Skipper’s View

After a pleasant evening in Fitzgibbon Cove we were ready to move into the more majestic sections of the Misty Fjords. The weather forecast promised settled weather and I thought we’d be cruising out on an ebbing current southward. Should be an easy, fast run down to Walker Inlet.

Wrong on both counts! As soon as we turned back out into Behm Canal we were hit with 20-25 knot winds ripping up the channel. The wind tunnel effect strikes again. I also clearly didn’t understand how the current flows in the Behm Canal, and we found a strong current flowing northwards against us during the ebb. All in all, it made for a miserable slog beating up the channel under motor, running slow to avoid pounding.

The current direction was clear as we passed the inlet where the Chickamin River flows into the Behm Canal. The outflow was light colored from the silt, and was moving northwards on the ebb. The distinct line in the water was striking.

The tension reduced significantly as we turned into Walker Inlet, and had relief from the wind and current on our nose. Cruising up the fjord was magical. Many of the massive granite cliffs had waterfalls streaming down like pieces of white yarn. The sheer cliffs plunged directly to the water into depths of 500-900 feet below the surface.

The glacially carved hanging valleys above us were often capped with snow, feeding the waterfalls below. Clouds clung to the tops of the cliffs like grasping hands from above.

Our challenges returned as we moved into Walker Cove, a bight on the side of the inlet relatively close to the head. Anchoring here was purported to be challenging, and the one parks department mooring ball was the recommended place to stay. As there were no other boats in the inlet, we went for the mooring ball.

The “ball” was more of a “tire”, painted white with a big steel hoop affixed to the top. We couldn’t reach this from the bow of the boat, so backed in and grabbed it from the stern. The wind was still quite high at this point, and I was helping pilot in between meetings. Once we snagged the ball and secured it to an aft cleat on Perception, I returned to meetings and we rested for a bit.

Once my meetings ended, we went back at the mooring. We really wanted to be tied at the bows with a bridle, but also didn’t want to let go of our existing connection in the wind. We slowly worked the connections around to the bows by taking a line to the midship cleat, then to the bows, and finally to both bows. It was an arduous process that took about a half-hour to complete, and we were exhausted by the time we were settled in correctly.

In hindsight it likely would have been better to just hang by the stern until later in the evening when the wind died, but it wasn’t clear at the time that the wind would subside. Given my failure to predict both current and wind that day, my confidence was at a nadir…

As the wind began to subside in the early evening, the cove became quite pleasant. We were able to hear what we think were bears in the trees to the east. Something growling and groaning in a horrible way in any case. The noisy denizen never emerged from the trees to give us confirmation.

After dinner we took Ghost (our dinghy) up the small stream coming into the cove. We couldn’t get very far in before it turned into small, rocky rapids, and we had to turn back.

I was stunned by the majesty of Walker Cove, and even more so by the isolation. We didn’t see a single other boat here while we stayed, and no airplanes overhead. It was like we were in Yosemite, but on the water with the whole place to ourselves.

The next day we moved south to Punchbowl Cove. Upon entering we immediately felt the oppression of humanity returning. There was another boat in the cove!! And on the single mooring ball to boot. Anchoring was not such a challenge here, so we dropped our hook near the outflow from the streams at the head of the cove and settled in.

Before long we noted that there was a dinghy ashore. A couple from our neighbor boat were soon aboard and paying us a visit. They pointed out a grizzly on the shore nearby that had just emerged from the trees, apparently a daily visitor. The couple had been looking for the trail to Punchbowl Lake, a presumably short hike with a steep climb to the lake perched above the cove. As they had found more bear signs than trail, they decided to give up and move on to their next anchorage.

The couple told us they would be leaving soon, so we could take the mooring ball once they were off. Melinda decided to head out to fish from the dinghy, and would tie to the ball until we could move Perception over. This worked out well as I was in meetings most of the day, so we could take our time getting over to the ball without worrying about another boat coming in to take it before us. It also allowed Melinda to loop our mooring lines through the ball from the dinghy, and we could tie off directly to the bows without the shenanigans of the day before.

