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Our trip through the once-turbulent rapids at slack water was uneventful. We slipped calmly into the steep-sided inlet, awed by the magnificence of the Caren Range rising to the west and mighty Mount Hallowell standing guard. With all this deep water around, protected Storm Bay, nine kilometres (five nautical miles) south of the rapids at the entrance to Narrows Inlet, makes for a central, convenient anchorage when exploring the inlets. It’s a great rendezvous spot for those who prefer not to anchor off the marine pocket parks overnight. As we entered the bay and rounded the boulder strewn point, well marked by kelp, the Pender Harbour Power & Sail Squadron was out in full force, colours flying and boats neatly rafted stern-to off the rocky bluff. At low water, clams and oysters are in abundance east of the small lagoon, which is warm enough for swimming and fun to investigate at high water. The coast was going through a wonderful spell of settled weather. The peaceful anchorage at the head of Storm Bay looked most welcoming, so we moved positions, dropped the hook and stayed a few days. First time visitors are often unaware of the tight knit community that spend most of the summer in creatively built cabins and tree homes, carefully concealed amidst the forested shoreline. The community of Storm Bay, approximately eight families, owns a parcel of land without private boundaries, purchased and shared by tenants-in-common and established in 1967. After a leisurely brunch the following morning, we took advantage of the up-inlet wind and enjoyed a gentle 14-kilometre (eight-nautical mile) sail to the head of Narrows Inlet. The scenery awaiting us was stunning. Regal Mount Drew and the glacier-topped Earl Range rose to the west while snowy peaks and a cascading waterfall created a magnificent backdrop midway up the inlet. Trees, covered with fine, hair-like caterpillar webs, tipped the water’s edge. Territorial kingfishers, with their ear-piercing screech, dashed and darted along the shoreline, protecting their waterfront property. Tzoonie Narrows Marine Park, between Tzoonie Point and the narrows themselves, proved to be a delightful little spot to drop anchor. The water was warm enough for swimming and “Henry the Whale Islet” became a spacious sunbathing rock at low water. We named this oddly shaped islet for Muriel Wylie Blanchet’s enchanting story where a young whale named Henry is warned by his elders to stay away from the Skookumchuck Rapids. Distracted while chasing a great school of salmon, he ends up, battered and bruised, on the other side of Sechelt Inlet. He is at his wits’ end, after days of swimming in circles, until, with the help of Timothy the seagull, he follows the rocky shoreline and eventually finds the exit through the Skookumchuck at slack water. The following morning, Laurence and I headed south 11 kilometres (six nautical miles) to Kunechin Point Marine Park to investigate its anchoring possibilities. We chose the mouth of the eastern cove as our overnight stop. Anchoring in deep water and at low water, we let out a good bit of chain and swung in 2.5 to 3 metres (8 to 10 feet) of water to avoid the rock-studded entrance. The anchorage is exposed to up and down inlet winds but as the weather forecast spoke of no unfavourable winds, we were happy to stay and share the quiet, calm evening with a family of kayakers and the local wildlife. An exploratory trip up Salmon Inlet was on our agenda the following day. Luck was with us as a steady up-inlet wind began to build. This allowed us to do without the noisy engine and run downwind on the mainsail for two short hours, enjoying the peace of this lovely inlet. Our next surprise was to discover powerful Misery Creek, gushing into the inlet’s north shore through a narrow cleft in the huge granite slabs that make up the sheer rock face. I couldn’t resist taking an exploratory row over to the falls to experience this powerful force of nature up close. It was well worth the involuntary shower. Our next discovery stood in total contrast to the first. Gentle Sechelt Creek, on the inlet’s southern shore, flows down to form a delta, creating a magical white sandy beach at low water. The sand is powder fine, squeaky clean and flecked with shiny mica fragments that glisten in the sunlight. We set up camp with our beach towels and picnic and swam in the warm, shallow water until the last of the beach gently melted away. The afternoon was warm and sunny, the tide rising and the warm waters off the beach at Nine Mile Point were calling. A favourite from a previous visit, just south of the entrance to Salmon Inlet, this small marine park has a steep, deep water drop-off from the delta beach. However, as the weather was settled with no threat of wind, we anchored in deep water and took a taut stern line to a large log above the high-water mark. We also angled the bow south, in case of a possible up-inlet breeze during the night. From the marine park, you look west to the Caren range, a ridge of mountains that runs north to south and follows the inlet’s western shore. When the sun sets behind them, it’s a stupendous sight. Enr oute to Sechelt the next day, we headed south, deep into the inlet, and popped into Tillicum Bay Marina to check out its facilities and top up on water. To conclude our southerly journey, we tied up at the well-worn Porpoise Bay public wharf in time to take a stroll into Sechelt village for lunch and a little provisioning. That afternoon, the wind