The weekend warrior and the spaceship.

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The weekend warrior and the spaceship.

Trip Report: Paddling from Bellingham to Victoria BC and back again. 


Day 1: Ready for launch, and lunch. 

Day 1: Click to Enlarge

Friday afternoon (May 19th, 2017) I paddled from Bellingham Bay to Jone's Island. I took a direct line more or less on the southern aspect of Orcas Island with some little twists and turns to add extra miles. I met my buddies, Kirk Christiansen and Greg Bawden at Jones Island who each paddled out from different locations, one from Anacortes and the other from a launch point near Lummi Island. 

On the way out, I had an important business call to take so I put the boat in park and joined a conference call... bobbing happy as a cork on the sea on a wonderful, warm and glassy spring day. It was really a funny life moment when you think "Ok, I think I have it all" as you discuss the serious but not really existentially-serious things of corporate life. At that moment I heard a boat approach, and was greeted by some smart jeering... sure enough it was some sailing friends on their way to Cypress Island who spotted me sitting in my surfski. I put my call on hold, and kindly explained that "some of us have real jobs!". After my call ended I chased down their plodding sailboat and had we a laugh about my absurd business habits. 


"Man... It's like a spaceship just landed on the beach. This is like seeing the future."


At about the half way mark, I approached a little beach on the north shore of Obstruction Island where a man was working on a dingy. I glided silently up to him from behind unnoticed and tried to not startle him.

"You mind if I stop for a quick lunch on your beach?" was met with "WhoooaAAAHH!" for a response, and then a dry "It's not my beach... but it doesn't bother me if you go gorilla." with a hint of old hippy accent.

I replied "Gorillas eat fast" as I stepped out of my still gliding boat and walked ashore in one fluid movement, not allowing my boat to touch the ground until I had found a soft patch of sand on the beach to set it. We traded a quick introduction and he shared that he was himself a long-time kayaker but he had never seen such a vessel before. We chatted about the old days of paddling on the west coast of Vancouver Island. I happily shared details about the concept behind surfskis and what they are capable of in terms of speed, range and rough water performance as he took pictures to share with his wife. His offered a succinct summary in response to my many words and simply stated "Man, it's like a spaceship just landed on the beach. This is like seeing the future..."

As I ate my lunch, an interesting intersection of past and present between us emerged. Each of us have participated in a the cultural phenomena of our respective paddling eras. His an era long gone and full of bold paddlers and personalities executing expeditions with what is now considered primitive gear and no recourse in the event of disaster. Mine a blossoming era of fitness minded paddlers using bold inventions and reinventions that have brought liberating advances to every aspect of the ocean sports world. As we wrapped up our chat, I contemplated the the paradox that the advances that have expanded my horizons have also diminished the very thing I deeply desire, adventure and freedom. I envied his era, and he mine. I had the subtle feeling that this exact conversation has been repeated since the invention of the first kayak four thousand years ago. Some things never change as they change. 

With the remainder of the ebb making easy work of the remaining miles, I arrived at Jones island and found it in full tourist mode with boats and kayakers in nearly every nook and cranny. We had agreed to meet up on the south eastern aspect, where there are some fine beaches and rock top camping spots with outstanding views. Arriving first, I snagged the last perch and savored the sensation of encountering a new place for the first time. It just never gets old.

Kirk and Greg each rolled in within 20 minutes of each other, and we all set up shop for the night. We soon realized that the island water had not been turned on as advertised on the state website, and we had to put on our most pitiful faces and go beg the power boats in the marina for water. They were very kind and obliged the island vagrants of our wishes. Good vibes for them, dinner and breakfast for us. 

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As we made our dinner, a rustling sound interupted us and we found a true island vagrant raiding my food bag inside of my tent, just a few feet away from our camp table! It was a brazen raccoon who had found my energy bars and was now running full speed away from the scene of his crime. Being a man of justice, I gave a spirited chase and ran the little bastard down and soon treed him. His look of utter bewilderment from the relative safety of a pine bough gave me the impression that not many people of the pasty water folk give chase. I grabbed a chunk of driftwood and lofted it in a perfect arch to his position, at which point he felt the true measure of my limbic system's intent to bring him to account for his theft. 

My camp mates were perhaps a little horrified and amused at my savagery. I offered that should they elect to spend spend more time with native Montanans and they'd know that I am in fact quite polite for my species. 


Day 2: Eye on the prize. 

Day 2: Click to Enlarge

Day 2: Click to Enlarge

The next morning I rose early before dawn, wanting a crisp start to what I intended to be a grand day. The rising sun brought a faint glow to the basin around us, and as my camp mates slept in their tents I sipped a wonderful cup of coffee and contemplated how surprised I am to live such a full, rewarding life of adventure surrounded by people I enjoy and love deeply.  


"The garbage from their raid was strewn about camp like graffiti, a brazen and unmissable billboard for the bipeds; "Nature Always Wins!"


The coffee kept me longer then I intended, and soon Kirk awoke to find that the raccoons had repaid my vengeance to him. They had broke into his tent vestibule mere inches from his head as he slept, and made off with some of his best food for the weekend. The garbage from their raid was strewn about camp like graffiti, a brazen and unmissable billboard for the bipeds; "Nature Always Wins!"

I packed up the last of my belongings and wished my campmates safe voyage. I then journeyed west to Flat Top Island and on to Stuart Island riding the flood at great speed. My desire was to dip my toes into the fine waters of Canada and get close to Victoria where I could lay eyes on the prize of Vancouver Island. There is a strange thing that happens when one visits another country unannounced. You feel a type of distant freedom that in ages past others may have never contemplated, but surely enjoyed. I was happy to revisit the concept on my own terms and quickly departed back to US waters. 

Not your average boat launch, eh?

Not your average boat launch, eh?

From there I cruised back to Roche Harbor, through Mosquito pass behind Henry Island and along the south western aspect of Orcas Island. It was a lovely ride full of contrasts between the wild islands and the very tame. The flood soon ended and brought my freewheeling mileage hungry aspirations a stiff reality check. The ebb had begun in earnest, and it drained the speed from me. Cruising along at 8 and 9 mph one minute, and then in the mid-5's the next. The heavy reality that the next 40 miles would be spent against the tide sunk in as I chewed through the miles to best of my ability and tried to stay cheerful despite my pour route planning.  

I elected to thread my way through the islands rather than face the full throttle of the Strait of Juan de Fuca and then the Rosario, so Cattle Pass seemed like a bargain as I pushed through in mild conditions past Friday Harbor once again. The miles drug on and on and on against the ebb. The lack of speed is demoralizing, and one must come to grips with the fact that the straits can either make you look very very fast, or very very slow. Today was the latter and there was no hiding it. 

Fighting the hard reality of a 70 plus mile day, I stopped l just a few hundred yards off shore from a summer cabin on Sinclair Island and tried to find a thread of coherent motivation to finish the day well and polish off the last ten or so miles back to Bellingham. I heard the sound of a lawn mower, and then the cheerful chirps of children running and playing in the woods as the smell of a BBQ wafted out to meet me. It brought to me a flood of memories from my own families' cabin on Anderson Island in the south sound. I missed home deeply, and wondered at why on earth I choose such hard goals so readily when the comforts of family and home are there for the enjoyment? 

And at that very moment, I found both the motivation I needed and a now flooding tide to make it so. And once again I was speeding along the tides of life like the champion I imagine myself to be as the last shreds of the day light up Bellingham Bay. Thanks happy children in the woods and lawnmower BBQ guy... I needed that. 

Later when I checked in with Kirk who had stayed one more day on Jones Island, he relayed the information that the 'coons had thugged him up pretty good; breaking into the hatches of his sea kayak and taking nearly ALL of his food. This of course demands a deft response, and I shall return to avenge my friend, spaceship in hand. 

Later when I checked in with Kirk who had stayed one more day on Jones Island, he relayed the information that the 'coons had thugged him up pretty good; breaking into the hatches of his sea kayak and taking nearly ALL of his food. This of course demands a deft response, and I shall return to avenge my friend, spaceship in hand. 

