Sat, 15 Feb 2025 12:49:33 -0800WeeblyFri, 17 Sep 2010 02:03:24 GMThttps://www.laurieann-ranger25.com/blog-desolation-sound-british-columbia/first-post Wednesday, July 21, 2010

We had spent three days in and around the Port Alberni area.  The big advantage of having a trailerable boat is having the use of your truck when back in port.  We had walked the 3 miles between the Harbor Quay and the Cluetesi Boat Haven through the stagnant part of Port Alberni, around the huge wood mill operation, across a bridge that once separated the two towns and entered the thriving retail area of new Alberni.  The employee at the boat ramp did not want the trailer in the lot without the truck but said there was a nearby field that the trailer could be taken to.

“Is there a fee to store the trailer there?”

“No, it is free,” she replied.  Now, I was wondering why I agreed to pay $12 a night for parking at the lot near the ramp when the field was free.  When we arrived at the field to drop off the trailer, we found about 75 trucks and boat trailers.  Everyone parks here after paying the launch fee.

With the freedom of our personal vehicle, we did all the errands that 11 days of cruising requires but we also did some sightseeing that was not possible from the windshield of the tug: Sproat Lake, locals pronounced it both ways, “Sprout” and “Sproat,” or rhymes with throat, where the huge seaplane anchored near its airbase stands ready to fight fires by dropping 27 tons of water on it, the McLean Mill site where the work and life of the timber industry during the middle of the 20th century is well preserved, and the Pacific Rim Highway that is the only paved road that crosses Vancouver Island.

We had seriously considered taking the tug by trailer to Tofino on the Pacific Ocean and then exploring Clayquot Sound.  Highway 4, the Pacific Rim Highway, was the deciding point.  Information on the Internet described the road as winding with many steep grades.  Local opinion was divided.  Mike, the boss of the harbor staff at the marina, said, “It is very narrow in places, steep turns, there is no way you should take your boat down that road.”  The sales staff at a nearby parts and service shop for boats said, “I have taken my Dad’s 35 foot 5th wheel down that road.  The 18-wheelers use it every day.  Just drive easy.  Sure, there are some narrow spots, just move over and take the whole road, the oncoming cars will slow and down and let you go.  You do have good brakes don’t you?”

We drove the road, without the trailer, nearly reaching the coast and were glad we did not take the boat.  18% grades, rock cliffs that over hang in to the traffic lane, and many downhill and steep curve combinations.  We would have made it there but coming back would have added more gray hair, something I don’t need more of.

Having a trailerable Ranger Tug is an amazing thing.  You wake up in Port Alberni and you go to bed in Desolation Sound, the home to many islands that are situated between Vancouver Island and the mainland.  After pulling the boat up the ramp, we were headed eastbound on the Pacific Rim Highway, crossed the “hump” as the locals describe Alberni Summit, easily handling the short but steep 8% grade, and continued northward on a marvelous four-lane highway to Campbell River. In 2 ½ hours, we had accomplished what marina-bound boaters would do in three weeks.

Campbell River is a mix of active commercial fishing fleet, commercial enterprises that support the large number of cruising boats that stop and provision, and a growing resident population.  We quickly found the boat ramp at the Discovery Harbour Marina.  The ramp is very steep but long and though the tide was out, we found ample depth to safely launch the tug.  The parking lot was large but had very few trucks and trailers in it.  The sign on the bulletin board said to pay the $10 launch fee to the attendant or put the funds in an envelope and take that to the marina office. The marina office was at least a mile away on the other side of the boat basin; this was not a good system.

It takes longer to set up than to take down.  In 90 minutes, the tug was ready for launching.  We were pleasantly interrupted several times by people who drove or walked by, stopped and asked questions about the boat. An older man, in his mid-70’s with a pleasant face, whose huge frame was slightly bent said, “I love to look at women and boats.  Now, as I get older, its just boats.”

Canada does not coddle its boaters.  If you are going to boat in Canada, you will have to be tough, problem solve, and figure it out.  But the rewards in scenery and vistas are always worth it. This ramp was not only steep, but its approach is a curve and the dock is on the passenger side of the truck making visibility and judging distance more difficult.  But experience, luck, and 4-wheel drive in low gear made it all look easy to the spectators who gathered nearby to watch the Yank launch his fancy little cruiser.

Within minutes, the tug had spun around in its length and was at the fuel dock taking 60 gallons of diesel at $4 a gallon; petrol products, like alcohol, are not cheap north of the U.S. border.  Laurie picked up a detailed paper chart of the area and we were off through the gap in the breakwater, entering Discovery Passage at a flooding current that pushed us along an extra 1.3 knots.  The skies were clear and a fresh breeze was also behind us.

We angled across Discovery Passage toward Cape Mudge and its lighthouse that is one of the few that is stilled manned with real people.  We skirted the Wilby Shoals but cut away from the commercial shipping channels and its buoys while still having a depth of 30 to 45 feet.  We had intended to head for Rebecca Spit on the eastside of Quadra Island, but when the waters between Quadra and Marina Islands was only a one foot chop, we opted to motor up to a fast cruising speed to skirt the eastern side of Marina Island and its reef, and head for Gorge Harbour on Cortes Island.

