Peter goes on a long kayak trip: paddling around Vancouver Island
On July 7 I set out to circumnavigate Vancouver Island in a kayak, by myself. I decided to write a thing about how it went. Both as an update to my community, and because the few written accounts I found online of people who had done the same were helpful for me in planning my own trip.
I meant for this to be pretty short. It’s not. As I wrote this, it just kept getting longer. I guess I had a lot to say. Alas.
Part 1: The East Coast
The inside coast of the island is protected from the open ocean, and has lots of big and little islands that provide protection from wind. And long, narrow channels that funnel (increase) winds and lead to high currents. There are towns/villages pretty often, and lots of cruisers/sailboats around.
My daily routine was pretty heavily influenced by currents. Almost every day, there was a channel or set of tidal rapids that need to be paddled at slack tide for safety, or with the current running in my favour for practicality. That could mean getting on the water anywhere between 5am and noon, depending on how far there was to paddle and when slack tide was.
Travel Buddy: Emily
This is Emily, she’s a rad lady from New Hampshire. On the 3rd night of my trip, she rolled into my campsite at 8:30pm. She was paddling from Seattle to Alaska. We chatted for a while and agreed to meet for dinner the next day at a floating pub in Nanaimo harbour.
We wound up travelling to Port Hardy together, where I turned West, and she carried on North. Emily grew up going on long trips, teaches land-based education programs at a Waldorf school, and has done some pretty serious ocean and river paddling trips on the East coast and in Alaska. I wound up learning a lot from paddling with her, talking about the weather and water conditions together, and watching how she manages her gear and food on trip. Also fishing.
Motorized Assistance
On the morning of Day 5, Emily and I set off to paddle from Newcastle Island in Nanaimo harbour, Snuneymuxw Territory. Winds were forecast to pick-up in the late morning, so we got a fairly early start, starting to paddle around 6:30am. As we left the shelter of nearby Protection Island, the headwind picked up to around 15 knots (~30km/h) pretty suddenly. The more we pulled around to the exposed side of the island, the higher the wind got and the slower we were moving. After an 1h15min we had travelled only 2km (we later would average 5–6km per hour), and we weren’t even out into the fully exposed part of the Strait. We pulled back onto Newcastle, and decided to wait until the afternoon, when winds were supposed to calm down. By late morning the winds were stronger, the marine weather forecast was no longer predicting a let-up in winds, and the weather station we were planning to paddle by that day was blowing 33 knots (60 km/h). The whitecaps we could see out in the Strait were huge, and we both agreed we shouldn’t paddle.
As we looked at the long term weather forecast, it was looking like we probably wouldn’t be able to paddle for several days. Typically, in the summer in the Strait of Georgia, winds die down in the afternoon, and that pattern wasn’t predicted. We started to talk about staying on Newcastle for several days. It’s a very developed campsite with street lamps, an ice cream stand, bike rentals, and families playing bocce ball. So early on in the trip, spending several (based on the forecast, potentially 4–5 days?) basically car camping, was really not what either of us wanted. As we looked at our options, I decided to ask for some help. I called my Dad, who is supportive and generous with his time, and he agreed to give us a ride past the most exposed part of the Strait, dropping us off near Campbell River.
Emotionally, it was a tough decision to make. It kind of felt like cheating. I had set out to kayak around the island, and seeking motorized assistance wasn’t part of the original plan. In the end, something Emily said really resonated: “We’re on vacation! How often do you get 7 weeks off of work?”. I set out to kayak in the wilderness, and spending several days basically car camping was neither. I later came to feel really good about the decision. That said, I am also careful not to say that I paddled around the whole Island. Other people (including around 7–8 other people this summer) work really hard to circumnavigate using only human-power, and I want to respect that accomplishment.
Incidentally, that stretch of coast between Nanaimo and Campbell River is supposed to be the most boring part , so I don’t feel like I missed a lot.
Unplugging
I grew up doing trips at summer camp, where we didn’t even bring watches on trip, let alone phones. So, it’s always been really natural for me to be out of contact while I am on trip. On this trip, I brought my smartphone to use as a camera, and left it on airplane mode pretty much the whole time. A couple times in towns I called my parents to say “hi”. I also brought an inReach to use in emergencies. It also paired with my phone via Bluetooth to turn my phone into a GPS.
