Late Entry | Three Sheets Northwest

Solitude is where you find it

by Scott Wilson on 12/08/10 at 10:10 am

Small Inlet, Kanish Bay

We left Blind Channel to bash through the ceaseless northwest winds and swells that have been rolling implacably down Johnstone Strait every day for a month under clear blue skies. Word on the docks was that today was the day for those heading further north; max winds of 25 knots rather than 35 made for the easiest day available to pinball up the trench toward Alaska or the Broughtons or around Cape Scott.

We weren’t going so far, though, just up the short stretch of Mayne Channel and around Mayne Point before heading back to the south. Slamming into the slop pouring in from the main part of the strait, I couldn’t wait to get the sails up and enjoy the power of those mighty winds from astern finally. And I didn’t wait; as soon as it was even remotely practical, I popped out a small patch of genoa and reached across past Edith Point and headed south down the Strait. Between us and Edith Point, a single, strangely mottled orca surfaced amidst the three foot rollers. His markings, rather than the acute black and white pattern typical of the whales, were speckled and almost grayish. We watched for others as he sounded, but there was nothing more.

Although the tiny bit of genoa I had unfurled was pushing us along at six knots, we were against the ebb current and made only about three or four knots over ground. After only a couple hours, we pulled in at Turn Bay, where Johnstone Strait meets Nodales Channel at Chatham Point. We were alone there, but for the house on Turn Island. The wind swept right through the anchorage but our anchor held fast and in the lee of the dodger, the sun was hot and we watched birds swoop and fish along the saltwater marsh at the head of the bay.

The next day we repeated our short downwind sail, this time into Kanish Bay. Kanish, the first, best stop north of Seymour Narrows, has been a pretty regular stop for us passing through these parts in the past, but we had never explored much of it, always content with the easy anchorage behind the Chained Islets near the mouth. This time, we sailed further in, past islands, rocks, and aquaculture, into Small Inlet, a provincial marine park.

We’ve been missing out. Small Inlet was a wonderful, nearly landlocked cove, dotted with islands, surrounded by trees and tidal marshlands, filled with birds… and utterly bereft of other boats. We saw two kayakers while we were there, probably from houses in nearby Granite Bay, but otherwise had it entirely to ourselves.

We dinghied to the head of the inlet, where trails lead, variously, up to a nearby lake or across a small isthmus to Waiatt Bay, a popular anchorage in Okisollo Channel. We located the trail, hidden in the trees but marked with a flash of pink ribbon, and walked softly through silent woods. As quiet and natural as they seemed, like most places along the coast here, they’d been logged at some point in the past; I nearly tripped on a rusting cable left behind. But the forest comes back. A dried swamp at the height of the isthmus cradles birds and feeds plants. Rock formations, buried in loam, jut unexpectedly up in the forest along the path.

We passed one man on the trail, and when we got to the other side, we were amazed we had seen only him; Waiatt Bay was as full of boats as Small Inlet was empty. The beach was crowded with landed dinghies and kayaks. Only a half mile from our secluded grotto, we felt like Lewis and Clark might have if they had brushed aside some branches and emerged in modern downtown Portland. We walked back to our own thinking of our good fortune to have a whole huge bay to ourselves. But it’s not really good fortune; intimidated by the rough reputation and the prevalence of commercial traffic, few cruising boats choose the Seymour Narrows route either north or south. Even fewer feel like putting in so soon or so deep into Kanish Bay. A few miles north at Blind Channel, we’d felt crowded; here, closer to the teeming cruising grounds of Desolation Sound, we were completely alone. Solitude, it seems, is simply a matter of picking your spot.