The entrance to Gorge Harbour is narrow but deep and the harbor is large with a variety of coves, small islands, and nooks.  For no special reason, we started to explore the harbor in a counterclockwise fashion.  Within 15 minutes, we had found a small nook that was perfect for a 25-foot tug.  To the southeast, a rustic house was perched on a rock.   The south and west sides were forested and the north side was a vertical granite wall that effectively blocked the wind. We anchored in 24 feet, bow to the east and backed up, setting the Danforth anchor, and then rowed the dinghy ashore with the stern tie line, putting it around a teenage fir tree.  I was happy with this until the swirling breeze pushed the side of the tug too close to the granite wall for comfort.  The stern tie line was moved further south, we gained more space, and still kept our low tide depth within our safety cushion.

Low clouds were blown in from the northwest, a brief drizzle pelted the water, and the temperature stayed in the high 70’s.  Gusts of wind from the northwest, would occasionally rattled the trees, blowing leaves and would strain the stern tie and anchor lines, but we stayed taut and secure.

We grilled chicken breasts and meatballs and served them with salad and a Moosehead beer.  The evening was closed with more rummy card games and finishing the Hennessy.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

The morning sky through the overhead hatch in the V-berth was blue with wisps of clouds blowing by.  The tide was predictably low, the tug was surrounded on three sides by granite rocks and a wall and the stern tie line was up a long rocky slope.  This part of the Pacific Northwest commonly experiences 13-foot tidal swings; I had floated very close to the tree where the stern tie line was around 14 hours ago.

After a breakfast of bacon, eggs, juice and coffee, we did the well-rehearsed sequence of releasing the anchor line from the bow cleat, pulling in the stern tie quickly enough so the rope would not likely get caught on the barnacle-covered rocks, and then having the windlass pull up the anchor line while keeping the tug in a safe position.  As we motored out of the protection of this nook, the building morning breeze from the northwest tried to push us around Gorge Harbour as we explored its perimeter.  This part of Cortes Island has homes scattered along the tree line, some with docks and some without.  The shuttered windows and doors indicated that these are vacation and second homes.  We eyed the Gorge Harbour Marina Restaurant through the binoculars and noted that a good and protected anchorage is at the northwestern part of the harbor.

            Following two sailboats through the narrow harbor’s entrance, we turned toward starboard and headed through Uganda Pass that involved carefully threading the red and green buoys around Marina Island’s Shark Spit and the rocks and boulders that have spilled out from Cortes Island.  The seas were building as we faced the wind coming over Shark Spit but a helicopter that had landed on the spit and the speculation that perhaps a celebrity had landed for a photo opportunity distracted us.  The tug would make a great backdrop; we would even wave for the camera.

            As we cleared the last buoy around Shark Spit and entered Sutil Channel, the 20-knot winds had created 3 to 4 foot seas and we headed straight into them, bouncing, thudding into the troughs between the waves, and spray enveloping the cabin.  Reminiscent of last years crossing of the Strait of Georgia, we talked about our options for another destination other than the Von Donop Inlet on the northwest side of Cortes Island.  We could make it but we would fight nature the whole way with the northwest winds attacking the tug’s beam once we turned at Plumper Pass; yes, we could make it but we would be exhausted because, in the end, nature always wins.  Manson Bay was a definite option so the tug was turned around at Whaletown Bay and we retraced our path, flying easily along as the wind pushed us to the southeast.

            We stayed close to the shore on Marina Island and decided that this was so comfortable a ride that Squirrel Cove or Cortes Bay was a viable option.  Running at 2200 RPM, the tug surfed the swells and white caps going 10 MPH and the autopilot kept us pointed to the red buoy at the southern tip of Cortes Island that marked the reef.  The buoy could not be seen but we used the chartplotter and the ruler function to determine a course and distance.

We had made this trip at least 7 years before in a go-fast Bayliner powerboat.  Then, the water was flat and the tide was high as we skimmed along at 25 knots and I remembered thinking, “Why is this buoy so far from shore?”  At low tide, the rocks, shoals and reef are plain to see.  With the swells heading right to the reef, we had to put them on the transom’s starboard corner to go around the buoy. Rounding the buoy to port, we were pleasantly surprised to find the seas were down; the reef was stopping the swells.   The tug was powered up to fast cruising speed and we glided along, close to shore, and in the lee of Cortes Island, past the Twin Islands and into Cortes Bay for a lunch anchorage.

Cortes Bay is dominated by the two outstations owned and operated by the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club and the Seattle Yacht Club; their massive boats tied to the wharfs below their clubhouses.  There is a public dock, known as the Government Dock and is easily identified by the red-painted rails on the ramp.  The dock was predictably full of fishing boats and sport fishing boats, sometimes rafted two-deep.  We opted to drop anchor near the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club’s facility; a decision that later prompted using the windlass a lot to get things set correctly. 

We dropped the anchor in 25 feet of depth near the boat ramp, putting out 80 feet of chain and nylon rode.  As the winds cascaded over the 100 foot high forested hills at 15 to 25 knots from the northwest and then the north, the tug dragged the anchor about 50 feet while we ate lunch.  The guidebooks said that the bottom was “soupy” and holding could be an issue.  Hoping to walk on shore, the decision was made to stay the night and but we had to find a better holding. 

We tried anchoring closer to shore and putting out a longer scope but within an hour, the shifting winds caused us to swing closer to a dock that I wanted.  We pulled up the anchor and moved 400 yards to the south, dropped it in 35 feet of depth, but our swing was too close to a sailboat.  A brief talk about bagging the whole idea and heading to Squirrel Cove was scrapped when looking at the chart revealed that we would fight the winds to get there; the lesson from this morning was remembered.