More winds
Winds are predominantly from the Northwest in the summer on the BC Coast. They enter the channels on the East coast of the Island, and as they are funneled into narrow stretches of water, pick up speed. The worst is in Johnstone Strait, where it wasn’t uncommon to hear 30–40 knot (~55–75km/h) headwinds being reported. We kept to side channels behind some protection from islands as much as we could, and as we approached Sunderland Channel, the last side channel before you have to paddle in Johnstone Strait, the winds picked up again seriously. For 4 days winds were blowing at least 20 knots (37 km/h) against us, often higher. We set up camp in a protected bay down a side channel, watched the whitecaps from the beach, and monitored the marine weather forecast. I slept in, read a lot, had fires, and picked the abundant huckleberries. I practiced rolling my kayak in the bay, went for day paddle (which was quickly aborted, very large and scary waves directly outside the bay), did laundry in the creek, and made rock sculptures. There was a black bear sharing the beach with us, and on our last day it adorably rubbed itself on a log down the beach.
Winds let up; Dolphins.
After 4 days, we finally got a bit of let up from the winds, only 10–20 knots! We got on the water by 4:45am to make the most of the calmer morning winds, and paddled 40km with a strong headwind for most of the time. The most magical thing happened a few hours into the paddle. We’d seen harbour porpoises 1 or 2 at a time since we got North of Campbell River. I noticed what I thought were a couple of porpoises far off on my left. Then I noticed there were a lot of them, then I realized they were leaping out of the water (not typical harbour porpoise behaviour). Within a minute, a pod of 30 dolphins were swimming all around us, sometimes jumping out of the water in 4-dolphin formations, fanning out in a semi-circle. I just kept gasping in awe and joy. I said to Emily “That whole 4 days of waiting for the winds was worth it just for that.”
Pushing North
Once we were no longer windbound, Emily and I were both ready to move. We both had limited time (we both had to be back at work in late August, and Emily was getting married when she got home) and were excited for the latter half of our trips. Once we got past our windbound campsite, we were in Port Hardy within 4 days and parted ways.
Boat
This is my kayak. Their name is Boat.
Boat is made by P&H, a British sea kayak company. Hence the union jack on the bow in all the photos.
Boat is a Cetus HV, which stands for High Volume. Boat is 18'3" long. Boat has 188L of storage in their hatches, and I can (and do) keep a bit of stuff in the cockpit at my feet. That’s about three times as much storage room as someone going on a backpacking trip. Boat has a day hatch right behind the seat, so that I can reach things like a rain jacket, first aid kit or lunch from my seat, and a mini hatch right in front of the cockpit for little things like headlights, pocket knives and snacks.
Boat has a skeg, rather than a rudder. The skeg is kind of like a retractable keel, that lowers near the stern. The skeg helps Boat track really straight, and stay extra stable.
This kind of trip is basically what Boat is built for. Fully loaded, Boat is very stable, keeps straight in chop and wind, and has enough room for all the gear and food I need.
Boat weighs 30kg, and I can pick up and carry Boat on my shoulder, which I did every morning and evening to get Boat up and down the beach.
Boat is the best.
Part 2: the West Coast
I arrived in Port Hardy on Day 19 and re-supplied with food. I had packed food for the second half of my trip into a box before I left, and my Dad shipped it to the Port Hardy bus station. I picked it up, did some other shopping for things I wanted, and paddled a couple hours to stay at a little cove just outside of Hardy Bay.
North and West of Port Hardy, there’s about 50km of paddling in channels with currents and wind, and then you lose the protection of the last islands to the North. Within about 30–45 minutes of paddling, everything shifts from currents and funneling winds, to exposed open water, swell, and surf. And fog. Lots of fog.
Winds tend to rise in the afternoon on the West coast, so my routine was to wake up at 5am, and be on the water by 6:30–7am. I generally paddled between 5 to 8 hours, with my longest day being 10.5 hours. That meant that most days I was off the water before the winds (and accompanying waves) picked up. Fog is also common in the morning, so I would often launch into fog, and paddle on a compass bearing* for 1–4 hours, with the fog burning off part way through my day, or sometimes just as I set up camp.