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Confessions of a paddling addict: 200km & 2 days in the San Juan Islands

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Confessions of a paddling addict: 200km & 2 days in the San Juan Islands

Confessions of a paddling addict: Binge paddling 200km in just 2 days in the San Juan Islands. 

With a fine forecast for the weekend, I decided to try and get some quality training miles in an absolute treasure of paddling, the San Juan Islands. One of our local strongmen paddlers, Kirk Christiansen had told about a trip he took using the powerful currents in the straits to circumnavigate the entire island chain in one day, and I was eager to do the same (that's over 85 miles of paddling big country!). 

But this weekend also happened to be one of my favorite races, the Lake Whatcom Classic. So what to do?

Answer: Both of course!  


LAKE WHATCOM CLASSIC 2017 RACE REPORT:

We had great attendance for the race, and a fine cool morning with a light breeze out of the south and a forecast to switch to a northwestern breeze. This meant headwinds both ways, something that has happened every year I have raced the classic (x3).

When the horn sounded, I was facing the wrong way and managed to completely miss the start of the race. Once turned around and paddling, the leaders were about a minute away. I stayed calm, and started hopping from wake to wake as I worked my way through the field and tried to limit the damage from such a silly mistake. Eventually I found the wash of a super fast double rowing shell (out of class drafting is permitted) and I hung on for dear life as we slowly closed on the lead group comprised of 4x Olympic medalist Greg Barton, and up and coming superstar Austin Kieffer who were themselves comfortably riding the wash of a very fast double rowing shell. Much to my surprise the lead double made a course heading mistake which was just enough for us catch up to the leaders at the turn around point, a small island about 6 miles into the race. Never in my life would I think I could close a gap that big on those two, who upon my arrival at the front group they promptly reminded me that closing a gap and finishing a race are two very different ideas and took the pace up more notches than my wide wasted belt can handle. I wasn't quite able stay with the double I was drafting, and had the hard task of heading back upwind solo. But I did manage to hold off another former Olympian, John Mooney for 3rd place. I was happy with my paddle given that I am not focused on short distance racing this year but can still hang with the big dogs, or more accurately keep them in sight (the neon pfd's we all race in sure help in this regard!).  

Mass start, minus me! I missed the start, and had my work cut out for me to catch up. Photos: Michael Lampi

Mass start, minus me! I missed the start, and had my work cut out for me to catch up. Photos: Michael Lampi

"Where did everyone go?" Working my way through the field, chasing Barton and Kieffer. Photo: Michael Lampi

"Where did everyone go?" Working my way through the field, chasing Barton and Kieffer. Photo: Michael Lampi

The lead group forming up. Photo: Michael Lampi

The lead group forming up. Photo: Michael Lampi

Kieffer and Barton giving it 100% for the finish with Kieffer coming up with the win. Photo: Michael Lampi

Kieffer and Barton giving it 100% for the finish with Kieffer coming up with the win. Photo: Michael Lampi

Managed to claw my way back to 3rd place by the end of the race. Photo: Michael Lampi

Managed to claw my way back to 3rd place by the end of the race. Photo: Michael Lampi

After the race, I thanked the race organizer Brandon Nelson (himself a local legend, incredibly accomplished paddler and generous supporter of our paddling community), collected my gear, scarfed a PB&J and raced down to Marine Park to start for the second part of my binge weekend: Circumnavigating the San Juan Islands! 


SAN JUAN ISLANDS CIRCUMNAVIGATION TRIP REPORT: 

With warm air, clear skies and a light breeze I cast off at 2pm in my touring surfski fully loaded with food, water and gear for the weekend and then some. I paddled out from Bellingham Bay, and rode the flood tide through the channel between Portage Island and Lummi Island out to the Salish Sea where I was greeted by a vast expanse of big blue sky and big blue sea.

Staring into the abyss of the Salish Sea. City of Vancouver, BC on the far horizon.

Staring into the abyss of the Salish Sea. City of Vancouver, BC on the far horizon.

From there I worked my way west, crossing the Rosario Straight in fine conditions to my destination for the night, Sucia Island located about two mile's due north of Orcas Island.

As I crossed the Rosario Strait, I could see a sailboat motoring about a mile away and heading in the same direction, likely to Sucia Island. There is a funny thing with people in boats, they are very mindful of those around them and for the most part, strangely competitive. When I closed to within 1000 meters, they noticed me and I heard them laugh as they pointed at me from the back deck. And then I heard them power up the motor! So I did what racers do, and gave chase using every last drop of the currents to close on them. We had a race, and then a laugh as I sat on their wash and caught my breath and answered questions like "What kind of kayak is that?!" and "Where did you come from and what on earth are you doing out here?". It's not the first time I've been asked that...  

Once to Sucia, I found the island partly full of yachts and entirely full of cheer. I drug my tired bag of bones to shore and snagged my favorite camping spot on the far northwestern corner of the island and made camp for the evening. A party of boat campers from Bellingham generously offered me a giant slab of their day's catch, fresh Ling Cod and we talked about all things beer making and San Juan's for the evening. I finished the night in front of a roaring campfire and sipped a fine scotch as I contemplated the remarkable day's events. 

The next morning I woke before dawn to gray skies and a stiff breeze from the west. It brought to mind my last time visiting the island, when we were nailed by a strong winter storm and one of my paddling partners took a brutal swim that separated our group in the confusion of the seas. As I sat in my tent eating a double portion breakfast, I thought about our struggles that day and how they challenged me to become a more complete, capable paddler in all scenarios and conditions. My personal mission to this day is to "Be Hard To Kill" because of that day and others like it that remind me of the extreme possibilities of a sport that is usually benign. 


I imaged that viewed from the shore in my slender surfski, I looked a bit like a bronco rider as I blasted over the tops and surfed the troughs of the waves. I certainly felt like one. But then I remembered that I was likely invisible from shore, like a neon speck of dust in the eye of a stormy sea without a tear to give for fools like me.
— Nicholas Cryder

Gloomy skies fill this sailor with delight.

On the water at dawn, I headed southwest riding a very strong current between Orcas and Waldron Island. The wind shifted to the Southwest and the seas become grouchy and confused against the pumping current, with miles and miles of hay-stacking water that was actually a lot of fun to paddle. I imaged that viewed from the shore in my slender surfski, I looked a bit like a bronco rider as I blasted over the tops and surfed the troughs of the waves. I certainly felt like one. But then I remembered that I was likely invisible from shore, like a neon speck of dust in the eye of a stormy sea without a tear to give for fools like me. In that strange moment where time slows down in the intense focus of paddling big water, I felt a remarkable, satisfying peace and contemplated how far I've come as a paddler since my last time on Sucia. I savored the hit of adrenaline from adventure past yet again, as any proper adventure junkie should. 

As the gray skies cleared I happened to glance down at my GPS strapped between my feet and couldn't believe the speed I was traveling on the currents; a 10mph average without much effort! I knew it was going to be a very good, and very long day. From the southern end of Waldron, I zipped towards Spieden Island, and then proceeded south on the muscular ebb past Roche Harbor and the far Western shores of San Juan Island and Kiln Point over the remainder of the ebb. Once to the southern aspect of San Juan Island at about 10:30am, I had a decision to make, continue in the Straight of Juan De Fuca travelling East, or head North towards Friday Harbor and then use remainder of the currents to thread the channels in between Shaw, Lopez and Blakely Islands back to the Rosario Straight, which sounded like way more fun, and way more miles. I stayed true to my addict's oath; "always go back for more!"

The tide eased from ebb to slack, and when I glanced into the Friday Harbor my stomach growled as I thought about the many great meals and happy memories I've had there over the years.

“It must be time for secondsy breakfast!” my stomach pleaded and somehow found a way to make me think I smelled bacon and pancakes coming from Friday Harbor a mile away... 
— Stomach of Cryder

"It must be time for secondsy breakfast!" my stomach pleaded and somehow found a way to make me think I smelled bacon and pancakes coming from Friday Harbor a mile away... 