The third time was the charm.  The anchor was pulled and the tug moved to large space between the Yacht Club and the anchored sailboats and a four to one ratio of rode was deployed, taking into account that the tide would rise by another 6 feet.  The winded buffeted the tug and the two-dozen boats at anchor until an hour before sunset.  The stronger gusts would cause a rumbling as they swept across the canvass that covers the cockpit, vibrating the antennas, and billowing the window curtains.  The tug would swing, slide, and stretch tight the anchor line.  I missed the secure and quiet anchorage that was enjoyed the night before.

 The sky remained perfectly clear and the temperature remained in the high 70’s.   The cabin was hotter; the trick was to vent it while not creating a wind tunnel.  A lifesaving drill was done with the dinghy to rescue a bowl that was blown into the water; the patient was saved.  In the mid-afternoon, we took the dinghy to the Government Dock and did a 40-minute walk on the rural roads around Cortes Bay.  The rural roads were narrow, with no shoulders with tight curves and not a piece was flat.  Three cars passed us and all the drivers waved.  The clusters of government provided mailboxes indicated that there were many homes on this part of the island.  We saw beautiful homes that were landscaped in a practical fashion and some that were falling apart.

Returning to the dock, the fisherman, men and women in the 40’s, browned and toughen by the sun and sea, talked in small groups on their gray-colored welded aluminum fishing boats. The sports fisherman stayed on their white fiberglassed sports fishing boats, polishing the stainless steel rails and fussing with the downriggers; a different group, separated by economics, lifestyle and experience.  We motored over to the Seattle Yacht Club’s docks and were impressed with the raw economic value that was floating in this space.  No one looked at us, smiled or waved; definitely not owners of Ranger Tugs.  Heading back to the tug, the smallest boat on anchor, we battled the wind-created chop to BBQ hamburgers, steamed fresh green beans and made chocolate brownie/muffin thing on the BBQ that was not perfect but acceptable because it was chocolate!

Watching a movie on the laptop computer closed the night. The sky was clear and full of stars.  The bay was littered with white anchor lights and though the occasional gust of wind would sway the tug, we slept soundly.

Friday, July 23, 2010

The sunrise at 5:30 AM beamed through the hatch like a warm spotlight; it was ignored for an hour.  Boots remained snuggled between layers of polar fleece and was the last one to rise.  While Laurie put together a breakfast of cold cereal, juice, coffee and fresh fruit, I cleaned the litter box, wiped down the cockpit using the morning dew as the cleaner, removed the sunshade from the windshield, and checked the vital fluids and belt of the diesel engine.

At 7:30 AM the anchor was pulled up and we idled out of Cortes Bay deciding that it was a nice place to visit but it was not a destination.  The wind was nearly calm after idling through the narrow opening to the bay; the tug was brought up to its slow cruising speed of 2,000 RPM’s.  We had an hour of motoring to reach Squirrel Cove; water needed to be heated, the house bank of batteries needed a topping off, and the IPod, a cell phone, and the double A batteries all needed charging.

At Squirrel Cove, we would violate one of the prime directives of this trip: go to new places. We had been here six years ago and knew it well, from the store, the craft store, the anchorage, and the trails. But it is a great place and once we were behind Protection Island, the 4 dozen anchored boats were revealed.  Once again, we were the smallest boat in the anchorage because reaching the place often requires huge fuel tanks and lots of time to cover the distance from Seattle or Vancouver and the boat to handle the northward trip up the Strait of Georgia, beating wind and waves.  We cheated, and love it, by trailering to a port only thirty miles away.

The tide was at its lowest of the period and expecting the normal winds from the northwest, a gently sloping, oyster encrusted beach was selected at the northwest side of the cove.  The thought being that the tug would be anchored in the lee of the forest and stern tied; we would hardly swing or feel the afternoon winds at all. We anchored onto a mud bottom in 18 feet, idled back to the rocky beach until the transom was in 6 feet of water, rowed ashore with the stern tie in tow as it reeled off the converted garden hose reel that was bolted onto the swim step.  The tree line was further away than estimated from the boat, so the line was tied around a boulder as a preliminary decision. 

Three hours later and with the rising tide, the line would be moved to the east because the wind had changed direction and was coming from the southeast; the tug was abeam of the gentle breeze.  The tug carries 450 feet of yellow colored, ½” floating line on the swim step.  We had never used all of it in the dozens of stern ties in three years of using the Ranger Tug.  I had toyed with the idea of taking 100 feet off to make the line store more easily on the plastic reel.  Today, we used all of it and then some.  Moving the stern tie involved not only walking on layers of oyster shells and hoping that the Keen shoes would protect me from cuts or scraps on my tender and very white feet and ankles, but also going a longer distance to the first stout tree above the beach.  When all the stern line was not long enough, Laurie went into the anchor locker and took one of the 50-foot nylon braided lines that was bought on a special deal, and it was added.

A special treat of Squirrel Cove is the floating bakery.  We had heard about it and read about it but it was closed when we last came.  As we came into the cove, an elderly man was high on the entrance rock on Protection Island bracing a tattered sign, “Bakery Open” with driftwood.  We were in luck.  As soon as the tug was anchored and set, the dinghy was launched and we set out for the bakery on the far side of the bay.  The building that is the bakery is floating in a small nook, cabled and anchored in place.  There is small dinghy dock at the bakery’s front door that can accommodate three dinghies and as you tie up, the rich aroma of sweet rolls fills your head.