*ie. I couldn’t see any land to use as landmarks for navigation, so I would use my charts to figure out what direction I needed to paddle in, and use my deck compass as a guide.
Closest call
Quite a few people have asked me since I got back if had any “close calls”.
Jepther Point in Tlatlasikwala Territory is a pretty unique spot. It’s a point sticking out on the Northern end of Vancouver Island, with a pebble beach wrapping around both sides. It’s a killer whale rubbing beach: it’s steep (near 45° at the intertidal area) and its small round pebbles roll easily underfoot. Whales can swim up the beach and rub their bellies, and reliably slide back down into the water.
These physical properties can also lead kayaks to slide easily into the water. On the morning of Day 22, I packed all of my stuff into Boat, and was just about to slide it towards the water, when it did it on its own. Very quickly. It slid about 20m down the very steep beach, and shot into the water. Boat’s very fast, really cuts through the water well. It immediately began to be pulled West by the ebbing current. I ran down the beach and jumped into the water, swimming after it, shouting “No, no, no!”. I wasn’t catching up to Boat, until I switched to breaststroke (it’s my strongest stroke). For about 2 minutes, Boat, with all of my worldly possessions in it, was drifting away from me in the ocean. Then I caught up to it.
I swam Boat back to shore (it had been pulled parallel to the shore by the current, so it was a pretty short swim), and it kept getting swamped by waves, so I got in the cockpit, paddled away from shore, and pumped it out on the water. I was soaked, quite cold, and pretty shaken up by the experience. The incident also wasted enough time that I was now late to catch slack tide at Tatnall Reefs (a shallow bit of water with a lot of turbulence best travelled at slack). I paddled about 500m down the beach, pulled off to wait for the next slack (5 hours), and had a fire and dried my clothes, before getting back on the water.
Fog and Surf
What would eventually be the two things I found most challenging about the West coast, were probably also the worst on my first real day experiencing them.
I launched from Cape Sutil (the northernmost point on Vancouver Island) in Tlatlasikwala Territory on Day 23. The fog was very thick. I couldn’t see more than 30–40m in front of me. Small rocks would appear out of the fog and look like big islands in the distance, and then I’d realize they were actually closeby rocks with waves breaking on them, and were dangerous, so I’d paddle away from them.
I’d later get used to paddling in the swell of the open coast, but on this first day, it made me feel very seasick. This was compounded by not being able to see any land. Kind of like when you get carsick and can’t see through the front window, not having anything still to look at made it a lot worse. After about two hours of navigating in the swell and fog (a mix of following compass bearings, and paddling off to the right each time a rock appeared out of the fog), I thought I was about to vomit.
So it felt pretty urgent to land on the first beach I came to. Shuttleworth Bight is a sandy beach open to the surf. I actually wasn’t positive I had arrived at the beach, until through the fog I saw seagulls standing on it. I set up to do a surf landing.
I had never done a surf landing before this trip, and had read the theory behind it. I had also brought a paddling helmet to wear in case I got dumped and hit my head on the bottom. I bailed on this first landing. When the fog cleared later, I would discover I had chosen the highest surf portion of the beach.
This was probably the most emotionally challenging day for me of the whole trip. The Boat-floating-away-in-current incident had happened the day before, so it was a hard couple of days. I hadn’t realized just how foggy it would be, and was thinking “am I just going to be paddling in zero visibility fog for the next month? I don’t want to do that”. And after getting dumped out of my boat on my first surf landing, I was a little terrified of landing on surf beaches (an emotional trend that would irrationally continue even after I got the hang of it). Later that day the fog cleared, I met some nice hikers on the North Coast Trail who let me vent about my day, and the next day I paddled in the fog without getting seasick, had a no issues surf launch and landing. I got the hang of things.
Humans
Before the trip, one of the things I was most worried about was feeling lonely, and especially not having people I knew to talk to when I got stressed or anxious.