I resisted the urge to derail my day and instead ate a nut bar and sucked down a protein drink as I soldiered on. As I worked my way East, I settled into my "all day cruising speed" of about 7mph. One cannot underestimate how much faster surfskis are than even a fast touring kayak, regardless of weight (if paddled well). A fast hull is a fast hull... as long as you are strong enough to make it go fast enough to leverage the long waterline. As the flood took hold, I encountered a mix of currents, and used eddies and good line choices to game the channels as I surfed along and tried to stay out of the way of speeding ferries and yachts while milking their wakes for scraps of speed. 

At about 12 noon, my body needed a break and the GPS agreed. I like to use Google earth to scan for beaches in my trip planning, but almost all of the good beaches throughout the San Juan's have a dream home parked on them - so one has to work extra hard to find the gaps where the "FOOK OFF YOU FOOKIN FOOK!" signs aren't posted (translated for my Irish friends). 

A helpful hint if you are thinking about touring the San Juan Islands: The steep bluffs often have deposits of sand at their base, making for excellent and private low tide stop overs. Not an option for camping (use the state parks for that) but a great way to take a break as you work the islands on a long day. Just remember to haul your boat well away from the wave line as huge yachts and ferries can change a waterline pretty quickly. 

At the southern edge of Blakely Island, a new decision presented itself. Tap into the Rosario and ride the currents north towards Lummi Island, or instead head over to the Southern aspect of Cypress Island near Anacortes and ride the Guemes Island channel Northward on a more direct and interesting line back to Bellingham. I liked the second option better, even though it added more miles on the day, as it would also allow me a final stop at one of my favorite hidden beaches on Vendovi Island.


He had the unmistakable grin of a new junkie, and had just discovered his paddling drug. 
— Cryder

A final stop on the Western shores of Vendovi Island with Lummi Island on the horizon. 

Once past Vendovi Island and nearing Eliza Island and with Bellingham in sight, the current switched from a strong flood to a soul crushing ebb. These last several miles of murky Nooksack flooded water hurt, and for a the first time on the trip I started to crack and took brief pauses every other kilometer to stave off a brutal bonk, sip water and try to keep going. Up to this point, my mph average was an incredible 7.2, but here against the will of a full moon I saw my average speed dip to 6.9 on the day. It was this maddening, insidious thought that I wrestled with a tired mind. I wanted to finish this beast of a paddle with a 7mph average and fought the current to no avail to get that lost digit back. "Maybe we can tack on a few extra miles by going north and then riding the current back south?!" my sick brain offered despite having clocked over 75 miles on the day and being in the rockbottom depths of a meltdown. 

As I finished my final strokes of my paddle and found myself irrationally grumpy at the missed average speed opportunity I closed in on a kayaker in a small red plastic sea kayak. He was the only other paddler I had seen on my epic, and as we hauled out at the beach together he cheerly remarked how great it was to be out on the water today. He had the unmistakable grin of a new junkie, and had just discovered his paddling drug. It reminded me of the feeling of my first kayak and the exhilaration of just being on water. It also humbly reminded me that speed and distance only matter a little, but the water and sunshine and islands and life shared with those we love matter a lot. What a great feeling to come home to. 

Click to enlarge for notable reference points noted in my trip report. 

 

 

 

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The Deep End: Touring Lake Chelan by Surfski

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The Deep End: Touring Lake Chelan by Surfski

Touring Lake Chelan by Surfski

The Lake Chelan wilderness is a wonderful place to find fresh air, cold clear water and wild open country. AND IF YOU'RE LUCKY, MAYBE YOU'll FIND YOURSELF TOO. 

A little over 50 miles in length, the lake presents a variety of paddling opportunities, and yet the two hemispheres of the lake couldn't be more different from each other.

I spent 12 hours paddling upwind... It was hard. 

The southeastern aspect of the lake is a water sport playground for power boat and resort types, and has a bit of a high desert feel surrounded by orchards, vineyards and matching villas with breathtaking views. As one travels the lake north west, the resorts and waterfront mansions give way to towering mountains and eventually... absolute wilderness. No roads, very few boat accessible landing sites and a couple of remote villages that are only accessible by boat, trail or airplane (Lucerne and Stehekin). 

One thing both ends of the lake have in common: heaps of wind that can blow in virtually any direction and create rugged, ocean like conditions and very little chance of immediate rescue if you get in over your head once past the Twenty Five Mile campground (which is not at the 25 mile point of the lake, fyi). The steep mountain terrain and sheer cliff sides tend to funnel and amplify the wind, and the sheer rocky shoreline can make for sections where wind and water create hay-stacking rebound water conditions. All of which is totally alluring for the viking minded but an absolute no-go for the less prepared or skilled. Most lake forecasts that I have found are not accurate forecasting the wind conditions on the water up-lake. I suspect this is because the data comes from either town of Chelan or the nearby mountain tops. On the other hand, I have had trips to Chelan where the water is simply glass flat for days on end (more likely in August). 

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Lake Chelan has a water composition similar to Lake Tahoe; the high mineral content keeps the lake water incredibly clear and limits plant growth. The lake is is also very, very deep (1486') with numerous kayak accessible primitive campsites, but you'll need to be skilled enough to land in potentially rough water next to granite slabs. Not a big deal if you paddle a plastic boat, but very much a big deal if you paddle a delicate surfski.

There are several small docks and formal campsites along the lake, but they require a bit more planning (getting a permit) and might limit your itinerary for the trip. There is also the fact that you'll be around other campers, something I prefer to just avoid when going to the wilderness in the first place. 

This dock was missing a slat in just the right spot for a surfski rudder to fill. 

Another fantastic aspect of paddling by the shear cliffs and discovering some of the numerous hidden waterfalls that plunge hundreds of feet directly into the water below. In a kayak or SUP, one can get quite close to them. 

The little luxuries: I brought some Bear's Breath to brighten up my breakfast options. 

The little luxuries: I brought some Bear's Breath to brighten up my breakfast options. 

Rounding each point presents a new, breath taking horizon. And more miles to paddle. 

The Epic Envy in her prime. What a joy to paddle. 

I don't often take selfies, but when I do they involve surfskis, waterfalls, and giant cliffs. The world needs more of the latter if not the former. 

I don't often take selfies, but when I do they involve surfskis, waterfalls, and giant cliffs. The world needs more of the latter if not the former. 

A word about the power boats: In July / August the south eastern aspect of the lake is a big, rowdy party and some of the boats can be aggressive to paddlers (just like cars can be to cyclists). The tension is particularly high around boat ramps. Up lake is a totally different mindset, and you're likely to get a few surprised looks and friendly wave's if you're out on a big day up lake for an adventure. Up lake, a VHF radio is your best bet for any type of rescue or help, and there are forest service ranger boats up there on a regular basis. 

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Spicy. Pony. Head.

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Spicy. Pony. Head.

Made this little short film for the Bellingham Paddling Film Festival. Gusting wind to 50 mph, and beam seas to 6'. I ordered the "Spicy. Pony. Head." 


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Dreams, revisited.

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Dreams, revisited.

A little flashback to my Vancouver Island trip. Wow, what a beach this was on Nootka Island. I navigated into it through a punishing set of breakers on the outside, only to find a complicated and treacherous reef on the inside... and this after being absolutely battered and deep fried by the rebound surf for 30 miles prior. But once on the beach, heavenly place for lunch. After scarfing a PB&J sandwich and some Kind bars, off I went. I spent 20 minutes on that beach, but I've spent many an afternoon there in the white sand isolation in my imagination and memory since then... Some places do that to you. You visit them and leave, but they never leave you. 

 

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Vancouver Island by Surfski

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Vancouver Island by Surfski

Below is an extended trip report from my recent attempt at the circumnavigation record for Vancouver Island in late July of 2015. I made the attempt unassisted, meaning that I had to carry all of my own gear, water and food (with no resupply at any point). 

DAY 1: Sunday July 25th, 2015 At 7:30am on Sunday morning, I said my farewell to my good friend Paul who had agreed to drive me to the put in at Port Hardy. The drive to Port Hardy was sobering. As you wind your way north the island just keeps unfolding endlessly. And when you finally make it to Port Hardy after many hours on the highway, you are only at the tip of the diving board. 

