We were experienced kayakers and planned to paddle along the remote central coast of British Columbia through an archipelago of uninhabited islands, a 60-mile loop out of Bella Bella. Not a huge distance each day, but parts would be in the open ocean. We decided to carry emergency transponders that might bring the Canadian Coast Guard in time to save us if things went terribly wrong in the turbulent currents of the north Pacific.
My husband, John, meticulously plotted our two-person, eight-day kayak camping excursion. On this route there was only one source of fresh water, described in the guidebooks as “tea-coloured.” If boiled, it could do in a pinch. This meant carrying a week’s worth of water in platypus bags as our primary source, and limiting our gear to the barest, most compact essentials.
The total storage space in a typical sea kayak is about the same as a wine barrel, with an opening just big enough for a volleyball to fit through. In this space we had to fit at least 12 gallons of water, sleeping bags, sleeping pads, a tent with poles and rain flap, a tarp, ropes, camp stove, cooking and eating utensils, fuel, first aid and repair kits, nautical electronics, rain suits, dry clothes, bug shirts, sandals, books to read, wine, and a few other sundries, not to mention dry suits, life jackets, and spare paddles. And, of course, a week’s worth of food.
I confess, I’m a foodie and I love to cook gourmet meals even with a single pot on a butane camp stove. Friends tell me the camp food I’ve made is better than what they normally eat at home. I try. I honestly did not see how we would have enough space in our kayaks for eight days of food.
“Look at what I bought today,” John said, holding up what looked like a square plastic painter’s palette with a thumb hole.
“Wha..?”
“It’s a fishing jig for kayakers,” he explained. “I’m going to fish for our dinners.” I could tell from his confident tone I would have a hard time talking him out of this survival plan.
“So we’re paddling to some remote islands, miles from any town, with maybe half the food we need, on the chance of catching fish every day?” I asked incredulously.
“Trust me,” he said. “Those waters are full of fish. Everyone says it’s easy.”
I was skeptical but planned accordingly. Our gourmet meals would include fish en papillote, cioppino fish stew, fish tacos, fish pad thai, and seafood paella. I took extra pre-cooked rice and dehydrated beans, just in case. I wrote out each day’s menu—breakfast, lunch, dinner—and portioned all the dry ingredients into plastic baggies. John sorted the gear into dry bags. We practiced packing everything into the boats and it all seemed to fit.
We got up early on a sunny June morning and boarded the ferry to Victoria. It took the rest of the day to drive the length of Vancouver Island. We stopped in Nanaimo to get lunch and a waterproof navigational chart, and in Campbell River for a fishing license. John also purchased three “buzz bomb” lures—the ones that guaranteed you’d catch fish. In Port Hardy, at the north end of the island, we shopped for precise amounts of fresh vegetables that would last without refrigeration (cabbage, celery, carrots, onions, etc.), snacks for the ferry to Bella Bella, and wine, which we transferred to platypus bags. The next morning, we unloaded everything at the ferry terminal, parked our truck in the long-term lot, and boarded the Discovery Coast with just our kayaks, paddles, and provisions.
The ferry was a big vessel, but it suddenly felt tiny as we headed into the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean and Queen Charlotte Strait against the backdrop of Canada’s snow-capped peaks and silent, green dark forests. Right away we started seeing whales. We asked the captain if we could come up on the bridge, and she agreed to give us a brief tour. All the while she peered through binoculars and pointed out blows from humpbacks, greys, and minkes, which she recorded in a log.
There was a special culture on this overnight ferry to Bella Bella. Most of the passengers were from the Heiltsuk First Nation. They were going home from Vancouver Island where they periodically stocked up on items that were not available in their tiny village 100 nautical miles north. They knew how to ride this droning vessel. They came prepared with queen-sized inflatable mattresses, or they took dibs on a few padded benches in the cafeteria where you could stretch out and sleep. The regular reclining seats that John and I claimed were about as comfortable to sleep in as those on an airplane. Anyway, we were too excited to sleep much. We were up before dawn pacing the upper deck, scanning the waters and shorelines of the inside passage for wildlife.
BC Ferries out of Port Hardy accommodates kayaks, which they load onto rolling racks and lash down. Back then, if you pre-arranged it, they would even launch your kayaks directly from the ferry at some mid-point in the route. We watched the crew that morning work with a pair of kayakers to lower their boats from a platform off the car deck as the ferry idled near Calvert Island.