In total there were 6 days (of 45) where I didn’t talk to any other humans. They were all on the West coast. When I stayed at campsites on the North Coast Trail, Nootka Trail, and West Coast Trail I ran into lots of hikers. I stayed at a few campsites on Vancouver Island that had road or trail access and people just came to camp for a few days. And I was blown away by how many people were out sport fishing. At one point off of Owen Point in Pacheedaht Territory, I counted 44 sport fishing boats visible all at once. I met other kayakers 9 times; I didn’t run into a single kayaker between the Broughton Archipelago in Namgis Territory, and Clayoquot Sound in Ahousat Territory (21 days).
So sometimes my interactions with humans was a quick “any luck yet?” to some fishers, and other times it was hour(s) long conversations with people at campsites. My favourites were when I met other kayakers who were out for multiple weeks. On the West coast, I met one person who was paddling from Port Hardy to Tofino, and a couple wandering wherever they felt like from Tofino for 20 days. We got to share stories, swap anecdotes and expedition tips, and talk about the weather forecast for the next few days and how it would affect sea conditions at crux points along the coast.
I didn’t wind up being lonely at all. After my first couple of stressful days on the open coast, I developed confidence in navigating in fog, reading swell conditions and avoiding breakers, and interpreting weather conditions and forecasts. So I didn’t have significant amounts of anxiety or worry that I felt like I needed support in, and began to relish the solitude. There were times where I’d run into people and I would get into a long conversation with them. Other times I’d stick to small talk, or avoid running into people if I felt like being alone (“oh, there are humans at that campsite, I’ll stay at the next one.”). I’m an introvert and actually quite enjoy solitude, especially in the wilderness.
“Wait, how old are you?”
When it came up that I was on a 7 week kayak trip, paddling around Vancouver Island, people were generally quite interested. Most people would initially assume I was out for a few days, and had launched from whatever town was closest. When they asked how long I was out for and I said something like “this is Day 34”, most people would do a double-take, and then start asking all sorts of questions:
- “By yourself?”
- “What are you eating?”
- “Where did you start?”
- “Have you seen lots of whales?”
But by far the most common question (when I was alone, not when I was paddling with Emily) that almost every single person/group would ask me was “How old are you?”.
I thought this was super interesting. I generally countered with “How old do you think I am?” Most people thought I was 24–26 (I’m 32). Most of the people I ran into were old enough to be my parents. The general impression I got was one of a protective parental instinct. Which is sweet. And I think also accompanied by a bit of a “are you old enough to be out here by yourself?” Which I found both amusing and irksome.
Creatures
I saw a LOT of wildlife on the trip. Seals, sea lions, sea otters, river otters, porpoises, dolphins, gray whales, humpback whales, orcas, eagles, osprey, SO many sea gulls, loons, murrelets, ravens, crows, bears, racoons, marten, salmon jumping out of the water, crabs, anenomes, starfish, urchins.
I definitely saw the most wildlife on the second half of my trip, and one of my most magical experiences (being surrounded by a pod of 30 dolphins, see above), was on the East coast.
One of the most magical moments of the second half of my trip was paddling out to the most exposed outer islands in the Deer Group, in Huu-ay-aht Territory. It was an hour-long crossing from the outer islands of the Broken Group to the Folger and Leach Islands. As I got closer, I could hear sea lions barking. I had read there was a cool sea cave on Folger, and I saw it as I got closer. As I paddled up to the cave to see if it was safe to paddle into it, a gray whale surfaced about 30m behind me. I turned my boat around to hopefully see it again, and it surfaced just between me and the island, just a few metres from the rocks, and only 15m away from me.
I waited for the whale to come up again, and when it didn’t I paddled on, between the two islands. The islands are separated by a little 50m channel, with some rocks in the middle. There were sea lion colonies on either side, and seeing them close up out of the water was really special. I had seen lots close up in the water (I often came across them while they were fishing, and sometimes a few would come to escort me away from a colony) and seeing their whole bodies out on the rocks was really neat. They’re just HUGE! On the rocks in between the islands, there were a bunch of harbour seals hanging out on the rocks, looking like little sausages. It was a super special place to visit.
