The Goldstream - Wallace Express

Loaded up the kayak behind the tri-cycle and headed off for a peddle-paddle. Destination Goldstream Boathouse to Wallace Island and back. Possibility of a circumnavigation of Saltspring - weather permitting.

August 24th
The driveway down the hill to the boathouse is steep ::::: so steep that not only will my brakes not stop me, I'm getting pushed down the hill in front of the kayak and trike, feet sliding along the asphalt with all the brakes locked. I'll be talking to someone very soon about modifying the rear axle on my tri-cycle to a (dual?) hydraulic disc set-up. The rain absolutely drenched me on the peddle out from Victoria. The Malahat has got to be the least bike friendly strip of pavement I've had to peddle so far. The bicycle lane is so skinny that at times I'm riding up the steep Malahat with a wheel hanging out in traffic with the other rubbing the highway divider. The rumble strips suck away all forward momentum. Traffic has nowhere to shift over to, and is forced to pass close because of the center divider. Just not a pleasant experience in any way shape or form. I wish they'd get off their butts and complete the Trans-Canada trail through this section like they've been promising for years.

Lyle at the boathouse is very friendly and very accomodating. He allows me to fill my water bottles out of their very good creek fed water system. Tasty mountain water, filtered and certified clean. He even offers to lend me an extra chain and lock for my rig. We have a good talk about kayaks and things to check out while in Finlayson Arm. I'd feel totally secure leaving a vehicle parked there for ANY length of time. Launch at 1700hrs. Trip up Finlayson Arm is calm and relaxing, a great way to stretch out the muscles and get over the pre-trip jitters. Lots of seals slapping the water, and some lunging, body out of the water, to get a good look at me. I travel up the Penninsula side as I wanted to get a good look at Gowland-Tod Park, and Tod Inlet. Tod Inlet is part of an ancient glacial valley system that crosses a good part of the Penninsula, and holds some of the best soil and farmland around. For those who live in the Victoria region, some traces of the glacier's passing can be seen in the grooved rocks along Interurban Road, below Colquitz School . The upper reaches of the same valley system. Geology, geography, astrology, and meteorology have all become passions of mine and fit in very well with the my hiking and kayaking.

From Tod Inlet I make a bee-line towards Senanus Island, purposely not looking back because every time I see the monstrosity of a development at it's entrance my heart twists. Hiding out of the Northerly wind (odd) between two rocks, with my hull hovering over a skinny long bed of gravel, I munch on my nut and berries. From here it is point to point until I pass Patricia Bay and the coastline becomes more interesting and pleasant. From Warrior Point to Coal Point, through Deep Cove to Moses Point I play amongst the rocks as I travel north to the end of the Penninsula. On this stretch it seems every house has a kayak parked out front, can't blame them, this strip is really nice and a place I'd want live myself - if I was a millionaire... At Moses Point I pull out on a nice little beach, do some good long stretches, sit on a rock, and watch the sunset. From here to Portland Island I'll be paddling in the moonless darkness. Swells are coming across the end of the Penninsula from the north-east, sling-shotting around the coast of Saltspring, big enough to keep things interesting and enjoyable. As I approach Swartz Bay, I find ferries running at a time when they were supposed to be docked for the night. This is the Sunday when the Spirit class ferry lost a prop so they added runs well into the night. Just as I'm surveying the crossing of Colburne Passage, one of the big ones backs out and cuts across my planned crossing, the bright gaudy lights of it's decks destroying my night vision. I decide to use the VHF to call the ferries and tell them I'm crossing - the responder is barely audible (I was within spitting distance) in the bursts of reception I receive and I'm told (curtly), that there has been an open mic for the last five minutes. My radio was definitely off and on WX3... I look back at the ferry dock, check my watch and head across to Piers, then to Knapp Island, then to the shadow of Portland Island. In the darkness I miss Brackman Island, and my first targeted pull-out for the night at Shell Beach. II decide to keep paddling to Arbutus Point. Some things I didn't expect here - with the very high tides this night, the beaches are all completely under water, the shoreline now virtually unrecognizable - compounded by the darkness. Barricades of floating logs block access to 'beaches' i do manage to find. I'm tired, hungry, getting real frustrated, and it's very late. After paddling up and down a good length of the coast a few times, scanning with my headlamp, I find a point with an Arbutus, drag my tired ass, and loaded kayak, up and bumping, through, over, and around the sea of logs. I pick my way up the steep bank, through brambles and salaal, and roll out my tarp. I christen thee 'Arbutus Point the second'. ~Safety first. Shelter second. Rules third.