Our stop was McLoughlin Bay, the first port of call on this route that eventually went to Bella Coola. It’s at the southern end of a road that, in its entirety, is about three kilometres long and goes to the Heiltsuk village of Bella Bella. The crew wheeled our kayaks off the ferry, and we schlepped our gear down to the adjacent beach. Under the gaze of a dozen bald eagles, we packed the boats, donned our dry suits, did some stretching, and launched ourselves into the main channel. There had been a few rain squalls on the way up. Fog clung to the edges of the islands. The marine radio gave the week’s forecast as partly sunny, no winds. Perfect kayaking weather.
Once we got past human settlements, we breathed the forest vapors and briny mist. The quiet engulfed us, pierced only by the shrill screech of an eagle or the throaty tonk of a raven. At night we heard distant conversations between wolves.
For seven days we wended our way between islands through narrow passages that looked more like rivers than ocean. They spilled out into wide channels and Pacific swells then narrowed again to hidden, tidal sanctuaries. We discovered summer nesting grounds of sandhill cranes and thriving ancient clam beds. We paddled with sea otters in thick, dancing kelp gardens and spied scruffy minks as they scavenged rare shoreline camp sites. When the tide was low, we sunned ourselves on white sandy beaches and portaged across rocky troughs covered with mussels that I swear were a foot long.
John caught fish every time he went out. Mostly rockfish, though our favourite was a lingcod. He tied them on a line off the edge of his boat and almost had one stolen by a seal. I gained a deeper trust and appreciation for his confidence and skill (I even took a picture of him beside his kayak holding his prize lingcod that we later had printed on our credit cards). He gutted and fileted the fish on the beach and left the skin and skeletons on a rock for the sharp-eyed eagles or ravens that kept us under constant surveillance and were eager to share the feast.
Our last day was a 10-mile paddle back to the ferry dock and marina at Shearwater. We crossed the broad shipping channel now dotted with the first small boats we’d seen in days. John wanted to check out a deep, narrow inlet he had read about, said to have an excellent campsite at the end. He was a few hundred metres ahead of me, well into the inlet, as I entered its narrow mouth—about 10 metres across.
It was then I heard the unmistakable explosion of whale breath.
The dorsal fins of three adult female orcas broke the surface between John and me, followed by an equal number of juveniles. Immediately I realized I was not in a safe position. With a kayak on either side of them and me directly in front of their only way out of the inlet, the huge mama orcas would surely feel threatened. John waved at me frantically to get out of the way.
I back-paddled for my life to a spot on one side of the opening. There was a shallow ridge of sand just under the surface. I thought I’d be safer there and out of their way.
Suddenly, the biggest of the dorsal fins came straight at me at top speed. I flashed on that movie clip I’d seen of a killer whale lurching up onto a beach to grab a seal in its sharp teeth. My kayak was flimsy compared to an orca. I was a pistachio nut about to be popped out of its shell. John watched helplessly as I raised my paddle over my head and screamed. “Aaaaaiii…”
Blocked from a direct underwater hit by the ridge of sand, the orca’s whole body flew out of the water, close enough for me to touch. She soared over the bow of my kayak and plunged back into the mouth of the inlet while the others were making their escape. It is impossible to describe the terror and awe of that moment. It all happened so fast. I kept screaming and screaming. But somehow, I had survived. The mother orca was probably just running interference for the others and had no intention of harming me. But she easily could have crushed me had she wanted.
“I know I tease you about exaggerating things,” John yelled as he reached me, my heart still pounding, my arms gone rubbery. “But I don’t think you can ever overstate that. If only I could have taken a picture.”
I wanted to hit him with my paddle.
As we slowly made our way back to the ferry dock another seven miles on, wondering if anyone would believe us, we noticed all the seals in the area had hauled themselves up on the highest rocks they could reach along the shoreline. Their excited barking went from panic to laughter as we passed by. I imagined them telling stories about their own narrow escapes from killer whales and about these idiot kayakers.
We have returned several times to share with friends the splendor of those wild and pristine islands. We once camped on a beach inhabited by a pack of clam-digging sea wolves that swim miles in the ocean. We’ve nearly been swept away by strong tidal currents, and we’ve had unexpected close encounters with humpbacks. But nothing can compare to being charged by a 20-foot, 3-ton orca, an experience I don’t care to repeat.