Fishing
Fishing wound up being a really rewarding way that I interacted with wildlife. A couple years ago on a day paddle with some friends, I caught a very small fish very briefly with a fishing rod they had brought. Having not really fished before (once with my Dad when I was very young), I got really excited about the fact that you could apparently catch fish from kayaks. I started trying to learn how to fish, and had caught/killed/ate one fish on a trip last summer, with much emotional and practical support from my friend Dana. I brought a fishing rod with me on this trip with the intention of learning more and gaining confidence.
I caught 6 fish on this trip! The first couple I had some emotional support (I find the whole killing-the-fish part kind of stressful, and it took some practice to actually just swiftly kill it and not drop the fish each time it flopped around) and practical advice from Emily, and the rest on my own.
I would keep my fishing rod strapped to the deck of my boat, and when I was expecting rough water would disassemble it and stow it in my boat. On day 32, I had an unplanned surf landing, bailed, and my fishing rod snapped in half. It was a bit of a morale hit at the time, and it wound up actually being a blessing in disguise. I wound up switching to using a hunk of driftwood with fishing line wrapped around it. It’s way better, in my opinion.
Fishing rods are long. Once you reel in the fish, it’s now at the end of the rod, so to reach the fish you need to put your rod down, but there’s nowhere to put it really. So you’re trying to juggle your rod, or strap it to your deck, or tuck it under your arm, or something. While trying to kill a thrashing fish with the other hand. With the driftwood, I pull in the line by hand, wrapping it around the wood. Once I have the fish in hand, I grab it, let a bit of line back out, and then use the hunch driftwood to bonk it dead/unconscious. Then I use my fish knife to bleed it to ensure it’s dead for sure. I then put the fish on my back deck under my kayak’s bungie straps, and leave the hook in. If the fish falls off the deck for some reason (a big wave or something), it’s attached to the wood still (which floats), so I know I won’t lose my catch. Now, I know there are people who are very successful at catching fish with rods from kayaks (I met a guy who had just caught a 20lb salmon from his kayak). And in the absence of special rod holders for your boat (which exist, and I personally wouldn’t want one on a trip this long, a little too bulky), I think the driftwood method is better.
Tough spots: Cape Scott
I had two main crux points on the trip. One was at Cape Scott in Tlatlasikwala Territory. I was nervous about Cape Scott for a week or more before getting there. It was the first major exposed headland I had ever paddled around. It is prone to high winds, has currents and turbulence strong enough to impede or halt progress in a kayak, and is completely surrounded by reefs and rocks that the swell breaks on, which is dangerous.
I had been mentally preparing myself to camp at Experiment Bight, just East of the Cape, for a few days to wait out high winds. In the end I had to wait just 3 hours. I arrived at Experiment Bight on Day 24 at around 10:30am. It was really foggy, and I had to get out my GPS to confirm I was at the beach I thought I was at. Slack tide was at 2pm, and I had decided to started rounding the Cape a little after 1pm, so the current would be getting weaker as I paddled, rather than stronger. The winds generally rise in the afternoon on the West coast, and the forecast was for 15–25 knot winds (~25–45 km/h). However, the Cape Scott lighthouse reports current weather conditions every few hours, and it was reporting 5 knot winds. Very calm conditions. I read a book and went for a walk while I waited for the current to calm down.
At 1pm, the wind was quite calm, and it was still SUPER foggy (I just couldn’t see anything more than 50m away). I was worried it would get windy once I paddled out of the shelter of the bay, and I decided to stick my nose out around the point and see how it was. The wind and current was really calm, so I went for it. The swell was 2m-3m, and I really couldn’t see anything. I stayed well away from shore and all of the reef/breakers.
The scariest part was suddenly having 100 sea lions appear out of the fog right in front of me. They were all barking at me. I quickly paddled away from them. As it happened, the colony was marked on my chart, so I used them as a navigation aid and turned West. As I paddled down to the Southern end of Cape Scott, the fog cleared, and I saw a beautiful sandy beach in the distance. I paddled to it and camped for the night. I was SO happy.
