and rougher water the last hour. During the crossing I got a little agitated when I glimpsed two large mysterious white shapes below me – dolphins? When finally onshore, having chosen a landing spot where the surf was minimal, I felt pretty weak, in part due to a headache and nausea that had developed earlier. Henning erected a tarp to shade us from the hot sun, and as we watched the sea become a spectacle of frenzied whitecaps, we felt thankful that we were safe on shore. We had to move camp three times to get out of the strong wind and blazing sun – despite not feeling well I doggedly lugged gear back and forth. I voiced to Henning that hopefully tomorrow would bring a better day.
It did start out promising. We launched in calm, sparkling water and were mesmerized by the motion of our boats rising and falling with the gently rolling sea. We were delighted to view Solander in the distance and were making good time for getting off the water before noon. As we approached Cape Cook the wind began to pick up a little, but I calmed myself and consciously stopped myself from paddling faster – we still had another 3 -4 nautical miles to go and I wouldn’t be able to sustain a faster pace. Little did we suspect the impending harrowing ordeal that could have cost us our lives.
No sooner had we rounded Cape Cook, we found ourselves in 3-4 m swell and fierce wind. The sea before us was suddenly frothy white and frenzied. Pounding of the waves and howling of the wind were deafening. We knew we had to get away from the treacherous reef. Steep towering waves came from behind. My heart missed a beat. The wind was so intense that water was being blown off the tops of the waves. Despite being gripped with terror, somehow, I managed to keep my boat pointing forward. This prevented the following waves from turning me sideways, destabilizing me. And I paddled for dear life. Out of the “bowling alley” of treacherous reef rocks and unsuspecting boomers (waves breaking over submerged rock). I felt immense relief at having navigated reef and boomers, and thought we were through the worst of it, when a relentless onslaught of catabatic winds slammed into us.
My hat blew off my head. My chart was dragging in the water hindering my progress. The wind whipped salt spray into my mouth. But I was oblivious, focused on not capsizing. The nasty wind was too powerful for us to paddle against. We couldn’t get the boats turned into the wind. All we could do to keep from tipping over was lean into the wind with the full weight of our bodies. Henning yelled for me to head towards shore. He feared that the wind was pushing us offshore. I paddled and I paddled and I told myself that I could do this, but the wind was unforgiving. I feared that it was winning.
After some time Henning pointed to an islet that was coming up close to shore and urged me to try to get in behind it, hoping the wind would be less severe. I was now near exhaustion and I shouted, “help me, help me” and “don’t leave me Henning”. No longer confident that I would survive, I was filled with dread. I couldn’t keep from thinking about the story of two friends paddling in Greenland: a sudden wind had come out of nowhere capsizing one of the two and pushing the other farther and farther away as he heard her crying “help me, help me”. She didn’t survive. But I continued to push myself, finding new reserves despite the fact I’d last eaten 4 hours ago. I heard a voice from inside: “I don’t want my life to end this way”.
At last I approached the rocky islet, but I was out of energy again. The wind had the upper hand, pushing me ever closer to the rocks. Again, somehow, I renewed my paddling effort. And I finally caught up to Henning. He pulled up next to me to allow me to hang onto his kayak. But my relief didn’t last long. Now we were both being pushed towards the rocks. Our only hope was for me to let go of Henning’s boat, as much as I didn’t want to. And start paddling again. But by this time I was no longer able to generate energy. The wind had won. All I could do now was let the wind take me downstream and pray that I stayed upright. I spied a beach located near a small headland and hoped that I could ferry to that beach. If I missed I would surely be taken out to sea! Henning saw that I could no longer fight the wind and paddled after me. He managed to attach a rope to my boat and tow me close to shore where thankfully we were somewhat sheltered from the wind. Relief flooded my whole body and yet I could only get down half an energy bar – the adrenalin was still running high. We both desperately wanted off the water, but sizeable boulders blocked access to all the beaches.
After a short rest, and a look at the sea conditions (wind decidedly diminished) we chose to continue on to Nordstrom Creek. But the wind was just changing direction and appeared to come back with full force. I knew I couldn’t battle any more winds, so we headed back to the safety of the shore. Henning checked out a few more potential landing sites but without luck. Going to shore was really only our last resort, to save ourselves and nothing else (kayaks and gear would undoubtedly not survive in one piece). So we made a second attempt for Nordstrom and this time the sea was sufficiently calmed. I’d had to focus on the present and not replay the nightmare I’d just experienced. Once on land, after 4 hours in our boats, we began to process what had happened. So much could have gone so very badly. But it didn’t. We were alive. We were safe. I did not think about the fact we had to go back around Cape Cook. After setting up camp and resting, we headed to the creek for a much needed and welcome wash.