We took a number of pictures and videos of the resident grizzly. We were a bit startled at his move into the water, but it appeared he only had interest in the shallows. His apparent bulk was greatly reduced by his bath, though even when wet his size was formidable.

Once work was over for me, Grace and I decided to try our luck with the trail to Punchbowl Cove. We hadn’t stretched our legs for a while, so thought it would be fun. Melinda was the smartest of us as usual, and declined as the description of the trail was a “challenging scramble.”

Grace and I located the trailhead without much trouble, but also saw the paw prints and scat piles left by bear or bears. As we figured the resident bear was up on the other side of the cove, we proceeded with caution. We were equipped with our bear spray, the air horn from the boat, and an annoying proclivity for singing obnoxiously (mostly me) in a loud voice. Our intent was to alert any bear in our path to our presence well before it became a surprise.

The trail was indeed brutal, but Grace and I soldiered on. The trail had been nice at one point, with wooden steps and handrails at the worst places. These features were now reduced to rotten and missing planks, often with rusty nails remaining to bite ankles as you passed. It was indeed a scramble, and about all we could do to pass with our atrophied bodies after weeks on the boat.

The worst section was about two-thirds of the way up. A rockfall had pushed down trees to cover the trail, and we had to pick our way carefully through across a steep slope. Any misstep could have led to a painful fall down. Definitely not the best USFS trail we have been on!!

We finally emerged into open air again as Punchbowl Lake opened before us. We decided we really must find the boat house that was described in the park documentation. We trudged on along the lake shore, with the trail sinking into muddy soup every so often. Grace submerged a foot more than once, with the black mire sucking off her shoe before she could extract her appendage.

Eventually we found the lake house, which was a three-sided structure that was fairly well intact. It had not yet returned to the forest as much of the trail had. Inside was a deteriorating log book, so Grace put us down as “highly recommends” – actually writing “we survived”.

The log book also humorously contained more information about the trail than I’d been able to find online. Given our extreme fatigue after reaching the lake, we both sneered with sarcasm at the title “recreational opportunity guide”.

Amazingly the lake house even included a canoe and a dinghy for exploring the lake. If we’d had triple the constitution and time, we might have tried taking one out. There were also oars stowed in the lake house.

I immensely enjoyed my time with Grace, challenging ourselves to reach the top. Little did we know that the real challenge was just beginning!

As we began our descent, the extent of our fatigue became apparent. We were both quite tired and the way down was really no easier than the climb up. Singing at the top of our lungs to the mortification of the local bear population, we picked our way carefully along the trail, trying not to slip or step on sinking ground.

We’d brought along our handheld VFH to check in with Melinda, and called her once we had eyes on the cove from above. We were startled to learn that Mr. Bear from earlier in the day had made his way to the dinghy, and was now munching away on the sedge grass nearby.

Grace and I redoubled our efforts to make noise as we descended the rest of the way down the trail, getting our air horn out to sound the occasional blast in time with “Oh a Hunting We Will Go.” Melinda let us know by VHF that our efforts were in vain, and the bear had moved even closer to the trailhead where we would emerge onto the shore.

Finally, when we were about 100 meters from the trailhead, the bear began to move away. The airhorn enhanced singing had finally done the trick, and the bear wanted no part of that. We were quite alarmed though, as Melinda told us the bear had moved “up into the trees”, which was where we were at the time. Luckily he had gone off to the side, so there was no unfortunate encounter between man and beast.

Our final challenge was to get the dinghy back into the water. As we’d been away for almost three hours, the receding tide had left Ghost high and dry. With our bone-weary bodies, we hauled the 500 pound launch down the sandy beach to the water. Our remaining energy was coaxed to the surface imagining Mr. Bear watching us hungrily from the eaves of the forest.

Once back on the boat, we sloughed off our muddy wear into Melinda’s tender care, and took our turns in the shower to remove the sweat and grime. Quite the adventure for us, and so good to be back on the safe, comfortable boat.