Tough spots: Brooks Peninsula
The other major crux was Brooks Peninsula, spanning Quatsino and Ka:’yu:’k’t’h’/Chek’tles7et’h’ Territories. Brooks Peninsula is basically a 8km x 13km rectangle sticking off the side of Northwest Vancouver Island. It’s mostly long exposed coastline, with some beaches at the base of the peninsula on the North and South sides. It’s prone to high winds, and aside from a campsite in the very middle of the most exposed Western coastline, nowhere to pull-off for about 7 hours of paddling.
A storm came in the form of a 20–30 knot (35–55km/h) southerly wind just as I got to Brooks Peninsula. I spent a day camped at the last beach before you round the peninsula waiting for the winds to die down. After waiting a day, I paddled the following afternoon, as the southerlies were calming in the afternoon. I paddled at slack tide.
Despite picking a pretty good window to paddle, it was the choppiest waters of the trip. Wind is the highest at Cape Cook, the Northwestern-most point, and between Cape Cook and Solander Island, the water gets pretty turbulent. I was paddling into 15 knot (28 km/h) headwinds, that gusted to 20 knot (37 km/h). The swell was coming from the Northwest and the wind and wind waves from the Southeast. So the water was quite choppy and I was getting tossed around, broadsided by waves. Waves would break over my deck and hit me in the face pretty regularly. I was pretty soaked by the time I made it to camp.
I pulled off at Nordstrum Creek. In the middle of this long exposed coastline, there’s a bunch of reefs and rocks that, from the water, initially look impenetrable and terrifying. Once you paddle past them, you can loop back and find a small opening to paddle through the rocks, and land on a (relatively) protected beach. I camped there that night. It felt incredible to be so far from any other humans, and safe on land on such an exposed coastline. I had a bath in the creek and walked around naked for a while.
The next morning it was calm and foggy. As I rounded Clerke Point, the Southwestern most point of the peninsula, into relative protection, a humpback whale surfaced and dove showing its fluke. It was a pretty special way to end paddling around the peninsula.
Getting home
Once I got around Brooks Peninsula, I was focussed and getting home in time. I had up to 51 days to get home, and planned out a route/schedule that got me home by Day 46, which left me with 5 days to spare. Some days weather conditions were pretty rough, and nothing sketchy enough to keep me off the water. I started paddling an average of 40km per day, going over 50km a few times. My one exception was stopping for a rest day at Hot Spring Cove because… hot springs. It was well worth the extra day. In the end I made it home by Day 45.
This part of the trip was where I really got into my paddling groove. My body was used to being on the water for long periods, my paddling muscles were strong, and I just flew southwards.
Learning
Someone asked me after I got back if I had changed as a person as result of the experience. I don’t think so? I don’t think I changed, exactly, and I did learn a lot.
I think I really expanded my capacity to be self-reliant, and make challenging decisions by myself. I increased my confidence in being alone in remote places.
I learned lots of practical skills: how to pack for an expedition trip, how to fish, how to manage a surf landing and launch.
I learned so much about reading weather and the sea to understand what is going on. I can hear a weather forecast and I actually understand the underlying physical processes happening. I can be on the water and read the swell to understand why the waves are choppy or steep.
I also wanted to share some of the specific things I learned in planning and going on this trip.
Food
I made a food plan that would sustain me for up to 51 days, the maximum amount of time I could take to finish the trip and not be late to come back to work.
I purchased/packed all the food I would need for the trip ahead of time. I started the trip with half of it, and shipped the other half to Port Hardy. I was budgeting on needing 4,000–4,500 calories per day (I have quite a fast metabolism).
Things I am glad I did:
- My mom made me 50 servings of granola, and it was really tasty and very easy to eat in the morning. It was perfect. I did not get tired of eating it (her granola has candied ginger in it, very good).
- Packing up all my dinners ahead of time. On shorter kayak trips I pack lots of fresh veggies, sauces, etc, because kayaks stay pretty cool, and there is lots of space. On this trip, fresh food would only keep for the first few days, and there just isn’t room for several weeks of fresh food anyways. I made lots of dehydrated trip meals, which varied from 700 to 1,000 calories each. I basically packed these as if I were packing for a backpacking trip: small and light. Here are the ones I would make again: 1) Dried mashed potatoes with dried veggies. 2) Orzo with dried tomato sauce and TVP. 3) Quinoa with dried veggies, dehydrated teriyaki sauce, and a can of salmon. 4) Instant rice, dried veggies, TVP, and a bunch of tex-mex spices. 5) Instant rice, cashews, dried veggies, curry spices. 6) Veggie scramble: dried veggies and crystalized eggs.
