Kayaking

Humor

It's raining buckets outside, and the sidewalks are awash, which is what I've come to expect in Prince Rupert. Every Pacific cloud that lacks a silver lining is directed by Cloud Central to head for the Skeena River mouth, with orders to dump upon arrival.

In the lobby of the hotel, Frank McCurdy bounces into view. As the president of SpiritWind Expeditions, he's younger than I expect, but any reservations about him as guide, chef and kayak guru for the next week dissolve quickly. Frank is an enthusiast of the highest order. Who wouldn't be, when you're running outdoor adventures in one of the supposedly wettest places on the British Columbia coast? "No problem, guys," says Frank confidently, obviously reading our collective thoughts in the warm dry lobby. "It's just a shower. It'll be over in no time. And besides, out in the Melville Islands, we'll be clear of all this stuff. Really!"

Melville Islands, BC-Alaska border.

His optimism is catching, as he takes us through the plan for the morning. It involves an early start, to catch the calm in Chatham Sound, before the wind gets up. We'll take a water taxi across, but still, it's better to get into the lee of the Moffat Islands before noon.

The next day, as Frank predicted, we leave the dark clouds of Prince Rupert behind as we head west through the coastal islands. The rain diminishes to a drizzle, then to a mist. Finally, the wipers stop their buzzing. The sea is calm. Fish boats and cruise ships require us to wander a bit off our heading. Frank breaks out the danishes and coffee, and we have breakfast.

By mid-morning we're in Hudson Bay Channel, where the sea is gray and metallic, like liquid steel. Small islets crowded with trees are cutting wakes ... the region has tides of over six metres! The ocean really pumps in and out at times. This makes for great inter-tidal studies, if you're into starfish and kelp.

Rounding a headland, we all gaze at what will be "our" island. We're going to spend the first four days of the trip there. As we approach, it occurs to us all that it looks pretty much like every other island.

"You sure you got the right island, Frank?"

"Hey, do I look like the kind of guy that makes mistakes?" Asks Frank, in a hurt tone of voice.

"Yes!" Is the unequivocal opinion.

Camp One is under a canopy of western red cedar, on a carpet of wild lily-of-the-valley. The ground underfoot must be ten metres thick with peat. Walking across it feels like dancing on a trampoline. Frank sets up the cooking area while we pitch tents, and before you know it, lunch is served. It's the first of many McCurdy Meals. Unlike those other McMeals, ours are full of fresh ingredients and creative cooking.

Camping under tall trees.

It turns out Frank went to cooking college, as well as guiding school. His Mexican fajitas au Swiss cheese & fresh mango a la Francoise are a gourmet's delight.

"Who taught you to cook like this?" Asks someone as they tuck into their fifth piece. It turns out Frank, who is 27, is engaged. "To a lady?" Someone asks. Not only a lady, but an OLDER lady. Who can cook. What better way to learn? "Bring her along, too, next time," someone suggests.

Our third day dawns perfectly clear and still. There is a lot of blue stuff above, which Frank, who has been in Rupert all summer, doesn't immediately recognize. "It's called sky," explains Renee from California. "It's a big attraction down our way."

In the two singles and two doubles, we mix and match, so those with less experience get to pair up with someone with more practice. The coastline is edged in granite headlands and bays that make for perfect exploring. The trees are brilliantly green in the sunshine, the rocks dazzlingly white, the sea a fluttering blue. Everything is alive with colour and light. At a sandy beach, I watch as our kayak shadow rises to meet the craft. The bow bumps on the sand. Silvered logs form a barrier into the forest, as we 'de-kayak', and catch some rays.

Frank is a great raconteur of previous misadventures. The cloudless sky and emerald sea remind him of a solo kayaking trip to Glacier Bay, Alaska. "It rained the whole time," he recalled. "Day and night. For many days. It never stopped. By the end of the first day I was soaked. My bag was soaked. My spare clothes were soaked. My food was soaked. Even the toilet paper was soaked.

When the sun shines ...

"Then I met a grizzly. Up close. And I realized that I really didn't need this trip at all. It was time to leave. The only problem was, it was miles to where I'd started, and the weather didn't look like it was going to change. And I was soaked. Did I mention that already?

"Then I remembered there was a place about 10 km away, where the ferry passed. It would pick you up if you were there. I left the bear, some of my clothes, and lots of skin, and paddled like crazy to get there. On the way, amazingly, it stopped raining. More of a light drizzle.

"When I got to the beach, I was early, and the rain had tapered off. I hauled my soggy tent and bag and clothes out of the hatches and spread them out on the beach rocks. Not so much to dry, as to drain.