The second sobering moment was loading my ski with 100,000 calories of food, 10L of water, and enough camping gear to stake a claim on the Klondike on my way home. Lifting a boat this heavy (130 pounds!) and walking it down the boat ramp is no small feat. Doing this in the surf zone was something I didn't even want to think about. I did my best, using two climbing slings to create a reliable and simple harness to lift the ski and walk it down the ramp. Once in the water, the boat moved remarkably well. Just don't expect to catch anything but the steepest runners in this puppy. 

As I left the marina in the fog, my mind settled into the day's work and I found my standard paddling rhythm quickly. I enjoyed clearing skies as I paddled against the current in the Goletas Channel, and made good time to Shushartie Bay where the current switched and I picked up my pace considerably, averaging 7mph as I headed out to meet the ocean. I paddled on the island side of the shore, planning to use the Tatnal Reefs in the event the Nawhitti Bar was an issue (it was not). I had planned to change my water supply at Cape Sutil, but was approached at landing by a black bear who I discovered was feeding on a carcass of some kind. Water would have to wait. 

Naturally I elected to keep paddling, arriving at Cape Scott at roughly 4pm very dehydrated and hot, but in high spirits and ready to face my first real challenge. I found conditions hectic and up to reputation with large, standing waves (10' faces) and some very confused water. My rough water preparation paid big dividends. I was able to make short work of the transition around the cape without any hesitation in the surfski and with only a few sea lions for an audience. However, the heat of day and short water supply caught up to me and I had to deal with a major bonk and a bit of heat exhaustion once I had rounded the cape. I was forced to head in far sooner then I would have liked, and camped at Guise Bay. 

Final approach in calm conditions only to find Cape Scott in a rather testy mood. 

Final approach in calm conditions only to find Cape Scott in a rather testy mood. 

Guise Bay is sheltered by reefs from the Ocean swell, and could pass for a tropical cove. 

A disappointing first day, but not a total disaster. That night however, my phone went completely bonkers and would randomly turn itself on and ring. It did this for six hours, and would wake me even though I had placed it in a small dry sack and buried it in the sand. Suspecting water as the culprit, I took the silica packets from my freeze dried meal and placed them with the phone in a small ziplock bag to try to help it recover. 

Guise Bay was tremendously beautiful, and surprisingly well attended by a mix of hikers and a couple of fellow kayakers. It was here that I met another paddler who was also traveling around the island, but without the pressure of a record attempt. I suspected he would enjoy his circumstances much more then myself! As a strange matter of chance, I would later run into his son in Tofino who asked me out of the blue if I happened to have seen his dad out there. Small world indeed. A side note on Guise Bay, the Tsunami debris from Japan was littered across the beach, and some of it had been repurposed to good effect as chairs, tables and even mooring balls for those looking for a game of beach volleyball. 

Day 2: Monday, July 26th I woke up at 4am utterly drained from my phone's antics and having slept very little. I set to figuring out a communication plan with my family should my phone completely fail. I was using my phone in tandem with an original DeLorme inReach which does not have a screen and must be paired with a smartphone for detailed communications. The device is a good one, very reliable and simple. However the tracking feature and battery life was a challenge, as a four hour tracking interval drained the batteries in just one day. In order to make my remaining batteries last for the entire trip I was forced to log my location at night without much communication back home. 

I was on the water by roughly 9am, another disappointment, and decided that Lawn Point was likely my best bet as a target for the day at roughly 50 miles away. Modest by my standards. 

Conditions were rough in the early morning with a beam swell, short period, and a wandering wind with lots of rebound on overhead waves. Skies were overcast with high clouds and temps in the low 60's. I quickly adjusted and found a fast pace as I set out south, averaging 6.5mph running with the current about two miles off shore and very much enjoying the cool conditions. 

I greatly prefer to paddle offshore for a handful of reasons. It makes going from point to point more efficient, and greatly reduces the rebound of the sea meeting the rocky shoreline. Less rebound means more boat run, and more boat run means more speed. Another aspect of paddling farther offshore is that the capes / points can be very technical, with tricky fast moving breaking waves that zoom into shore to meet the reefs and kelp beds. At times, it was far simpler to just paddle around them on the outside then risk being thumped inside or having to pause to consider my approach. I also quite like the feeling of being alone in the ocean. It is a strange form of freedom that I found in mountain climbing that energizes me in a way that few things in life can. In our modern, hemmed-in world, being truly alone is a very fine luxury. Finally, it's a lot of fun to sneak up to a boat full of sport fisherman several miles offshore and suddenly ask "HEY GUYS! WHICH WAY TO VICTORIA?!" at the last possible moment. They really love that. Trust me. 

Lawn Point looks exactly like a giant lawn as you approach from the water. Accessing the beach is a bit unnerving until you clear the reefs and kelp beds. I landed on the beach just as fog set in. That would have complicated navigating the reefs significantly. 

At around noon, the current switched and my pace slowed a bit to the low 5mph range. Decent, but much slower than I am accustomed to because of the severe weight of the boat. The wind built throughout the day, and became a stiff SW breeze by early afternoon along with a south western swell. I arrived at Lawn Point at roughly 4pm, feeling strong and tempted to continue due south to cross Brooks Peninsula in the evening. After contemplating the risk of an exposed crossing at night in unfamiliar territory with a formidable reputation, I decided to call it an early day and attempt to get a better night's sleep and an early start the next day. I found Lawn Point an iconic and beautiful location, but loaded with fresh bear signs and no water. I used my desalinator to good effect. 

The desalinator makes 1.3 gallons of water per hour of pumping, which with my water budget meant 2 hours per night to just make water. The device weighs 7.3 pounds. Not great. However, the act of taking water from the sea and converting it into drinkable water is right up there with human flight. I felt like I was robbing the world's greatest bank as I quietly pumped water from a tide pool in the dark of night to supply the next day's water. 

Day 3: Tuesday, July 27th My phone was in a much better mood, and was able to take a charge from my portable solar charger and stay turned off. Good dog! I slept very well, and had a visit from a bear and her cubs in the early morning hours as I made my breakfast. They calmly walked by my tent and paid me no heed as I held my breath with a death grip on my bear mace while the JetBoil quietly hissed. This may be the one time in my life when I was thankful to have a simple bowl of oatmeal instead of bacon and eggs for breakfast. 

Ominous clouds start to form over Brooks Peninsula at dawn. Will the weather improve or deteriorate? Time to roll the dice. 

At first light, a dense cloud started to form over the peninsula, making me thankful for the modern reality of GPS as I headed south in low visibility in search of the day's challenge. The swell remained south western, but had picked up significantly in size and period. It gave the ocean an erie, slow, heaving sensation. No wind. No sight of land. No sight of me. Just a crazy guy paddling in a gray, featureless room towards a place of great reputation. 

Brooks Peninsula and Solander Island in the distance. 

I arrived at Cape Cook at roughly 8:30am, just as the morning clouds lifted to confirm what my GPS had been telling me all morning was indeed true. This is Brooks! 

As is well documented, Brooks Peninsula has a strange, magnetic power and a curious rebounding wave effect that has sent many a sailor missing. I felt a bit like Indiana Jones as I committed to a center line between Cape Cook and Solander Island, and found conditions at first deceptively mild. The further I went, the weirder things got. Flat water would surge very quickly in a direction completely contrary to the swell and wind. And when that newly formed wave meets the swell, expect a fast ride upwards as the two waves throw you a party underneath your boat in the form of a pyramid shaped wave that is about the size of a modest house. It was a wild, fast ride, and this was a very mild day. This is what I had imagined, and hoped for, and I loved every second of it. 

As I rounded the cape proper and faced the east, I was somewhat dismayed and amused to see a vast sweep of coastline with roaring waves closing out the horizon in front of me. The swell direction, out of the south west, was setting off waves that looked like runaway mining trucks three miles offshore that were just huge and fast. I am sure a big wave surfer somewhere in Tofino is grinding his teeth as I type this. Sorry bruh!