Things I would do differently:
- It was totally unnecessary to buy some of the more common food items entirely ahead of time. Tortillas, peanut butter, nuts and raisins, Clif bars, chocolate, oil. There are lots of towns on Vancouver Island, with fully stocked grocery stores all along the East coast and at Port Hardy and Tofino, as well as smaller general stores every few days along the West coast. Next time, I would pack those easy-to-purchase staples for the first leg, and buy more at a couple of re-supply stops along the way.
- My calorie estimate of 4,000–4,500 was spot on, on days where I paddled really far. Say, 8 hours or more. On half-days were I was at my campsite by lunchtime, I didn’t need all of the energy dense on-the-water snacks that I brought. On rest/wind days where I didn’t paddle, I would eat all of my meals and generally no snacks at all. Overall, I think I probably needed to bring enough food to average 3,500 calories a day, to account for the lower needs on chiller days. Again, if partway through the trip I found it wasn’t enough, I could buy extra food in a town.
Gear
I had a lot of the gear I needed for this trip, and also made a few big purchases to replace old gear and get a few things I didn’t have. Here are a few of the things I was really glad I had, that might not be obvious to have:
- a deck compass: it was totally invaluable for navigating in fog.
- fingerless paddling gloves: I would have had really bad blisters on my hands if I hadn’t worn paddling gloves. I wore fingerless neoprene ones that also helped keep my hands warm on cold and damp mornings.
- a long-sleeved paddling shirt: I wore a long-sleeved merino wool t-shirt on the water every day. It kept the sun off of my arms when it was sunny (about half the time). And it kept me warm when it was foggy and cold (about half the time).
- merino wool underwear: you just don’t get to clean your body and clothes very often, and having wool underwear helps that not be gross and uncomfortable.
- a gravity water filter: I got most of my water from creeks, and generally carried 10L (sometimes 20–25L if I knew I wouldn’t be at a campsite with a water source for several days) at a time. That also meant needing to filter lots of water at once, and the gravity filter I brought made that really easy.
- a tapered dry bag: the nose of a kayak is pretty narrow, and it can be hard to effectively pack stuff into it and use the space. Having a 20L tapered dry bag allowed me to take advantage of that storage room. I packed my sleeping bag, pad, and all of my clothing into a space that I would normally just stick some tent poles or something.
- solar charger/lamp: I used this solar charger to keep my phone/camera and inReach charged, as well as a lamp at night. It kept my devices charged all trip and I didn’t have to change the batteries in my headlamp once. It lived in my waterproof map case on Boat’s deck, so it charged all day while I paddled.
- ultralight tent and sleeping bag: both my tent and sleeping bag were over 10 years old and heavily used, so I chose to replace them before the trip. I spent the extra money to get some very light options, which I was super happy with. I also got a compression sack for each. The result was that almost all of my camping gear fit in my front hatch, leaving my (much larger) back hatch for storing 3–4 weeks of food at a time.
- camping pillow: in my opinion, 7 weeks is too long to not have a pillow.
- an alcohol stove: I brought a whisperlite (which I’ve long used), which has great fuel efficiency (I used 1.5L of white gas over the whole trip). It can’t simmer really and has lots of parts that could break on trip, so I got a mini Trangia, which I am now a huge fan of. It’s great for simmering things, cooking scrambled eggs and frying fish. It also can’t break, as it has no moving parts, so is a super reliable option.
On the water
Before this trip, I had done heaps of paddling in more sheltered inner waters where the concerns are funnellings winds and strong currents, so the East coast of the Island mostly just reinforced previous experiences.