August 25th
After a good nights sleep - i fell asleep on a rock with my head skewed to the left and my nose in my shoe. It didn't really matter, when my head hit the ground - out went the lights. Well after a good night's sleep I get up, pack everything into it's appropriate ziplock and plastic grocery bag, tie a piece of paracord (doubles as my tarp lines) around each for retrieval from the bowels of Tassie, and then stretch out my body while looking across at the beautiful strip of farmland on Moresby that has become my favourite landmark out this way - that and the cliffs of North Pender off in the hazy distance. Summer haze I guess.View was much clearer back in April when I first paddled towards the them both. I decide to skip a big breakfast here and have a hearty and early lunch at James Bay on Prevost. Munching on a bag of my nuts and berries I pack the kayak down to the beach - there is now a shell beach right on the point this morning where last night it was only vertical and jagged rocks.

Amazing how much gear I can fit in this thing now that I've started packing things in bundles the size of soup cans. A few things are longer or wider but the majority could be can's of Campbell's cream of Kayaker. 1000hrs. I'm on the water, planned to be otw at 0700hrs. but had a later start at Goldstream than planned and also blew off a few hours parading back in forth of Portland in the night. Price is that I'll be dealing with a bit more of the afternoon winds going along the southerly wind exposed north coast of Saltspring. Everything has a price - heh heh heh. so I paddle around the corner of Portland - chose a point to aim for, Eleanor Point, look both ways before crossing traffic and... paddle... around the corner comes one of the smaller 'truck ferries'. Have I mentioned how much I hate dodging bloody ferries out here before? Well I do - enough to put me off paddling this area on a regular basis... Guess I need to find some kind of master schedule to scan when planning my trips as well as tide tables, current tables, weather maps, current atlas's (atli?) hydrographic charts, forecasts. Boggles the mind sometimes - heh heh heh.

Crossing is uneventful, ferry passed behind me, I turn and head towards Prevost. First landmark, Ruckle Park, tenters paradise, follow the park for it's length and cross Captain's Passage outside of Ganges Harbour over to Prevost. Lot of marine traffic out here, mostly large yachts and cruisers heading east. These big monsters kick up big wakes that aren't much on their own until they collide, and concentrate in the already current driven middle of the Passage. Nice thing is that after I get out of the confused (now I understand the term in it's application) waters I'm able to find a gently rolling wake-wave and paddle with it to the Channel Islands. I take a quick breather before the bigger lunge over to Secret Island and the west end of Prevost. I'm trying to find my way to James Bay on Prevost by memory as I'd planned this trip over the charts at my local paddle-shop. I know there are two bays to watch for but I miss the fact that James Bay is in fact the third 'dent' not the second (looking at my map-book now I was in Selby Cove). Time to invoke the 'safe below high tide line' rule Collect up a handful of twigs and make myself a nice hot meal over my little stove, followed by a couple of cups of tea drank at a leisurely pace while i warm myself in the sun. Nice out here today. Launched and start paddling along the outer coast of Saltspring, carried along on wind-waves from behind. By watching my distance from shore I'm able to find a zone where the waves are a little less choppy and rolling, and also being refracted to an angle that brings them on me from dead astern. Really enjoyable paddling along the coast, scanning the high-bank for anything of interest. I was told to head out into the center of the channel for a better ride and easier paddle when planning this trip but Trincomali channel is a lot wider, wilder, and more intimidating than it looks on maps... and with the winds picking up... Galiano seems a long way off. Not much in the way of landings out here. Mostly big rock, and cliffs. Pretty exposed area to paddle. I paddle, lost in my thoughts, and the rythum of the waves, time blurs and slows down in the quiet. Overhead a cluster of dark grey and ominous cumulo-nimbus clouds move over me from the west, and it pours, the rain comes down so hard that it pounds the surface of the sea flat, rebounding upwards in a spray. I'm grinning and enjoying it all, I'm feeling pretty used to the wet at this point, and the new paddling jacket keeps the rain from running down my neck. Just as quickly as it starts, it stops. Cows graze on the beach at Walker Hook, the first real beach I've seen along this whole coast. I'll remember this as a good emergency pull-out for future paddles out here.

...and finally ... off in the distance... i spot Wallace Island. I choose a long diagonal - from Walker Hook on Saltspring to Panther Point on Wallace - that will take me out into the more open waters of the channel, keeping the waves and rising wind at my stern. Wallace is a beautiful little island, much longer island than I expect. The sheltered cove on the Southeast of the island makes a nice calm break after the long exposed paddle. I never do get out of my kayak but paddle around it, loosening up my hips and torso by shifting my weight, and carving turns along the shoreline - and through the moored sailboats. As I travel further north along the coast I played in the reefs and rock outcroppings, fascinating sea-worn stone, and many up-turned slabs of stone. The forces that formed this island were violent, the layers of the earth have been torn open and stood up on edge. A seagull stands on a rock facing a conundrum - the starfish that is his intended meal has wrapped it's legs around his beak and face, neither going down or up. Nature punishes gluttons in odd ways. Finally I round the point and pull into Chiver's Point, a long narrow beach laying between two of these up-ended shards of the earth's crust. I'm greeted by a small group of lady kayakers on an excursion from Maple Bay. Nice people, and I have a real nice chat with the lady who is leading the group. Dinner of Mac and cheese, a walk down the island to re-fill my water bottles (needs boiling) and off to bed. Early launch and long day tomorrow.