We awoke to fog. Although we both would have liked a rest day, the favourable weather forecast (20-30 knot winds subsiding to 5-15 knots in the afternoon, picking up to 20-30 knots in the evening) was not to be ignored. We rejoiced that the anticipated calm seas would not only allow us safe passage around Cape Cook but also an opportunity to paddle out to Solander. After breakfast a wolf slowly moved towards us along the intertidal. It lingered, seemingly not too pleased that we were on its beach. We couldn’t determine what or whether this coastal wolf was foraging in the intertidal.
We launched into the fog and a sea of velvety ice blue. My apprehension dissolved as we fell into a steady paddling rhythm. Solander suddenly loomed out of the fog: a huge monolith of steep grassy slopes. Had it not revealed itself, we would have paddled right past it. The stench of guano and feces assaulted us even before the sea lion rookeries and sea birds came into view. Pigeon guillemots, murres, cormorants and rhinoceros auklets abounded, but not a single tufted puffin was to be seen. Was it possible they no longer breed at Solander or did we get the timing wrong? As we paddled through a narrow gap to get to the other side, six sea lions dove in front of us from a 6 m high ledge. All we awarded a “10” except for the final diver who did a belly flop.
On arrival on the outer side one puffin after another came whizzing down from the cliffs to check us out. We were amused by their comic in flight appearance: a cigar shaped body with large orange parrot-like beak and bright orange legs. Despite the low swell and calm conditions, the exposed side of Solander was truly exhilarating: sea spray flew in all directions and white, frothy water rebounded and churned as if in a washing machine; sea lions growled menacingly and seabirds squawked as they flew overhead.
Leaving Solander, the formidable “bowling pin alley” of yesterday’s terrifying ordeal looked relatively benign. The paddle back to Crabapple was thankfully uneventful. The early evening winds had not transpired. I was mesmerized by the smooth undulating waves and captivated by eagles perched on rocky crags and in treetops, loons warbling and mist drifting in and out of treed rocky islets and distant hills – quintessential West Coast. The low swell allowed us to paddle close to shore and ride the rebounding waves, enthralled by the surge and churned up water aqua green in colour
Leaving Solander, the formidable “bowling pin alley” of yesterday’s terrifying ordeal looked relatively benign. The paddle back to Crabapple was thankfully uneventful. The early evening winds had not transpired. I was mesmerized by the smooth undulating waves and captivated by eagles perched on rocky crags and in treetops, loons warbling and mist drifting in and out of treed rocky islets and distant hills – quintessential West Coast. The low swell allowed us to paddle close to shore and ride the rebounding waves, enthralled by the surge and churned up water aqua green in colour
We finally got our rest day on day 5 back at Crabapple. We spent the day in fog – not a dense fog/drizzle, but a nice reprieve from the heat and wind the last time we’d been here. We walked the neighbouring surf-swept beaches and the trail through the bog to yet another white sand beach. A large black bear bounded past Henning having his morning coffee.
We’d also come across numerous wolf tracks all along the beaches and a bear carcass on the beach that wolves had evidently reduced to bone.The damp sand was starting to get on everything, so despite the lovely beach walks and surf gazing, we opted to spend a few more relaxing days on the pebble beach of Heater Pt.
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A stunning morning boasted silken water and fog lit up by the sun. Trees were silhouetted against the fog, backlit by sunlight. Mountain peaks emerged from the fog against an intense blue sky.
At Heater the tide was now low enough for me to engage in one of my favourite pastimes, namely intertidal exploration. The rich seaweed and invertebrate presence fascinated me as if I was discovering it for the first time. We also visited the enormous sea cave on the exposed side of Heater that we’d seen on our 2015 trip. Here the intertidal life was sparse and adapted for the relentless pounding of crashing waves that sculpted rock masses, surge channels and sea stacks. As before, I loved walking the enchanted forest trail, resplendent with thick mats of moss overgrowing crumbling hemlock and spruce giants and living ancients towering above us.
Our rest days also provided the opportunity for more creative cuisine: freshly cooked bannock with butter and jam replaced store-bought cookies; cabbage salad with carrots, onion, lime and olive oil was a tasty new addition to our kayaking menu. Oh, and Henning was overjoyed not only to recover his now well-washed long pants, but also to discover that the lighter left in the pocket was still functional.
The morning we departed Heater Pt. headed for Side Bay, fog gave way to blue sky and sunlight dancing on the water. Surrounding peaks were reflected in water as smooth as glass. Two porpoises glided by us; a number of otters craned their necks to get a good look at us; massive orange lion's mane jellyfish (Cyanea capillata) drifted at different heights in the water column.
And all too soon we left behind the roar of the surf and the spectacular wild West Coast.
And a harrowing tale of survival that speaks of the uncompromising power of the sea.