We were nine days and 130+ NM into an outer coast jaunt from Bella Bella to Prince Rupert. It was day 2 of 4 days that we would spend on Banks Island, the coast of which is festooned with all sorts of confidence-inspiring place names. Calamity Bay, Terror Point, Grief Point, Foul Bay, Junk Ledge and Wreck Islands to name a few. As we ground against the current and quartering wind I pondered how all of those features ended up being named after bad experiences. Little did I know that I would soon be adding to the Banks Island Collection of Nightmare Names by christening a small indentation in the rocky shoreline with the name “Crap Camp”.
We were into what has probably been my least favorite day of kayaking ever and it was followed by what was certainly my least favorite night. The paddle up island was just a raggedy, grey wet slog. Low grey clouds, heavy grey rain, endless grey water and battering grey gale. A very tough day of paddling in rain and moderate to strong west winds with associated sea state. Awkward wind direction, adverse currents, bent and reflected waves. Staying upright took concentration. Staying warm was more difficult. No place to land, let alone camp.
About 1.5 NM south of Kelp Point we entered a narrow tapering cove to get out of the conditions and found a beach-of-sorts that was choked with large drift logs. While it would be inundated by the evening’s high tide it was out of the wind and we had been in our boats for five hours so we landed to see if camping was possible. Everywhere, rivulets carved streams in the sand beneath the confusion of logs and anyplace you stepped immediately filled with water that didn’t soak in. The steeply ascending forest that backed the beach was impenetrable.
There was one tiny place at the base of the rock-lined forest where Dave’s two-person tent could be crammed in to accommodate one person. Then, we found a small sloping spot for me to jam in up against the rocks that bordered the beach. It took a lot of clearing and laying of sticks and still wasn’t nearly large enough for my tent but it looked like someplace I could maybe seek shelter from the rain. Greg was screwed as there was no room inside our tents and I had taken the last possible spot. He vowed to set up, watch the tide and move below the logs after the tide retreated. He placed all sorts of small flotsam in front of the logs that would make noise if they moved and woke him up.
I stripped out of my dry suit inside the tent and noted that the floor was already soaked as water moved beneath it. I had to be careful about letting anything touch the floor as it would immediately be wet and I was cold. My sleeping bag was already damp and didn’t provide the insulation I needed so I kept my neoprene helmet liner on, changed into my last clean and dry long underwear, put on my last dry socks, wrapped my jacket around my feet, zipped up my bag and attempted to stay on top of my air mattress which provided a tiny sort-of island. If I could keep everything dry by staying on top of the mattress, I had a chance to warm up and get some rest. That was a fool’s mission, though as the “ground” sloped significantly towards the water so I continually migrated down the mattress and had to wriggle back up. The wetness on the tent floor increased and by the light of my headlamp I could see water pooling beneath it. Just as I would start to doze off, I would feel the end of the tent with my feet and do the uphill wriggle again. At least my feet and legs were warming up.
About this time, I was figuring that there wasn’t much else that could go wrong when between wriggles I received an unwanted visit from the Gastro-Intestinal Fairy. “Wait-what?!” I had been bothered by odd rumblings for a few days but had been able to keep things in check. Now the GI Fairy was calling checkmate and it was time to get out of the tent in a hurry. Like about 5 minutes ago but I was zipped tightly into my bag with my legs zipped tightly into the sleeves of my jacket.
Ticktock.
No time for a zipper to get stuck but in my haste, I jammed it up good.
Ticktocktick.
Doing the uphill wriggle to exit my bag while struggling to accomplish a favorable outcome I quickly abandoned any attempts of keeping things dry.
Ticktockticktock
I had to get the damn insulated jacket off of my legs.
Ticktockticktocktick.
Next came unzipping the tent but in my panicked attempt I grabbed the upper zipper instead of the lower.
Ticktockticktockticktock.
Time was up and I had to be outside. I didn’t have time to zip it back up and grab the lower zipper so I negotiated the partially open tent door with as much care as was possible, which under the circumstances is to say none at all. Throwing the vestibule door up over my head I rapidly crawled out into the driving rain in my last clean and dry long johns and socks, the very same ones that I had worked so hard to keep dry. On the verge of exploding, I aimed away from the tent and paid homage to the GI Fairy.
I didn’t sleep that night as I was soaked, cold, fixated on the water in my tent, worried about another visit by the G.I.F. and wondering whether it was worth trying to stay on my “air mattress island” or just roll over and die of hypothermia. After much consideration I chose to live.
So, on a 238 NM, 15 day trip that was one of the best experiences of my life there wasn’t a ton of Type I fun to be had. Lots of Type II experiences and one totally Type III day and night. Would I do it again? Damn right I would. In a heartbeat. I’ve replaced my soiled long johns so I’m good to go.