As my eyes worked their way down the infinite coastline the clouds parted and a light breeze picked up behind me and the swell became more westerly. It was if a spell had been broken, and my spine tingled at the hope that I might get some usable wind. I made note of the very distant shoreline, checked my GPS and decided that an open ocean crossing of roughly 25 miles in such fair weather was worth the risk in distance gains. But before I set off, I made the decision to attempt to go ashore at Nordstrom Creek to get out of my wetsuit (I was now very hot in the full sun) and change my water bag before committing to a very long, open ocean crossing. 

As the big waves went off around me, I used the ski for a couple of very fast rides into the beach towards Nordstrom Creek by choosing smaller waves and riding in on the back of one of the big ones. Committing in a place like this. Yet a little surf experience at complicated shorebreaks can pay big dividends in situations where the speed and complexity of the water is overwhelming. The key for myself is to simplify the situation by only focusing on one wave at a time. Ignore the rest and do your best to get the timing right.  

Once on the the inside there is enough of a reef to cancel most of the waves, but three to four footers were still coming through and dumping onshore with very fast frequency with boulders and kelp beds mixed in to keep it true to the spirit of Vancouver Island (Aka a technical, high stakes landing in the middle of nowhere that will leave you in trouble if you get it wrong and break something). I timed the last wave to perfection, hopping out of the ski and grabbing the bow and letting the wave swing the tail towards the shore so I can then run the the ski up the beach with the nose on the sand. I use this technique because the awkward moments after a surf landing are very vulnerable to rider and steed, and my ski has an extra large surf rudder under the stern that prevents a traditional shore landing. 

I executed this approach like the Red Baron himself, and enjoyed a euphoric, silly moment of relief as I took a deep bow for my imaginary audience. And in a rare moment of truly divine humor, a long legged and shaggy bear casually walked out of the forest and walked directly towards me. And then it sat down and just stared at me, tilting its head sideways as we stood looking at each other for a long, awkward moment. Both of us marveling at the insanity of what was unfolding in this very isolated place. Like a Farside comic that might have a tragically dark punchline.   

I snapped out of it and hustled back out into waves. Hoping the bear wouldn't be up for a swim as I calmly opened the back hatch between waves, switched the water bag and took off my neoprene paddling jacket, keeping a close eye on the shore. As I did this, the bear started to walk out into the surf towards me. I slammed the hatch shut hopped on the ski and managed to leave skid marks on the waves as I peeled out of there like a Clint Robinson wanabee. I checked the transcript from my mental tape and it reads: "SHIT... SHIT! SHIT FASTER SHIT SHIT SHIT!!!" 

"Never mistake a clear view for a short journey." -Cowboy Proverb

Once past the backline I took a deep breath, ate some lunch, and had a laugh at the absurdity of what had just happened. I also made some mental notes about being more patient on beach landings and to remember to request more prayers from friends and family because I had burned through their entire supply in one morning. I was ready to get back to work and set off towards the far skyline of Kyuquot Sound and hopefully make camp at a promising location called Rugged Point.  

At some point the scale of Vancouver Island is simply unavoidable. It will confront you and break you down. I learned this repeatedly on this trip. Muscling past yet another cape, only to stare into the fading landscape as it blends into the next horizon. This time was a bit different though and after paddling for four hours against a strong offshore current towards my landmark target it just didn't appear any closer. The GPS assured me it was, but it was taking forever as I plodded along in what felt like the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I turned around to have a final look at the Brooks Peninsula, and it was still very close.

*sigh* "No one mentioned that Brooks would follow me." 

It's a funny thing how temptation finds you in even in the remote places. I completed the crossing and made my way through the outer reefs of Kyuquot sound in the hot sun towards Union Island, feeling parched and tired from a long day out. A fishing boat sped up to me and came to a sudden stop. The guys said they had seen me crossing in the open water earlier, and were curious if I wanted a beer!? They were concerned to see someone that far off shore, and had kept tabs on me as I crossed. Not so alone after all eh? I declined the offer of the beer, explaining that I was on a mission around the island and could take no assistance, however frosty and lovely. The kindness of total strangers here in Canada is not lost on me. 

Rugged point is both rugged, and wonderfully beautiful. 

An Epic boat for an epic journey. 

Eventually, the miles gave way and I steamed into the white sand coves of Rugged Point, where I had hopes of finding a stream and not having to make water to save some time. Upon landing, I was simply overwhelmed yet again by the endless beauty of this great island. As I marched up the beach, dragging my poor ski by the nose in the sand, I noticed a number of footprints. In particular a set of footprints from a child that appeared just minutes old. It brought a smile to my face to think of my own children one day running around this very beach, and I made a promise to myself to return as I set up my camp for the night. 

I scouted for water, and could not find the stream indicated on my map in the fading light. So after dinner I went to find a good location to desalinate water. This is a bit tricky, as on a wide beach you must be able to pump water away from the surf and waves. I found what I thought was a good rock, and started to pump water. Unfortunately, the location was not good and the desalinator intake sucked up rocks and sand, which tore the fragile membrane inside the pump and rendered it useless. I suddenly had to adjust to the reality that my trip was now entirely dependent on finding fresh water in a severe drought year. I also had the even less attractive idea set in that I now had the privilege of lugging a seven pound, $2600 paperweight in the nose of my boat for the next 500 or so miles. First class white guy problems, every last one of them. 

Day 4: Wednesday, July 29th I got up early to head out in search of water. The moon made for a bright, clear morning and I was in high spirits. After an extensive search, I found the stream bed in the forest. It was dry except for a few deep, still holes that had numerous signs of wildlife visitation. But there it was, water! As I began to treat the water I made note of the various tracks in the soil. Coyote, Racoon, Deer and... oh, a Mountain Lion! As the significance of these tracks sank in I had a very still, quiet feeling that I was being watched. Chiding myself for my imagination, I carried on with my task. But I couldn't shake the feeling and was happy to exit the dark forest with my prize and hide intact as the sun rose.  

Sea sores and waterlogged feet. Sorry lads. 

I was on the water by 9:00am and felt good physically, and was motivated to soldier on despite my setbacks and the increasing number of sea sores (saltwater abrasions) that were beginning to appear all over my body. I use a mix of body glide and petroleum jelly to try to limit them. The petroleum jelly does a good job of slowing the waterlogging of skin. The abrasions that this will cause are similar to 2nd degree burns. Petroleum jelly is crucial for your hands that suffer particularly badly, but one must be careful to put the petroleum on well before one grabs a paddle shaft. This works for the first 6 to 8 hours, but after that it wears off as the friction and miles pile up. Anything that has skin to textile contact (even neoprene!) will abrade in the saltwater. More so skin on skin. High quality paddling clothing and skin tight rash-guards will help, but all bets are off when you are out for 12 hours or more for several days on end and cracking the whip physically. The other aspect of sea sores is preventing them from getting infected. Easier said then done. I was careful to save a little freshwater for a sponge bath at the end of each day, and to use clean bandages and Neosporin at night. This eats a lot of time, but its a mandatory care regiment to keep your body running strong for so many days out in a harsh environment. 

My target for this day was to clear the Hesquiat peninsula, and make my way to a camp at Hot Spring Cove or possibly Flores Island Provincial Park where I would likely have good access to water. This task proved very difficult, with a strong current pushing against a light, on again / off again NW wind and a large western swell. There were times when I made great progress, and this was the first time on my entire trip that I managed to catch ride on a handful of waves resembling a downwind paddle. But otherwise, I found the seas confused, bouncy and with very little directional energy to work with. Just mile after mile of hard paddling in messy, overhead water. 

Quick lunch break and changing my water bags. The number of beaches sheltered by reefs is remarkable, but sometimes getting past the reefs can be a bit hectic with crashing waves and plenty of rebound to test your skills. 