August 26th
~The Big Day~
Alarm goes off at 0400hrs., quietly pack up, trying not to wake the others in the close confines of the campsite. Launch on a low tide and on the water before sunrise. I start paddling around the northernmost tip of Saltspring, and make the turn towards the billowing stacks of the Crofton mill. No way to miss a landmark like this one, and when the wind shifts and starts blowing my way, the familiar smell - Port Alberni in the summer's of my youth. The winds pick up very early this morning, almost immediately after the sun finishes it's rising show of orange and rosy reds. Not a good sign as I'm facing many, many hours of paddling directly into it. My destination this morning is Mount Maxwell and Maxwell Point where I plan to beach, catch a few hours sleep, and wait for the ebb tide that I plan to carry me through Sansum Narrows. Only two 'beaches' found along the point, both made up of pointy rubble, and steep. Don't have much choice so I tumble out of the kayak in deeper water, use the bouyency to lift it, fully loaded, up onto my shoulder and pick my way up through the slippery, barnacle covered shards in my bare feet. I find a nice little clearing, out of the wind, and behind a rocky outcrop and fall asleep in the shade of Garry Oaks. Judging by the speed of the sailboats passing through the Narrows, the wind is still picking up from the South, intensifying as it funnels through. Feeling refreshed I launch at 1400hrs., point my nose up-wind, and dig in. Wind waves are nothing to be concerned about until I came to Burgoyne Bay where the Southeasterly winds channel across Saltspring from Fulford Harbour. Mt. Maxwell to the north and Mt. Bruce, Sullivan, and Tuam to the south. Not at all a pleasant scene at the mouth of the Bay. I choose the safer and narrower crossing of paddling up into the Bay, crossing near the head and riding the wind waves back out and around the Point into the calm waters in the shadow of Mt. Sullivan. Tide is changing now as i head into Sansum Narrows and face the 25+knot winds. I make the decision to hug the shoreline of Saltspring hoping for some shelter instead of facing the west side of the narrows and the building mess of wind, opposing current and rebounding waves off the rocks. I pay dearly for this decision... Cruising along, checking the GPS on my deck, I notice my speed climbing, 4.3 knots, 4.5, 5.2, 5.5, 6.1, 6.5 knots. I'm smoking along at a great clip, chewing through the chop, a grin on my face, saltwater splashing off me. As I round the last point I looked down at my 'speedo' and see something that baffles me, my speed has dropped to 3.5 knots. Looking up I see why... whitecaps, spray, waves leaping straight up, showing their black bellies. Big, ugly, and scary. All the water rushing out of the narrows is piling up against the wind, and building against the bigger waters of Satellite Channel. Between Seperation point, my intended crossing, and myself, at the mouth of the narrows, is small-craft hell, and I'm being driven right into it, with no-where and no way to pull out.

Today I set myself another benchmark.
I scream at it and curse at it and pound my way over, around, and mainly through it. My eyes are stinging from the combined salt from waves bursting against my body, and the wind. With no chance to wipe them clear, I squint through tears. Too close to turn in between the uglies I find myself leaning back and trying to force myself up onto them so i can correct before getting hit by the next. Eachdrop down into the hole buries the tip, killing forward momentun, my front deck was is completely under water. I yell and grunt with each stroke, "balance", "brace you idiot", "you can do this", "watch your edge!", "sh*t! sh*t! sh*t!!!! and crank on. Wave by ugly wave I grind my way across, slowly... I can see the marker getting closer, barely, but it's progress, so i just kept heaving. Promising myself a cup of joe at Genoa Bay as my dangling carrot I push on. Reaching the point I realize that I'll be dealing with more of the same going into and more importantly back out of the Bay. The prospect of trying to cross Seperation Point sideways to the chaos makes the decision easy. Keep paddling forward and get the hell outta here - I literally ram my way all the way across Cowichan Bay to Cherry Point. Things don't ease up in the slightest until about 2/3rds of the way through. I'm puffing, my arms, shoulders and calves are aching, but I don't really have much choice. I keep going. Mill Bay being the new goal.