Inside the old wooden, square building that is faded with years of weathering, a large table is partially covered with huge sweet rolls.  A woman in her mid-60’s is wearing a hairnet and is making change and taking orders for tomorrow’s fare: bread and pies.

“Did you make an order?” She pleasantly asks.

“No, we just arrived,” replies Laurie.  “Are all of these reserved with orders?” She asks laced with an undertone of pleading: I really want one of these!

“I always make extra,” she says reassuringly and smiles, knowing how desperate cruising boaters can be and what they will pay for treats like these luscious cinnamon rolls.  Saundra is the baker and her husband is getting the bakery set up for the summer season.  “I have been doing this for 10 years here in Squirrel Cove.  This season, I am getting off to later start, but here we are.”  She is friendly and responds to questions with ease and without hesitation. 

“We have a farm here on the island.  I have lived here on Cortes Island for over 45 years.  I use to bake here for the money.  Every year was a different purpose.  Last year, I baked to get my teeth fixed,” Saundra said as she smiled and touched her new dentures with her forefinger. “Now, I do it as a hobby.  But, maybe I will go to New Zealand in the winter, and visit my sister.”

We ordered Squirrel Cove Bread for tomorrow and bought two cinnamon rolls, saving one for tomorrow’s breakfast and splitting the other as we motored over to the store, about a mile away. We docked the dinghy at the Government Dock, climbed the super steep ramp, and paid the two dollars to deposit our garbage in the box.  The Squirrel Cove General Store is tiny but it is packed with everything that a boater or an island resident really needs.  Besides having a great selection of the essentials, it is also the licensed liquor store, the hardware store, and a mini-marine chandlery. The long-time owners have a finely honed knowledge and experience of what is needed and what is not.

We took our purchases back to the boat and were disappointed at the bags of garbage that had appeared at the trash box by those unwilling to pay for the privilege of having someone else dispose of it.  Canadian boaters have to pay for this everywhere; Americans are the lazy and cheap ones.  These boaters do not understand the concept that if you are not going to be self-sufficient in every way, then you are going to pay someone else to help you; take you garbage with you, or be ready to pay for it.

Back at the tug, we had a light lunch, hunkered down for the afternoon and then opted for a hike to the inlet that is on the side of the forested ridge.  The trail to the nearby saltwater lagoon was nearby by dinghy.  We tied the dinghy to a rock knowing that the tide will continue to rise but planning to back with in the hour and set off following the trail, the flagging tape and hand-painted signs.  We quickly found out that this would be no stroll in the woods as the trail became very steep, very quickly.  The trail was really a deer trail and was cluttered with down trees as it rose and fell with the terrain, twisting and turning as it went around obstacles.  It was advertised as a 2.45 km trail.  We figured it would take about 30 to 45 minutes. 

An hour later, sweating, nearly spraining an ankle, and not seeing any sign of water, let alone a lagoon, I was having doubts about this as Laurie forged ahead. Where were the descriptions, map and, “You are here sign.” This trail needed a serious warning sign and its difficultly because unsuspecting boaters, dulled by inactivity, over eating and over-drinking would do very poorly on this trail.

 We arrived at the lagoon in 90 minutes and it was nothing special, certainly not worth the expenditure of effort to get there and back to the dinghy.  Going back was twice as easy as getting there.  Another example of how attitude can affect the perception of time and distance. Three hours, after leaving the dinghy, we returned and found it floating but still tied up, the line was still wrapped about the small boulder and tied in a clove hitch but the rope and the knot was 10 inches under water. 

That is the great thing about wearing Keens; you can walk in the woods, on the oyster shells, and in the water on the barnacle-encrusted rocks.  The cold water felt great on the feet.  As we rowed back to our floating home, the cruiser next to us, who was from Canada, asked about our hike and said that he had hiked it too.  He also told us that he had to borrow our dinghy to rescue his dinghy as its anchor had been stuck and the rising tide was forcing it underwater.  We told him that we were glad to help.

Back at the tug, we celebrated our accomplishments with a Moosehead beer on the cockpit and enjoyed the calm, windless waters, clear sky and temperatures in the high 70’s.  We grilled steaks and asparagus for dinner and served them with a glass of a local red wine.  The rummy marathon continued with Kahlua and milk served with a chocolate brownie and on the 11th day, Laurie finally overtook me; like on the trail today, she just gutted it out to succeed.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

The first order of business after breakfast was to pickup our order of Squirrel Cove Bread from Saundra.  Her husband met us at the dock, took our money and delivered the huge loaf that was still warm from the oven, all without leaving the dinghy.  Not ones for delayed gratification, slices were cut for the crew and enjoyed with homemade raspberry jam.  Then, we did our normal departure sequence and within minutes, the tug was idling out into the channel.

Fresh water is the resource that dictates our trip planning.  Being frugal with it yields 5 days of traveling.  The tank sensor showed the water level was between a ¼ and a third full, not knowing where and when the next opportunity to fill would be, we opted to cross Lewis Channel and head for Refuge Cove on West Redonda Island, about 6 miles away, and is the main provisioning stop for Desolation Sound.  We expected a lot of boats to be there, fueling, using the store, and staying at the marina.  Six years ago, Laurie was dropped off at the end of a dock because there was no room and I stayed with the boat and idled about the harbor and picked her and the bags of supplies up.