At one point I was paddling past a buoy offshore of Nuchatliz, noting the strange mooing sound that it makes as it sways in the swell. I recall staring at the buoy and reminding myself that sharks often hover near buoys in California. "Good thing to remember. Yup!" And then I glanced down to check my compass and noticed a shark swimming with me directly beneath my boat. Silently shadowing a strange new fish. I stopped paddling and just stared, totally absorbed like a child at the aquarium in the moment. The shark then swam up beside me, tilted its head out of the water and stared at me with a jet black marble eye before disappearing. I noticed a large number of gills, and figured it was probably a six gill shark and was roughly 6 feet long. Not big enough to worry me, but maybe it was someone's little sister? ONWARD!  

As the day and miles rolled by, I approached the Hesquiat Peninsula at roughly 6:00pm feeling tired, but motivated to make the most of the day. However, the western swell made this a very demanding and dangerous crossing, as the breakers appeared to form three to four miles offshore, and zoomed towards the reefs closing out the entire bay. I thought I would be clever and save some miles by taking a tight, inside line. Upon doing this however, I was suddenly in a very dangerous spot as the reefs here are maze like and sometimes do not go all the way through and are loaded with kelp beds. And on this particular day 20 foot barreling waves were making easy work of the reefs, blasting over them and into a washing machine that made my local 520 bridge rebound look absolutely adorable by contrast. With the sickly, white lighthouse staring me down me like a witch tower out of the Tolkien trilogy, I delicately alternated between paddling over and through the tops of the breaking waves, and then turning back into them to surf down their backs to pick up speed as I tip toed my way through the gauntlet. After punching through an oncoming wave I took a deep breath and sprinted into the next rushing blow. I was so thankful to be in a solid, stable surfski as I was paddling at my absolute threshold in an absolute no fall zone. In my climbing days, we'd call this being run out on mank gear with a bad case of shaky leg. 

Once clear of the lighthouse and safely past the backline, I had a difficult decision to make. The wind was picking up quite a bit, and I really wanted to make my goal of Hot Spring cove which I could see roughly ten miles away. I had at this point paddled 62 miles of rugged, open ocean. But the sun was setting, and it meant with some degree of certainty that I would be paddling an open water downwind in the dark. On the other hand, given what I had just gone through and feeling rattled, Hesquiat had a menacing, dark presence and I simply loathed the idea of a camp here. Remembering that the mileage is always greater than it appears, I reluctantly decided to head into Hesquiat bay reasoning that I could make a fast, efficient camp and exit in the morning. 

As I paddled into the bay past a feature known as "Anton's Spit", I noticed an old sailing ship anchored just off shore. I wondered if perhaps it had been run aground there, as it looked to me in the fading light to be in rough shape and in shallow water. I thought it worth a closer look, and was surprised to see that the ship was occupied, and had a thick black smoke coming from a chimney pipe below deck. It's wooden boards had a slick, black oily finish with a tattered tarp and old dingy on the back that gave it a creepy vibe. I joked to myself that it was good to know Captain Sparrow had found a proper place to camp in between films. 

The bay itself has a shallow water sandbar that enables a strange wave to form very suddenly out of the still water; breaking and then rebounding as it rips across the the bay. Like a wake of a ghost ship from an age past. If I were in an empty ski, this would be a very fun wave... but not tonight. Not now. This shit was getting old. I paddled up to the shore in the dark to the location listed on my map as a good camp, and realized that the shoreline of the bay was made up large, basketball sizes rocks jumbled on top of each other. I muttered "What next?" to myself as I contemplated briefly heading back out to sea in the dark, but then decided against it and to try to get the boat up on the beach without damaging it. It was here that I was nailed by an oncoming wave at the worst possible moment and instantly regretted asking "what next?" just moments before. It was a tremendous effort to keep my footing and I nearly dropped my beloved, loaded boat on these rocks which would have been a very severe blow. In saving the boat however with my last ounce of strength, I felt a sickening tear deep in my shoulder muscle and cried out. Not able to set the boat down in the waves, but not able to walk either. Just standing there. Frozen in a battle with myself. I took a few deep breaths, focused, and let my feet carefully try to find a solid footing in between the stones as I balanced on the slippery rocks and waves. It worked. I staggered step by agonizing step over the course of ten minutes out of the waves until I could set the boat down ever so carefully on the rocks. I then used my haul bag and raced two loads of gear out of the boat up the beach to my camp. After retrieving the now empty boat and bringing it to the shore, I realized I had missed a very nice, sandy beach. Ahah, maybe next time... 

I made a hasty camp under the light of a full moon. I was physically waisted from the day, demoralized, and my shoulder muscle throbbed as I used the last of my fresh water to make a quick dinner. I debated not making dinner, but knew that I would need the calories to face the day to come. My map indicated a lake nearby, so I reasoned that I might be able to find it and draw water in the morning.

As I fell asleep, I heard a pack of wolves howling in to each other in the forest and summed my inner Jeff Bridges to mutter a gruff "Fine. Come see me. I'll be here." Sure enough, they did. I was woken up by their bickering as they went through my hastily made camp at 3am that morning. I decided to try and scare them off, and used my camera flash and a deep shout to send them running. Maybe not the most delicate way to make friends, but I was in a very bad mood and decided it was my day to be the bigger badder wolf. It had it's intended effect. Almost to the degree of comedy. I felt like a total jerk as I fell back to sleep. A big happy jerk. An important note: I had taken to the time to secure my food well outside my camp in a bear bag hung from a tree. As a guy who's spent a lot of time in the mountains, there are some rules you just don't break. Ever. 

Day 5: Thursday, July 30th I awoke just before dawn very tired, very sore and very thirsty. I grabbed my light, ate some kippered snacks and choked down crackers, nuts and dried apricots for breakfast and broke camp as I wrestled with my morale. I did my best to cheer up, noting the fine weather and the potential to rebound. But my inner Gollum called my bluff. "This is not going well. We're losing precious. Piece by piece. Minute by minute this is slipping away from us Precious." Everything was hard. Packing was hard. Moving was hard. Thinking was hard. Complaining was hard. I briefly made a foray in search of the lake and water, and after taking a bad fall in the thick forest, I decided to retreat and just leave.

Getting on the water, I was thankful to be out of the ocean swell in a flat, quiet bay. It hurt a LOT to paddle, and as I slowly limped out of the bay I dared a final look back to Hesquiat. It was there that I realized I had paddled past some houses that night and not seen them. Crazy. 

I entertained the idea of trying to rally and make it Ucluelet. But the more I paddled, the more I realized that that my strength was ebbing and my sea sores were getting quite bad, making it very painful to just sit in the ski. I knew that this was likely the beginning of the end of my attempt. Or maybe even the middle of the end. I had mixed feelings. The fighter wants to go on because the fight is still on. The tired, broken man knows sometimes dreams are just dreams. I chew on these thoughts and decide to make my way towards Tofino and try not to come to a hasty conclusion. Just paddle and see if things improve as the day progresses.

Then then wind comes from the southwest, and pushes steadily against a NW swell and makes the sea rise up in hissing white caps. I should care a lot about this, but I do not. I am numb to each slap in the face by the oncoming waves. I limp on, puttering forward. Not advancing as I have trained myself to do, but not stopping as I have trained myself to do. Defiant. Willfull. Pissed. Tired. Lonely. Wounded. Defiant. 

Eventually I slip past the reefs and into the wind shelter between Flores Island and Bartlett Island in the early afternoon, and the beauty and still water of Clayoquot Sound seduces me. The sun is shining. The air is warm. And then, a family of gray whales surround me as I destroy a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. They are in a good mood and now I am in a good mood. My Avatar moment comes screeching to a halt as a jet boat roars up stuffed full of tourist in matching fluorescent orange jump suits. They wait jealously outside my holy wale circle, impatiently glaring at me. I am right in the middle in their shot, and they paid good money for this. Asshole. I casually paddle to the back of the whale boat, where I commend the warden for his work with the inmates. My joke earns his empty, glaring stare. Time to go. 

I limp into Whitesand cove, and am greeted warmly by some fellow kayakers and a hiker. I learn that there is water in the nearby village and limp my way into town. I also make contact with my wife, and let her know that I have found a good, sheltered spot and will spend the day resting to see if my shoulder is workable. I know it's not, but after years of working towards this goal, I owe it to myself and those who believed I could do this before pulling the plug. 