"The ferry arrived. It came round the point so quickly I didn't really have much time to react. I'd forgotten it comes right up to the beach. As I grabbed the kayak to get it out of the way, the ferry reversed its props, and a great wall of water swept forward and up the beach. My soggy gear disappeared under a wave of saltchuk, and started to drift out to sea.

" I just grabbed everything I could, as fast as I could. I waded out up to my waist in glacial water to rescue various bits. Only when I'd collected most of it, did I realize I had an audience. The whole damn ferry was leaning over the rails, watching and laughing their heads off. What can you do?"

We adjust our sunglasses, and commiserate. Hey, life's tough. The sun is shining, there's a fish eagle on a nearby snag, and we are surrounded by a silence that you just never hear in a city.

The week is half gone, and we're moving to Camp Two, which is about four hours paddling away. Frank packs his kitchen gear, his portable library (on fish, flora and fauna -- Frank's Fascinating Facts Facility), and we're off on the morning tide. Having a six metre rise and fall means you can steal a knot or two if you're smart, and Frank has it all figured out how we're going to do the least amount of paddling for the maximum amount of distance traveled.

Lazing on a deserted beach.

He claims it's the result of his upbringing in Sri Lanka (Ceylon to you). His dad was an engineer out there. Growing up in a tropical climate, Frank learned the benefit of doing whatever was necessary to minimize effort. Still, when someone catches a rock cod, he's the first to fillet it and plan some haute cuisine with wild rice and lots of lemon and garlic.

This is Frank's second year developing SpiritWind. He's established four tours to isolated areas, and is building a customer base. It's a growing business, and you sense immediately that he loves people and enjoys showing them the magic of this remote coast. Before running his own show, he guided for other outfits for years, and has paddled just about every section of the NW coastline. Early on, he took the Canadian Outdoor Leadership Training program. By his own admission, he loathed rock climbing and despised skiing, but loved everything to do with paddling. He realized then where his future lay.

On our last night, it begins to rain, rather like Frank's Alaskan story. Grouped under a tarpaulin that's spread between trees at the beach, we listen to the drumming on the nylon. In a foolish moment, we agree that a fire would be a great pick-us-upper. Trouble is, there's no dry wood.

We have to forcibly prevent Frank from rushing out into the rain to collect logs, as he's busy making brownie squares, and mustn't be disturbed. "You're an essential service, Frank. Don't move." The rest of us collect sodden branches and dripping old-mans-beard, and try to get things lit. We make the mistake of building the fire beyond the tarpaulin. Quantities of kerosene produce little more than smoke, until we get down on hands and knees in the wet sand.

Frank whips up haute cuisine.

A combination of blowing and fanning gets the fickle flame to catch and spread. We have burn at last! Actually, it turns out we have double burn. Frank, intrigued by our pathetic fire-lighting efforts, has deserted his brownie watch, and they, too, have burned!

The final morning dawns, and everyone feels a sense of loss, that heightens when the water taxi appears in the channel. After a week of no outside human contact, it looks alien. We load and board quickly, and the misty trees and calm channels of the archipelago disappear behind dripping window panes.

"No problem," says Frank, only half in jest, "you can come back next year!"

That's not a bad idea.

If you go: Only SpiritWind offer tours to the Melville Islands. They also have a number of other trips to remote archipelagoes. Check their website, or write them at Spirit Wind Expeditions Ltd., 1532 Bewicke Avenue, North Vancouver, BC, Canada V7M 2B9. Tel: (604)990-9565 fax: (604)986-5115. In 2000, they provided all kayaking and tenting equipment, water taxi to and from the archipelago, food and instruction/guide/cook for a 7-day trip for C$990 (US$665). Getting to Prince Rupert: By car: via Prince George, Hazelton, Terrace and the beautiful Yellowhead Highway No.16. By rail: through the Canadian Rockies on VIA Rail Canada, on the spectacular Skeena Line (mid-May to October). Tel: 1-888-VIARAIL. By ferry: from Port Hardy, BC on the BC Ferries Inside Passage cruise. Takes 15 hours, stopping at a variety of fascinating communities along the way. Sails north one day, south the next. Advanced bookings advisable. Tel: 1-888-BCFERRY. If you need to reach Port Hardy, Pacific Coastal Air flies from Vancouver to Port Hardy. Tel: 1.800.663.2872. By air: Air Canada and/or Canadian Regional fly two medium sized jets into Prince Rupert daily. The airport is on Digby Island. You'll need to take the bus/ferry (C$11) to the city.

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