As the final approach to the marina was made, boats started forming a line, adhering to the unspoken and unwritten rule of courtesy of first come, first served.  Ahead was a 40-foot Eagle Trawler and a 42-foot sailboat, they were jockeying for position to grab available dock space.  I saw it first, a space on the inside of a dock with an approach that was to narrow for the big boats but easy for the Ranger 25.  We slipped in and for show, the tug was pivoted 180 degrees in its length and eased into the dock going sideways; I always like to do that when the envious or the skeptics are watching.

Water is a precious commodity in the islands.  Most of it comes from wells and some come from rainwater collection systems and rarely is it free.  We expected to pay for the 20 gallons that we needed and were pleased and surprised when the dock had unrestricted water on it.  However, there was a warning posted on the faucet that it should be boiled for two minutes; this water supply did not have a chlorination system.  We accepted the terms of this, decided to buy two gallons of drinking water from the store, and the boiling the water when needed.  Back home, we would sanitize the boat’s water system.

Across from us was a 36-foot sailboat and the older couple was scrubbing the topsides with brushes and soap.  He was big burly man, intently scrubbing and loving his dreamboat.  She immediately asked about the tug, who made it, its performance characteristics, and was surprised and envious about all the places it had been.  She asked about the ease of trailering it on the highway, volunteering that she had a one-ton truck that pulled her horse trailer.  He remained silent as she asked questions, staring at this work, and thinking the thoughts that occupy the owner and lover of big boats: I will like my boat.

We used the thrusters again, to show off, as she watched from the deck of his sailboat, mop in hand and enthralled at the ease that the tug left.  In a few minutes, we were out of Refuge Cove, rounding Hope Point, and going down the channel that separates West Redonda from the Martin Islands.  On the shore of the Martin Islands was the reminder of bad things can happen here; a grounded barge with a building was disintegrating on the rocks, the water and waves slowly destroying someone’s dream. 

This channel has a short narrow piece large enough for boats to pass each other easily, but the approaching sailboat was taking its half out of the middle and when the radar was turned on and overlaid over the chart to show its distance from the tug and relative to the island, it was apparent that we would meet at that narrowest point unless someone blinked first; we did and the tug did a slow big circle to allow the motoring sailboat all the room it wanted.  However, the oncoming 45 foot Chris Craft that came behind it seemed to make a point at wanting to meet us at the narrowest point, complete with its three foot wake.  Undoubtedly on autopilot, waypoints plugged in, and the helmsman preoccupied with the blonde trophy-thing on the flybridge, he gave us a slight nod as he boomed on by.

The destination was Roscoe Bay on the east side of West Redonda.  The bay has two parts that is separated by a sand bar that dries at low tide.  Like a gate that opens and shuts on a schedule, the back half of the bay is accessible at only certain times.  We were early and needed to wait a couple of hours for the water to rise another 6 feet.  Laurie chose Elworthy Island; about 4 miles away, as place to drop the anchor, have lunch, and watch the flooding tide.  It was an easy ride at 1,800 RPM and the shoreline was kept close by to make the trip interesting.  Still, the depths often exceed four digits.  Behind the Elworthy Island is a limited but wonderful anchorage.  Two powerboats were stern tied to the island and two sailboats were rafted together and swinging freely.  We did a lunch hook in 25 feet of water behind the sailboats.

We crossed the sandbar at Roscoe Bay at 3 PM with 6 ½ feet of water under the keel; this was like boating on the Tennessee River.  In the inner bay, we dropped anchor on the north end, climbed the rocky slope to an old fir tree that bore the marks of a heavy cable from the past logging operation and affixed the stern tie line.  We were set and secure.  Later in the afternoon, we took the dinghy to the head of the bay and walked the short trail to a large fresh water lake where the water was clear, warm and inviting.

Back on the tug, we sat in the shade of the cockpit with the cool breeze blowing across the beam, had a Moosehead beer and watched a unique sight, a man in a dinghy with a cat in the bow.  Taking a dog ashore is a common sight, but this was different and we wondered how Boots would like a dinghy ride. The long twilight was spent people watching, making judgments based on appearances then making up funny stories about their situation.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Though we considered leaving Roscoe Bay before the window of opportunity closed at 9 AM, we lay in bed and said, “Let’s just stay here for the day.”  However, many boats did leave before the dropping tide sealed off the inner bay for six hours and we enjoyed a much quieter and less congested anchorage. 

After breakfast, we had a case of cleanliness and spent 4 hours doing all the deep cleaning that had been ignored over the past weeks.  Cabinets were emptied and swept, the entire exterior was cleaned of three weeks of dried salt, things were put away, and every interior smooth surface was wiped down.  Working in the hot mid-day sun, each in our own world was good for the soul; exercise and accomplishment are two things that quiet the mind of meaningless distractions.

After lunch, we mapped out the remainder of the trip and set the finish line to head back to the base camp in Marysville.  Most trips end because of obligations and responsibilities, a paycheck must be earned, the calendar of commitments must be kept satisfied, and the community of connections needs feeding.  For this time period, there are no outside forces dictating our use of time and setting our finishing time felt right and was a surprising easy process that was done without debate or regret.