Day 6: Friday, July 31st The next day I make a quick study of my injuries, and decide that this is the end. I spend the day cleaning wounds, stretching sore muscles and soaking up the sunshine and getting to know my fellow beach friends. All of us come from different places, but are from the same tribe. Doing our best to live good lives that we think count for something. I make coordinate with my family, who have worked tirelessly to make arrangements for a pickup in Tofino. Incredibly I learn that my dad is flying out from Montana and then driving my truck to me. And other family have offered to do the same. Damn, its nice to be so loved. Damn I love my family back. 

Day 7: Saturday, August 1: I head into Tofino in the morning and make good time on the fast currents, despite my shoulder. I have been offered a tip to head to the Kayaker's Inn, as they are very friendly to expedition paddlers and will likely let me stash my boat on their racks. Friendly was an understatement. I was greeted by a guide on the beach, and then introduced to Liam and a Tasi named Meg, who offered me a fabulous cappuccino and a hot shower.

I wandered around town the rest of the day in a dazed culture shock. Trying to adjust to the sudden influx of people, commercial zeal and cocktail of languages that is Tofino. 

And then, I realized that I already missed the wild, beautiful places that I had just worked so hard to leave. Imagine that.

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Vancouver Island Circumnavigation 2015

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Vancouver Island Circumnavigation 2015

As I write this my garage is bursting with gear. And my heart with anticipation. It's the eve of my attempt to break the circumnavigation record of Vancouver Island. A dream that started as a curious, smoldering smoke three years ago in the dark places of my imagination has become a raging inferno of intent in the light of day that consumes every waking moment. Training. Racing. Pushing harder. Digging deeper. Ratcheting up the pressure and paddling ever tippier craft in bigger conditions for the opportunity to get better. Every moment a catalyst to become an experience that makes me stronger. Faster. Smarter. Meaner. Hungrier. Long days that mutate and become heinous grinds past multiple bonks, sunburns and the reasonable norms of society. 50 miles. 60. Then 70 and now 80. Flying past every normative constraint into the land of driven obsession. Never enough, and all for this moment. It feels good to be here, and to be paddling a one of a kind touring surfski made for me by my sponsor, Epic Kayaks, for this very mission.  

The questions that were there in the very beginning stand now to be answered. Am I ready? What will I face? Am I strong enough? Will I fail? Will I make it? Is this worth it? Time to find out.

I'll be using a DeLorme inReach as I make my attempt, entirely unassisted. For you vicarious types, feel free to follow along here: https://share.delorme.com/NicholasCryder

A special thanks to Greg Barton, Jim Teshura and my amazing friends, family and sponsors for believing in me as I talked endlessly and paddled obsessively. Hope to make you proud.

And finally, for you lovers of fast, arty looking boats, enjoy below.

 

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Ride the tides: Steilacoom to Seattle

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Ride the tides: Steilacoom to Seattle

Route: Steilacoom + Narrows + Vashon + Bainbridge + Edmonds + West Point Lighthouse + Elliot Bay Marina (74 miles)

Decided to make a very scenic and fun trip from Steilacoom to Seattle using the tides and winds in my favor. Total distance was a bit over 74 miles in 10 hours and 16 minutes (7.2 mph). Had fast, strong currents and morning diurnal winds for the ride up through the narrow passages, and then made it to Edmonds just in time for the tidal switch and afternoon Northerlies to blow me back down to Seattle where a storage unit and U-haul was waiting for my second workout of the day. Ugh! 

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Just another day at the beach.

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Just another day at the beach.

Worked with another paddling friend on beach launches at Ocean Shores. A challenging, flat and wide beach with tricky wave patterns / cross swell, a brisk 7 second period, quartering wind at 15, and a fast offshore current that will make your ski go for a solo run if you loose it (instead of heading back to the beach). The backline seemed to stretch forever, and had dumping waves due to hidden sandbars. Spicy, but fun day out. 

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Photo Essay: Surfski Montana

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Photo Essay: Surfski Montana

The last few weeks have been a blur of paddling in unique and beautiful reservoirs and lakes throughout Montana, Idaho and Wyoming. Some days featured 100 degree heat, downwinders, altitudes above 10k feet, and even a very memorable lightening and hailstorm in Bighorn Canyon at the end of a 64 mile paddle. All of them boasted stunning landscapes, and below are a few favorite photos from my journeys. 


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Paddling with Giants: Bighorn Canyon, Montana

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Paddling with Giants: Bighorn Canyon, Montana

TRIP REPORT: Bighorn Canyon National Recreation Area, June 9th 2015

A big part of my training is focused on building up my mileage capacity without sacrificing too much speed. In the early part of my training cycle I am looking to paddle new, fun locations that offer very flat water so I can go to my physical limit in relative safety and also minimize the chance of injury. As I make progress, with the goal to add in progressively more challenging water without trimming speed or mileage. Easier said then paddled!

My journey has brought me to Montana, my homeland, where I am spending the next two weeks doing big miles, and cross training above 10,000' in altitude. Yesterday I had the good fortune to paddle 51 miles in the amazing Bighorn Canyon Recreation Area. 

I launched at Barry's Landing, and paddled northeast towards Fort Smith. A very long, hard day in 100º F heat. I focused on staying "light on my hands" in order to keep my stroke rate, and my speed, consistent throughout the day. Wrapped up the paddle averaging 7 mph, with no bonking, no cramping and staying solid on my form paddling my ski with an extra small DK flatwater rudder. I did however earn some wicked blisters after recently changing my grip surface on my paddle.  

Scouting the south end of Big Horn Lake. The mosquito crowd is one I like to avoid, so I decided to put in at Barry's Landing instead. Good call! 

It's remarkably hard to balance a tippy ski when all you want to do is look up! 

Endless miles of cliffs and boulder shoreline, and I managed to find a warm, sunny beach for lunch. SCORE! 

Time to toughen up, kids. It's only gonna get worse from here on. 

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In search of beyond.

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In search of beyond.

With the 2015 Ski to Sea race now behind me, my regular racing season now comes to a close with a handful of surprising wins, and many more near misses and silly blunders. It's a bit strange to write that, because for most who paddle in climates North of the equator, the best and biggest races of the season are just around the corner. 

But for me, my attention now pivots to the irregular season, as I am preparing for my attempt to break the circumnavigation record of Vancouver Island. The island is roughly 700 nautical miles (1100km) in circumference, and offers it's guests a true test of their seamanship and athleticism with vast exposed coastal wilderness, numerous technical cruxes from surging narrows, pounding surf to the exposure of the open ocean itself. Roads, habitation, and communication are few and far between. Heck, there are even bears. And wolves. 

The current record is held by Stephen Henry, who pulled it off in just under 13 days and represents a very high standard indeed. It's one I hope to contribute to by making my attempt entirely unassisted, and is to my knowledge a standing problem yet to be solved due to the sheer scale of the undertaking and the numerous variables that can derail even the most skilled and prepared attempts.  

It's natural to approach the subject of a speed record by focusing on the central issue itself by asking the question "how fast and how far can I go?". That question gets a bit more interesting when I contemplate bigger questions concerning the sport of expedition paddling itself. Questions like "where are we going as a sport, and what does it really mean to break the record?"

The parallels between expedition paddling, and expedition climbing are numerous and readily apparent. Much like climbing in the 1980's faced an existential crisis when grappling with what it truly means to climb fantastically huge heaps of ice and rock, so does the water-sport community today when contemplating paddling around them. Central to the quandary is the inherent ability of technology, gear, and ever increasing emergency resources to round the sharp edges of off every adventure. Taken even further, there is a real risk that the big, noble challenges we face can be reduced to nothing more than engineering problems. 