abruptly switched to the northwest and a strong, hot flow of air rushed south down Wharf Road to Trail Bay. The weather forecast called for gale-force winds, which we interpreted as a bumpy night for us at Porpoise Bay’s public wharf. We decided to move Dreamspeaker and anchor in the northwest corner, in the lee of the Native reserve land, where we found the holding excellent in mud. Although sleep was fitful, we felt safe. By dawn, it was peaceful again. We had survived the night, or so we thought. I went forward to bring up the anchor while Laurence made sure that the engine was behaving as it should. To my astonishment and horror, our final length of chain arrived on deck minus our old faithful “Big Bruce”, Dreamspeaker’s slightly oversized anchor that had kept us secure for the last 18 years. On close inspection, we discovered that the top pin on the swivel-shackle had worked its way out. Luckily for us, the anchor had held during the storm and the pin had only given way as we tried to retrieve the anchor from the bottom’s excellent holding. Thank goodness for our spare anchor which would have to do until a new ‘Bruce’ could be found. It was another glorious day and we were off to visit a very special person on our trip back up the inlet. While visiting the summer community of Storm Bay, we were told of Eric Gunnar Gjerdin. Eric likes to be known by his middle name Gunnar, and he is one of Sechelt Inlet’s pioneering personalities who still lives on his original farmstead in the isolated community of Doriston, initially known as Shaw Cove. Gracious and sociable, he is well loved by local residents and you can usually find him sitting under the shade of his 50-year-old Heritage birch tree on the inlet’s western shoreline, below lofty Mount Hallowell. This delightful image of Gunnar sitting under his shady tree remained with us during our week’s trip exploring the inlet. On our return journey, with time to spare before navigating Sechelt Rapids, we sailed close to shore on the lookout for a concealed homestead, a large tree and an elderly man. Approaching the calculated location, I went forward, armed with binoculars while Laurence furled the foresail. The setting before us was just as it had been described, and as we had pictured it. The small beach, which had formed off the river delta, led to a grassy shoreline where the magnificent birch tree sheltered a sedately seated figure we assumed was Gunnar. I waved, indicating that we would like to come ashore, and he returned the wave, watching us with interest as we dropped the main and anchored off the beach. Everything felt dream-like as we climbed into ‘Tink’ and rowed ashore to introduce ourselves--it was if he had been waiting for us to arrive. But then, Gunnar always sat in his preferred spot at this time of day and was used to a variety of visitors. As we shook hands, I was taken aback by the fit-looking 88-year-old who towered above me. The soft light illuminated his brilliant shock of white hair and calm, azure blue eyes. Today, the community of Doriston is made up of four families, give or take, who live in paradise and tend their gardens for the summer before returning to urban life in the fall. At times, Eric will have the company of four or five neighbours during winter, but will often find himself the sole ambassador of the community during the harshest winter months. Although he said he misses the companionship, he admits that being alone vastly improved once he acquired a cellular phone and a large satellite dish that brings television images right into the room “as clear as if I was standing beside them.” For shopping and collecting mail, his faithful tin boat and outboard transports him through the Sechelt Rapids to Egmont Village, where he can get all that he needs in one spot. Eric’s pride and joy is his large, well-laid-out garden, which produces more than he needs to survive on for the year. He gives away two-thirds of his staples to neighbours and friends. As potato-lovers but not gardeners, Laurence and I were staggered at how much Eric’s plot could produce; 1,400 pounds (635 kg) of potatoes sounded like a lot of spuds to consume in a year and the onions were not far behind. My craving for fresh produce grew as he continued with his list of Swiss chard, cabbage, beets, brandy wine tomatoes, turnips, leeks, parsnips and garlic. (A herd of local elk loves his garlic, Swiss chard and leeks.) We could have stayed and exchanged stories for many more hours but the Skookumchuck called to us. Besides, Gunnar was off to a birthday party for the young twins next door. As Gunnar bade us both a warm farewell, I couldn’t resist giving him a big hug, which he seemed to enjoy as much as I did. He then stepped, ever so adeptly, into his well-used tin boat, fired up the 15-horsepower Honda outboard and zoomed off with ‘panache’ to join the party. We were told by Bill Proctor at Echo Bay that Gunnar has since passed away. I feel privileged to have met him and record his story. More stories about the wonderful coastal personalities we have met while cruising appear in our on-board log book and published travelogue, Voyage of the Dreamspeaker – Harbour Publishing ...back to 48° North title page.
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I couldn’t resist exploring where Misery Creek gushes through narrow gaps in the granite slabs. The experience was well worth the shower.
More stories about the wonderful coastal personalities we have meet while cruising appear in our on-board log book and published travelogue,