The window of opportunity was open again to leave Roscoe Bay and in short order the lines were reeled in or raised up and the tug’s diesel engine was idling us across the smooth water, over the shallow sand bar and heading southeast in Waddington Channel.  Powering up to a slow cruising speed, we crossed Homfray Channel and passed between Otter and Mink Islands.  The big yachts and a private floatplane at a dock at Mink Island Cove caught our attention as we headed west into Desolation Sound.  The fresh westerly breeze had kicked up a one to two foot chop that would occasional spray the tug’s cabin, so we moved up in speed to 3,200 RPM and 13 MPH for 10 minutes until the rising temperature of the coolant caused us to resume a slow cruising speed. 

The destination was Grace Harbor at the southern end of Gifford Peninsula.  As the tug rounded Zephine Point, we crossed the boundary into Desolation Sound Marine Park.  The tide, and wind was at our back when a 45 foot Bayliner floating gin palace boomed by us going at least 20 knots.  The wake was about 4 feet high and was the highest and roughest wakes we had encountered on this trip.  We had to idle down and ride out the violent pitching.  That boat used more diesel fuel in the 10 minutes that it was in view than our little tug had used probably a week.

As we neared the narrowing of the channel between Josephine and Beulah Islands, the current picked up and soon we riding a 2 ½ knot liquid power slide, the tug goes 8 knots at 2,000 RPM’s, but for the next 10 minutes we were flying along at 10.4 knots and the power of the water could be seen in the surface ripples.  20 minutes later, we were in Grace Harbor, a one-mile long harbor that is only several hundred yards wide but opens up at the end to accommodate at least a dozen or two boats in total protection from winds in any direction.  Rounding the point at the end of the bay, there were about 10 boats, some stern-tied, others swinging freely in the center.  A suitable spot was found near the trailhead on the western side and the Danforth anchor caught quickly in 25 feet of water.

We did absolutely nothing; did not go ashore, did not work on a project or the next meal.  Instead, the IPod provided music from the library and we sat and watched the late afternoon unfold in a harbor sounded by hemlock and fir trees that grow down to the water’s edge and up the slopes to the 250-foot ridgelines. Cuba Libra’s were served on the patio deck and a taste test proved that Diet Coke is better than Diet Pepsi.

Most of the other boats had two people on them.  Sometimes, a third person was a child of the older couple and only occasionally was there a family of four or larger.  One exception was on a 26 Bayliner cruiser where we counted 6 girls, all about in the fifth grade, plus the two adults.  Around the cruiser was tied every floating toy that the outdoor stores carried.  The girls moved in a mob around the boat; always together, always talking and always at the same time.  It was not a group, it was a gaggle, and we were entertained.

Laurie made a splendid dinner of pasta with a tomato and meat sauce served with the rest of the Squirrel Cove Bread and a local red wine.  Afterwards, at least 100,000 moon jellyfish were seen during a dinghy trip around the bay.     The evening was concluded with another installment of the marathon rummy card game with wild blackberry tea, cookies from Poland, and pudding.  By 10:30 PM, the night had cooled to the low 70’s and it was glorious.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Morning in Grace Harbour was quiet, cool and peaceful.  Nearly all the boats were still here; savoring the moment of this place.  With the tide falling quickly, we took the dinghy ashore to walk the 15-minute trip to a fresh water lake.  The path was flat and wide, probably due to the many boat-bound dogs that dragged their masters around until they could relieve themselves.  Then, the path abruptly narrowed to barely one person wide.  The length of the widest part of the path is the measurement of how long it takes for a dog to do its business.

Brushing aside salmon berry bushes and cobwebs, Laurie looked liked a Kung-Fou fighter in battle with an invisible foe.  She was Lewis of the Lewis & Clark Expedition, forging a trail into the wilderness.  The fresh water lake was splendid.  The tracks of raccoons were found in the mud and evidence of their finding a food was found.  On the way back, rusting metal caught Laurie’s eye and a spur trail led to a rusting bulldozer whose parts were scattered about.  Fir and hemlock seedlings had grown up between the rusting frame giving evidence that this had been here for many years.  At the beach, the dinghy was two feet above the water line; when the tide falls, there is a lot of water leaving very quickly.

With places to go and scenery to experience, the anchor was pulled and the tug was idled out into Malaspina Inlet, then like a rock in a slingshot, we shot through the gap between Beulah and Josephine Islands riding the ebbing current and going 11 knots at a 8 knot RPM.  Heading westward from Myrmiden Point, the tug was powered up to its fast cruising speed over the smooth water and proceed past Cortes Bay, around the Twin Islands, and then around Sutil Point, the southern most tip of Cortes Island and the red buoy that warns of the reefs and shoals that lie between it and the island. 

It was idyllic Pacific Northwest cruising; flat water, clear skies, no wind, comfortable temperatures in the high 70’s and we were riding the ebbing currents.  The horizon to the west was filled with the high and jagged mountains on Vancouver Island.  The horizon to the east was the peaks and glaciers of the Cascade Mountains.

The water was flat or slightly rippled.  But this was not diving water; the visibility was less than 6 feet because the warming temperatures had caused plankton to be in full bloom.  The marine food chain needed fuel and the predictable summer plankton boom provided it. The weather and the season had brought out the boaters; this was not Barkley Sound and you had to pay attention.