For climbers, the answers for the great problems of the Himalaya were answered collectively by guys like Reinhold Messner, Mugs Stump, Mark Twight and Alex Lowe who set very high standards with bold ascents of previously unthinkable lines. In the process, they helped articulate a new ethic known now as alpinism that inspired a new generation of athletes with even bolder ideas of how mountains could be climbed around the world. Anything with an ism is typically heady stuff loaded with philosophy and artfully worded rhetoric, and alpinism does not disappoint. But where alpinism veers away from precious arguments around the role of technology and actually picks up conceptual steam is in its central argument that less is more. 

There is also the numbing threat of repetition in pursuit of reputation. I can't help but wonder what Anderl Heckmair and Ludwig Vörg would have thought of Ueli Steck running by? They, like us, wouldn't have seen him coming. But once he did merely repeating his feat, while an enormous challenge, would ultimately just be a form of imitation. Flattering but not exactly work worthy of the Louvre.  

Ultimately any conversation around ethics and the aesthetic of the athletic pursuit will be informed and animated by the underpinnings of your motivations. The question such endeavors naturally raise shift from "how, what, when and where?" to "why?". We all have our own reasons. If it's the summit that matters most, then any means can conceivably find itself justifying the end. Want to top out on Everest? Well then it's possible that you needn't even climb, as there are now helicopters capable of landing you on the very top. Chances are you can even bring your selfie stick. 

If however, adventure is what you seek, the journey becomes as valuable as the destination itself as the cliche' rightly informs us. For myself, adventure is merely the dogged pursuit of the unknown by artfully escaping the limits of the known. Yet the allure of the unknown is more than the irresistible pull of the horizon and what might be just beyond. And its even more than discovering the limits of my own physical capabilities or slipping away from the daily grind. Adventure and the pursuit of the unknown has the unique power to bring equilibrium between visceral risk and meaningful reward by making known who I am made to be as an adventurer, husband, father and man. And that to me is something worthwhile and truly meaningful. 

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Surfski Touring in the San Juan Islands

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Surfski Touring in the San Juan Islands

TRIP REPORT: Surfski Touring to Sucia Island in the San Juan Islands of Washington State. 

My friends and I put in at Fairhaven with fair skies and light wind. We then paddled across Bellingham Bay to Portage Island, and then up to the Northern tip of Lummi Island where we took a quick pause on a beach before crossing the Rosario straight. 

While on the beach, the land owner came down to see what the fuss was all about with a booming shout of "WHAT DO WE HAVE HERE!?!" at the very moment one of my friends was relieving himself. Feeling a bit like Peter Rabbit, I greeted him with a quick handshake and introduced us as a "traveling spectacle of spandex!" to break the ice. It worked, he laughed out loud and we ended up having a pleasant chat with a man who has lived his entire life on the island. Spend enough time on the water, and you'll soon know you need beach access to regroup on long days. I am typically careful to empathize with the land owner, as the law is on their side and they pay the taxes to prove it. A little understanding goes a long way, and I have met some really kind people over the years who have become very frustrated with large groups of guided kayakers who often bring entitled attitudes and leave trash and feces on their beaches.  

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The wind shifted, and we enjoyed following seas as we paddled into the San Juan archipelago. We covered roughly 21 miles in 2:54 of paddling, averaging just a tick under 7.0mph. Not bad considering each person was carrying close to 50lbs of gear and food. 

Upon arriving at the island, it's appeal was immediately apparent with coastal reefs and tide pools hemmed in by jumbled stone cliffs and wind twisted pine. There are numerous coves and bays on the island that offer shelter from the frequent storms that blow in.

The name "Sucia" translates literally as foul, as legend has it the first Spanish explorers found it rather irksome to safely visit and harbor. Either that, or in a stroke of genius and foresight they camouflaged a very pleasant island with an unpleasant name. 

We camped in the charming Fox Cove bay and were dismayed to learn that the water supply for the island was not yet turned on. This of course meant we would have to charm our fellow yachting guests into giving us some of their supply. The task proved remarkably easy, and in addition to water we were offered cold beers and a great conversation around a fire that night. In a strange twist of fate, one of the people we met was from my hometown of Billings, Montana. We had a great laugh, and in typical Montana fashion set about figuring out who we knew in common. Quite a few people it turns out. 

Saturday the clear skies continued, this time with the addition of significant westerly wind blowing close to 20mph throughout the day. I typically try to bring one great meal on a trip, and treated my friends to breakfast burritos. My friends elected to head west to explore more islands and then perhaps surf back if the wind held. I chose instead to do downwind laps near the island in the good weather and wind, and practice remounting my ski in the rough water and relative safety of the island. As I suspected, the wind soon eased up and the waves laid flat. This called for a proper nap in the warm sunshine. 

On the the third day, a storm blew in packing 30 mph wind with a strong easterly component. We knew we'd have our hands full with loaded surfskis paddling beam in confused seas and very technical conditions. We were not wrong. Our plan was to paddle from Sucia Island to Orcas Island in search of wind shadow in the lee of Island and then "possibly" surf with the wind down the Rosario straight back to the north side of Lummi Island.  

As soon as we put in and departed the island, we had a stiff reality check with one of my friends taking a prolonged swim and difficult remount about a mile offshore. I made the crossing to Orcas as planned, while my two friends turned back to regroup on Sucia. We coordinated by radio, and 20 more miles in these conditions was simply not going to happen. The guys were able to score a boat ride to haul us and our gear back to Bellingham (small craft advisory be damned!) with a very kind local named Robbie who happened to be sheltering in Fox Cove with us. Having a brother named Robbie, I've yet to meet one I don't like. 

Late winter / early spring in the San Juan's is not to the time to expect sunshine and lollypops on the open water. We knew heading in that we would see challenging conditions, and we embraced it. 

As Yvonne Chouinard famously said, "For me, when everything goes wrong – that’s when adventure starts.” Adventure indeed!

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Rough water crossing, San Juan Islands

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Rough water crossing, San Juan Islands

Just back from my three day surfski touring trip in the San Juan Islands. This is a spicy little segment from my voyage, crossing from Sucia to Orcas Island in some pretty rough water.  

One of the questions I am asked most about using a V12 as a touring platform: "How does it do in rough water?" Pretty darn well I'd say. This is not to say that what you see above is easy - it wasn't. It's a bit like juggling on a tight rope while a silver back gorilla throws punches at you. But the long range speed advantages of a touring in a fast surfski are very distinct.

 

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Touring the San Juan Islands by surfski.

Sucia Island, just north of Orcas Island in the San Juan archipelago. 

Sucia Island, just north of Orcas Island in the San Juan archipelago. 

We have it pretty good here in the Pacific Northwest. Within two hours of windshield time of Seattle, one can sample a truly envious array of options in pursuit of your weekend dose of adrenaline. The North Cascades, Mount Rainier, the Pacific Ocean, the arid landscapes of the Columbia River Gorge or the wine country and alpine peaks surrounding Lake Chelan are all within reach. The list of improbable but awesome options goes on and on and on.  

This weekend some paddling friends and I are heading into the San Juan Islands in our touring surfskis. The San Juan's are a unique archipelago of islands that exist in distinct Mediterranean like climate, but despite their close proximity to the Pacific Ocean and it's seemingly endless river of moisture laden wind currents, they are in the rain shadow of Vancouver Island and the Olympic Peninsula and have a distinct and dry landscape. Not to be mistaken for a tranquil place, the islands boast strong wind and significant currents in the perfect trifecta of the Rosario Strait, the Strait of Georgia and Strait of Juan De Fuca - collectively known as the Salish Sea. And on the outer coast lovingly referred to as the "graveyard of the Pacific" as over 700 ships and 2000 lives have been lost here. There is always something going on with the weather and water here, and it's typically on the harsh side. Our forecast calls for a little wind, in the 20mph range, which could make for a difficult exit on Sunday, but not too crazy. 

The San Juan Islands are also a tremendous place to sight whales, and there are numerous resident Orca pods. This time of year the Gray whales are also migrating through the area. High hopes! 

 

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60 Seconds into the wind.

Took an old V10 out in steady 20mph wind with confused waves today for kicks and giggles. Just need quick hands and to remember to check the steering / footbrace before heading out. 

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