I honestly have to say that this is the ugliest stuff I've had to deal with so far as a newbie paddler. Wind against current can be an awesome animal. I'm pleased with the way I managed it, only at one point did I feel like I was in big trouble, and a high brace, followed by a huge pull on the paddle got me up and out of the hole.

After Cherry Point I'm able to tuck in a bit closer to shore and avoid the ugliest of the waves. At one point, snugging into a little bay for a bit of shelter as I paddle on, I look to the shore to see half a dozen Vultures perched on a snag hanging out over the water, not even twenty feet from me, I laugh and call out "not today guys" as two of them, startled, fly up into a higher tree. For the next few hours i paddle through a non-stop sea of broaching waves until I pass Arbutus Ridge, and am forced out into the deeper waters by the impenetrable fortress surrounding the fuel docks. I don't leave my security blanket of the shoreline easily at this point in the paddle. The sun is getting low on the horizon now, and i round the point and spot the shelter of Mill Bay. Whoooooooosh...... I'm tired, sore, and my butt cheek is getting that awful tingle of falling asleep.

I tie the kayak up to the handrail, change my clothes and I'm off for a much-needed walk up the highway to the Fish and Chip shop for some nourishment. I must have been quite a sight, hair twisted into curls by the salt, beard sticking straight out, salt stung red-eyes, and a stiff legged, swaggering gait. An after-dinner coffee (x2) and donut at TH's, some deep introspection of what I've been through today, and back to my beloved 'Tassie' for the final leg of my journey. It's dark now, and I'll be paddling the rest of the night in complete darkness, no moon, and very few lights. Not a ripple on the water as i pull out of Mill Bay - hard to believe this is the same ocean that rammed it's will down my throat hours earlier. No boats on the water, the dull glow of the lights on the penninsula lighting the canopy of low clouds overhead. A spatter of misty rain starting. I'm off! Plan is to hug the shoreline along the Malahat side of Finlayson Arm all the way back. Next landmark are the incredibly bright lights of Bamberton, I choose to paddle towards them, a landmark in the darkness. The drizzle continues as I paddle so I put my touque on and covere it with the hood from my windbreaker, my little LED light holds the whole mess on my head and keeps it out of my eyes. I never bother turning the light on as there isn't a soul on the water, and the darkness consumes it's beam. Later I'd find the reflection back off the mist made it useless for the rest of the journey. It is very dark as I pass point after point. My night vision is as good as it is going to get but there is nothing. I'm in the deep valley between two mountain ranges. High over-head a car shines it's lights off into the mist as it rounds a corner, ghostly beacons, searchlights, far, far above me in another world. By squinting into the blackness i can barely discern the angles of the next point sloping down to the water. 5 feet or 5oo feet away, I can't tell, i just keep paddling. A few times I have to swerve fast and hard to avoid an unexpected rock jumping out at me from the darkness. Other times i paddle for what feels like hours before finding the next point. Not a sound, not a light, nothing but 'Tassie' and I making our way slowly up a long funnel. The phosphouresence is my constant companion, and I often move closer to shore to find areas where it is more dense so that i can marvel at it, and play in it's glow. On my front deck, trapped under a perimeter line, a little single light glows, and keeps me company for hours before finally washing off. To my port an opening in the mist filled darkness, as i pass by I look across to see the outline of distant land masses against the sky. On and on I paddle, around each point, another point, and another, and another, a waterfall somewhere off my starboard, heard but not seen, and then lights. The orange glow of street lamps, and as I get closer, masts, then shadows of hulls, and boathouses. I duck to the right and paddle towards the boat ramp, peering into the darkness, partially blind from the glare of lights. WHOOOMP!!! The bow goes up, and I desperately back paddle, too late, in the darkness and glare, I've misjudged and managed to plow right up onto the boat ramp at a good 4 knot clip. I slide myself out of my kayak, stretch out, walk up to my tricycle, change my clothes, load up and head for home. It's midnight.

The push up the drive from the marina is grueling, taken six feet at a time, my already spent calves screaming. A long downhill coast along the highway, again wheel rubbing the divider. I choose to travel down, head-on to the traffic so I can see what is coming, not a good scene as the big trucks pass, a spray of water following them, my little trike and LED light not much more than a glimmer in the dark. I hate this stretch. Further along I cross over to Goldstream avenue, and follow the well-lit and respectable bike lane all the way through Langford, hop onto the Galloping Goose Trail and make my way home. After delivering my papers I collapse into bed and sleep... ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

So there it is, my two-and-a-half day, 61 hour, express run around Saltspring.

Tell you the truth, I think I could do it in 48 hours ...maybe next year!
daniel

Time on the water - 61 hours.