The tug was running flawlessly at 12 knots, on autopilot, and headed to Manson’s Landing on the west side of Cortes Island.  Without warning, a small Boston Whaler skiff zipped by us with only 10 feet between the boats and going at least 20 knots.  He probably was riding our stern wake and the autopilot created a predictable straightness for the skiff’s pilot.

Manson’s Landing is difficult to see from the south. Rocks, boulders and islets disguise the opportunity.  We had stayed here before and loved the nearby saltwater estuary; Laurie said it was the best one she had ever seen.  We passed by the Government Dock, being predictably full of fishing and local boats and toured the small bay looking for a shallow enough place to drop the anchor.  The lowest tide had passed but the sand bars were plain to see just under the water’s surface. Anchoring is tricky here; the center is to deep and the perimeter has the right depth but is limited in space.  We settled on a spot directly north of the Government Dock, dropping the anchor in 25 feet, and when the 80 feet of rode was let out that set the anchor; the transom was in 5 feet of water.  Again, we were the smallest boat in the bay and the only one on the east side.  The Ranger Tug gave us options that were not open to the sailboats or the bigger trawlers.

After lunch, we took the dinghy to the Government Dock and tied up under the gangway, and went to explore the huge saltwater estuary on the other side of this narrow peninsula. At low tide, fresh water from Hague Lake flows into the broad and flat mud basin that has mounds of rocks in the center.  At high tide, the seawater covers the rocks and the depth of the main channel is deep enough to allow commercial fishing boats to transit the estuary from the small commercial marina located at the back of the estuary.  

The estuary did not disappoint.  Laurie was thrilled with the millions of living, black colored sand dollars, the vibrant oyster colonies, the billions of steamers and horse clams, and the diversity of sea stars that lived in the more salt water portion of the estuary. Local people were walking waist high in the cool water wearing protective shoes or snorkeling down the shallow channel.  Three teenage girls were collecting steamer clams, ignoring the warning signs that the dangerous toxin, Red Tide, was found in samples of the estuary’s shellfish.

Back on the tug, we toyed with the idea of staying at anchor for the night but the open seas to the southwest and the annoying wakes that came into the bay from passing boats caused us to pull the anchor and head toward Gorge Harbor.  Now veterans of the harbor, the narrow entrance and the rocks on the chart were handled with ease as we headed for the western end of the bay in search of the right depth of water that was near the Gorge Harbor Marina.  We anchored in 20 feet of water, in the front row with a 44-foot catamaran and nearest the northern shore.  The initial calculation and the subsequent verification of the data and math of the both the high and low tides, showed the tug would be in fine shape.  When you anchor twice a day; you get good and comfortable at the process and a comfortable sleep comes easily.

Boat life in a small space requires the acknowledgement and understanding of alone time; Laurie reads books, I like music or writing.  Nearly everyday, there is some portion of the day that we are alone, even though we may be a few feet from each other.  Understanding means there is no explanation needed or offered.  When it is over; it just is. 

After dinner and the dishes were put away, we took the dinghy to the private marina where the big powerboats were docked.  All the sailboats were at anchor, a curious sight.  The marina was in spectacular condition with fresh paint, new docks and ramps, and immaculate landscaping. I feared that I was not appropriately dressed, that the marina’s dress code police would shoo me away because looking like a page out of the catalog for REI clothing with zip-off pants, their light weight travel shirt and Keens, probably was not upscale enough for this crowd.

Like most first impressions, mine were mis-placed. The number of dinghies at the dock should have been the first clue.  This place takes care of all boaters. The marina employees were fit young people in their company polo shirts and they scurried about with efficiency.  Though boats that were worth at least $300,000 dominated the marina; the restaurant, showers, laundromat, grocery & liquor store, and restaurant took all comers.  We bought ice cream and gelato at the store and enjoyed dessert near a nicely done water feature, gazing out over the marina.  A nice gathering was happening at the outdoor BBQ where a local musician was providing the entertainment.  A nightly event, boaters bring their meals and have use of the marina’s huge BBQ.  The moorage rates were on the high side at $1.35 a foot but water, power, fuel and nice facilities made it acceptable.  It was a place worthy of spending time.

In the twilight light, we returned to the tug to close the day by watching a movie on the laptop, quietly sitting at a still anchor, the night sky ablaze light from the full moon.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Though we all first awoke at 6:00 AM, everyone, including Boots, went back to sleep and dreamed deeply until 9 AM.  Boating is hard work and it saps your mental facilities requiring rest and rejuvenation; that is my story and I am sticking to it.  After a splendid breakfast of eggs, toast, fruit, juice and coffee, the tug left Gorge Harbor.  The usual morning routine of checking the mechanical systems was done yesterday afternoon when the oil was checked 10 minutes after shutdown.  The raw water intake strainer had more than the usual vegetation in it.

As we headed through the harbor entrance on a falling tide and headed westward to Shark Spit that spurs off from Marina Island, we met an oncoming 38-foot sailboat that was named the Laurie Anne.  It was in great condition, obviously well loved by its owners, who slowed to look at the tug and then waved enthusiastically as they saw the name.  Two Laurie Ann’s being at the same place and at the same time; it must be a sign.

The sea was like a lake, smooth and without ripples, and reminded me of boating on the Tennessee River two years before.  We had open water to cover, so we motored up to 3,000 RPM, used the ruler function on the chartplotter to find the course heading and let the autopilot do the steering work.  Again, we were traveling with nature or as we said, “Go with God.”  The 11 miles across Sutil Channel to Rebecca Spit Marine Park on Quadra Island was as smooth as silk and done in under an hour. 

