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We are stuck in Larson Harbour for an extra day, waiting for the wind to diminish enough for a confident crossing of Hecate Strait. The wind is so strong that we have difficulty kayaking across the lagoon -- paddling as hard as I can, I'm still going backwards at times. It's a relief to land and walk about on shore. The terrain here is hostile; a tangled, dwarfish forest bent by the strong West wind, dense dripping and prickly under gray skies. We bushwhack our way across a peninsula to an inlet on the outer coast, hoping for a grand view across the Strait; but alas, the inlet is blocked by islets and rocks and the distance is gray and hazy. We're pleased to find wolf footprints in the mud. |
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We also find a curious quay or boat ramp made of piled rocks; is it indigenous or colonial, we wonder...? There's no other evidence of habitation. Like Goose Group, this end of Banks Island feels like "the ends of the earth" -- desolate, windswept, and difficult to inhabit. Next morning, we see a sailboat take off across the Strait on a somewhat southwesterly course; maybe heading for Rose Harbour? Jon (who suffers occasionally from mal de mer) is more nervous about setting out than I am -- I don't get seasick (so far) and it's not my boat ;-) |
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We make a long tedious passage across Hecate Strait; this is one of the strangest bodies of water I've seen. We're well out of sight of land in either direction (it's a 60 mile crossing) and yet we have to keep a watch for crab pots! The depth sounder dithers around 16 fathoms all the way across, and after the deep fjords we're used to it feels all wrong to be in such an expanse of shoal water. We have our fish (stabilisers) down to moderate Full Moon's wallowing roll, and catching a crab pot with one of these would not be any fun, so we have to keep a sharp lookout -- for floating logs and kelp rafts, too. The day is gray and drizzly and it's a marathon run. But as we approach our landfall a minor miracle occurs: the overcast breaks up and a rainbow appears! |
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As the clouds and fog lift we catch a glimpse of Haida Gwaii; it seems a suitably mysterious revelation. We've heard so much about the mystical, "special" qualities of these islands, and now we arrive amid a rising veil of mist, rainbows, and shreds of blue sky. It feels like a good omen; but we're tired and still have 2 hours and more to run from Lawn Point south through a channel among the sand banks, to Beaver Bay and Queen Charlotte City. |
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We pass carefully from buoy to buoy along the channel; the charts are not kidding, the banks shelve up steeply as soon as you stray from the centre. Gradually, the approaches to Beaver Bay unfold... |
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... and the cloud cover keeps breaking up. It's starting to look quite lovely; I'm getting excited about finally seeing the legendary Haida Gwaii. Jon's too tired to get excited, I fear; he just wants to get there, tie up, and sleep. |
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These two islands are the signature of the northern shore of Beaver Bay. We'll pass just inside them on our way in... |
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... through that gap there. Having settled this, after much musing over the chart (we're both tired and don't want to make any career-altering errors), it's just a matter of waiting to see what's around the corner. Unbeknownst to us, my friend Kim has sighted Full Moon in the distance from her house on shore and is driving along the coast highway, now and then running down to the beach and waving eagerly. We never saw her :-) |
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Coming around the point we see what looks like a Haida village on the shore. Actually, it's the "Kaay Centre," the Haida Cultural Centre and Museum; we'll make its closer acquaintance later. |
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We deek in to Skidegate, finding that the guidebook is correct: there's no place to tie up a full-size boat there, only a dinghy dock and the ferry dock. Bystanders wave to us from the ferry looming over us; we turn around and get the heck outta there, continuing inland to Queen Charlotte City. Here, in the long twilight of the northern evening, we find our way in and (since there are no empty slips nor visitor dock) raft up to the rattiest-looking marina queen we can find. Running down the dock comes a familiar yellow slicker -- it's Kim! She's waving a plastic baggie full of fresh halibut, too. Now that's what I call a welcome :-) Next to our "slip", major construction is going on -- dredging and replacement of the harbour wall, a new pier, all kinds of stuff. |
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Queen Charlotte City (hereafter QCC) is not exactly a four-star marina. The docks are cluttered... |
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... poorly maintained and somewhat ricketty... |
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... (the word "derelict" comes to mind)... |
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As it turns out there's no water on our dock; there's no shower, and the loo is kept locked so we can't use it. We're less than impressed with QCC, but we're glad to be here, safely across the Strait and about to begin the big adventure; and I'm delighted to see Kim again. She moved away from Nanaimo to take an excellent job in the Skidegate community health centre, and I've missed her; I've also been fascinated by her emails and stories about life here, and am rather thrilled to be standing here in person at last, about to see it for myself. (I'm also, truth be told, very pleased at the prospect of a few days in harbour without the racket of that blankety-blankety engine. Even the earth-moving equipment next door seems like peace and quiet after Full Moon under way for 12 hours!) We have a good dinner of fresh halibut and wander about a bit on shore. |
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