My paddling experience on the West coast was pretty limited prior to this trip, and I was basically totally new at paddling in big swell, around exposed headlands, and landing on surf beaches. I had The Wild Coast with me, which does a great job of summarizing how to read and stay safe in swell and manage surf (it’s recently been updated as the BC Coast Explorer, which I am sure is a great resource).
My biggest paddling learnings were:
- Navigating in the fog.
I had done a crossing in the fog before, but paddling for multiple hours, including along coastlines with lots of breakers and submerged rocks, and long crossings on completely exposed and open water with few to no landmarks along the way, was totally new. For crossings, I took a bearing on my map or from my GPS and followed my deck compass on that bearing. If I was aiming for a specific spot on the coastline, I learned to aim a bit high: if I was trying to hit a point and then go South, I would aim a bit North of the point, so I wouldn’t miss it. When paddling alongside coastlines with breakers, I learned to follow a compass bearing and rather than try to keep the coastline within sight (which in thick fog, can be too close for safety, or sometimes practicality), I would keep it within earshot. As long as you can hear the waves hitting the shore, you know you are still close to the coastline you are following. If you ever feel like you are too far away, you can paddle closer until you can see it.
2. Judging the weather.
I was quite nervous before my trip about wind and wave conditions at some of the more exposed headlands like Cape Scott in Tlatlasikwala Territory or Brooks Peninsula in Quatsino and Ka:’yu:’k’t’h’/Chek’tles7et’h’ Territory. On a couple of occasions I tried to get my friend and paddling mentor Peter Carson to tell me what he would consider to be safe wind speeds for each area. He steadfastly refused to engage in the question, instead telling me what was important was what I saw on the water. I am really appreciative of him for this response. On this trip, I regularly found that local conditions could be quite different than what was forecast for the region, and that wind speed alone wasn’t enough to know how safe or dangerous a particular headland was.
For instance, at Cape Scott in Tlatlasikwala Territory the forecast for the region for West Coast Vancouver Island — North was 15–25 knot winds. At the cape itself, it was 5 knots all day, the day I was there. When I paddled the southwest coast of the island, the forecast for West Coast Vancouver Island — South was 20–30 knot NW winds for several days. During this period every single one of the lighthouses in the region had SE winds between 8 and 14 knots, which matched what I saw on the water. And was the exact opposite of what was forecast. In both of these instances, had I listened to the regional forecast, I likely would have refrained from paddling.
I also learned to look around at what the water looked like 500m to 1km away when conditions were near my comfort limit, so I would have a benchmark for assessing the water from shore.
By paying attention to local conditions first and foremost, and judging the conditions relative to my paddling abilities, I was able to have far fewer windbound days than I would have otherwise. That said, there were also days where the forecast was confirmed by local reports and observations: in Johnstone Strait in Laich-kwil-tach and Tlowitsis Territory, the weather forecast predicted 20–30 knot NW winds for days on end, and the reporting station at Fanny Island and our observation of the water regularly reinforced that.
3. Reading the swell and managing breakers.
Paddling in big swell is really quite easy in a kayak, especially one built for big water. It’s when you get into shallow waters or swell breaks on submerged rocks that things get dicey. With practice, I learned what it felt like when swell became steeper in shallower water, and to know that meant I was getting too close to shore. I learned how to keep an eye out for waves breaking on rocks. If I was unsure of how safe an area was to be in I would just paddle further away from shore.
Some Random Numbers
- 45 days: how long I was on trip for
- 3 hours: the amount of time I was rained on over the course of the trip
- 6 days: where I didn’t talk to a human
- 2: bear sightings
- 7: close encounters with whales
- 1,086 km: how far I paddled in total
- 1,000+: number of sea lions
- 300+: number of sea otters
- 7 days: where I didn’t paddle because of high winds
- 6: fish I caught (mostly rockfish, one small Chum salmon)
- 36 days: where I didn’t meet others kayakers
- 57km: the longest paddling day I had
Planning a trip?
I benefited a lot from having people in my life who are experienced expedition paddlers, and from reading accounts of other people who had paddled around the Island. If you are considering attempting to paddle around Vancouver Island, or doing a trip of a similar scope, and want someone to talk to about it, I would be happy to chat to you! You can email me: peter.r.gibbs (at) gmail.com.