A BC Ferry left its landing at the nearby Heriot Bay, dodged a few kayakers as it headed toward Whaletown on Cortes Island.  Using our 1,400 RPM, no wake speed, the Government Docks and the nearby marina were scouted before moving on to the Rebecca Spit Marine Park.  This spit is unusual for us because it is not a strip of sand rising out of the water, it is forested but camping is prohibited because of recent geologic activity makes it prone to slides.  Anchorage is tricky because Drew Harbour is deep and the more shallow bottom areas are a mix of sand and gravel that typically do not hold an anchor well when needed.  Still, it was beautiful with the high snow-capped mountains to the east.

Continuing the trip around the tip of Quadra Island, the tug resumed it is fast cruising speed.  The fuel tank was still nearly full, we had weight to burn off for the trailer trip home, and running the engine at this speed would help clear out any gunk that had built up from the hours of slow cruising.  The temperature of the coolant was watched constantly as an experiment was ran to slowly increase the engine speed to find when the temperature would rise past the anchor point of 175 degrees.  It never did.  Maybe the problem was in the water strainer, or some obstruction was resolved, or the very gradual increase in speed allowed the impeller’s little rubber fins to keep up with the demand.  Regardless, the impeller will be replaced because as the Brad, the master mechanic says, “Just for good practice.”

We scooted down the coast in the last of the ebbing tide.  I was going to cut across the Wilby Shoals, staying in 30 to 40 foot depths; like I had done a week ago but Laurie vetoed that idea because, “We should follow the buoys, that is the safest way.”  Risk-taking can be an attitude, but it also can be the moment’s mindset.  Some times the risk is taken, sometimes it is not and you do not need a good reason.

The slack tide was now, that time when the current is not flooding or ebbing.  Within a mile, we crossed the tidal rips that signaled that the current was against the little tug; we were no longer, “One with nature.”  The tug’s speed slowly dropped by three miles an hour as nature was moving billions of cubic feet of water into the Strait of Georgia over the next 6 hours.  Now across Discovery Passage from Campbell River, we opted to turn into Qualthiaski Cove and go around Grouse Island because it was early in the day.  When room was spotted at the Government Dock, we opted to stop for a lunch break.  Boots was off the boat within a minute having been aboard for nearly a week.  Laurie made lunch and I was on supervised cat patrol, intercepting her from jumping on an old wooden boat that was surprisingly able to remain afloat.  It was for sale; a dream come true for the next owner and probably a nightmare released by the current one.

After leaving the dock and carefully avoiding the rocks on the north end of Grouse Island, we re-entered Discover Passage and felt the force of the flooding current as it swept along at over 5 miles per hour.  The next destination of Gowlland Harbour was a short distance away; the tug running at 3,100 RPM’s that would typically push it at 12 miles per hour was now doing 7, but in 20 minutes it was all over when the turn to starboard, around Steep and Gowlland Island was done.  Gowlland Harbour is nearly enclosed, except for the small channel that runs around Gowlland Island and past April Point, so the effects of the current were suddenly gone.

Running at our no-wake speed, the rock near Entrance Island was carefully avoided, and the log booms that dominated the east side of the island were given a wide berth.  Stag Island was slowly rounded revealing a beautiful and shallow bay.  The anchor was dropped in 12 feet of water.  The wind was so light and intermittent that the anchor was set using the tug’s engine rather than the wind.  Large houses dominated the shoreline to the east with their long docks extending into the bay that gave evidence of the gentle slope of the bottom.  Groups of teenage boys, a dinner bell, applause told of the summer camp on the northern shore.

The Mac found an open network with a weak signal but it was strong enough to download the hundred plus emails that have been in cyber storage for a week.  Being connected is a two-edged sword; you are satisfied with the knowledge but the feeling afterward is being pulled back to a busier and hectic place.

Steaks were grilled and served with steam veggies.  Brownies were backed on the BBQ and served during the marathon rummy game.  The night air is quiet and still and all seems right in the world.  

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

We pulled out of the slip after breakfast and made an easy marriage of boat to trailer.  In 60 minutes, the tug was road ready and we headed south on the flat and wide highway.  We could not get reservations on the eastbound ferry and decided to just show up and take our chances and be thankful for any blessings.  We arrived at the ferry terminal in Nanaimo about 90 minutes before the sailing time and the ticket agent was not certain that we would make the coming sailing.  But when the time approached, we were flagged onto the ferry and were one of the last vehicles shoe-horned in.  At the last minute a large SUV was wedged in near the tug's port stern corner with only inches to spare.  We relaxed during the crossing on a cloudless and calm afternoon.

When the ferry landed and the off loading process was nearly finished, the driver of the SUV surged forward mistakenly following a gesture by a crew member.  The right front fender thudded into the tug's stern corner, easily denting the fender.  The driver followed my directions to pull over once we were off the ferry.  The tug's gel coat was nicked off exposing a square inch of fiberglass; damage that was easily fixed, a repair that I done many times before.  The SUV took the brunt of the damage, likely costing hundreds to fix.  We exchanged information, the driver accepting responsibility for the damage and agreeing to an amount to fix it.  I doubted that I would see a penny.  But I was pleasantly surprised when a check arrived in the mail weeks later with the amount that we agreed.

 


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