As I write this a cold, dreary rain falls up here in Tofino. Just about every weatherman up and down our coast is salivating because of what's going on offshore right now. There's talk of the "perfect storm", a fifty year phenomenon, and upwards of 15 meter (50 foot) swells come monday. The offshore buoys are reading 4 meters (12 feet) and building fast, with a stiff 35 knot southeasterly churning the nasty, confused seas to a messy froth. It's not summer up here in Canada anymore, and while fall has certainly been pleasant, old man winter is definitely drinking his coffee and preparing for the onslaught ahead. By the looks of things, he's not much of a morning person.
I'm looking out my living room window towards the Bedwell river valley, where no doubt countless salmon, trout, and steelhead are making their way upstream in preparation for the spawn, conditioned and oblivious to the weather. While our anadromous friends are happy with the conditions, I'm furiously planning our winter calendar, which will see us depart Vancouver in a few short weeks for PV, Cabo, Clarion, and Panama - and a different sort of migration that will hopefully yield likewise viable results come spring.
(sigh....) It's been a crazy few weeks since my last report, and in all honesty i'm at a loss with regards to exactly where to begin.
The O'neil Cold Water Classic wrapped up it's show late last week, and our quaint little seaside village of Tofino seems almost too quiet now that the 96 world class surfers have packed up their entourages and departed for the next stop on tour. It was an amazing week of surfing, in solid conditions, something of a spectacle to behold as big names like Julian Wilson, Mitch Coleburn, Josh Kerr, Eric Giesleman, Nat Curran, et all literally blew up our local breaks in search of the coveted 6-star WQS crown. Unlike last year, local favorites and family members Raph, Sepp, and Pete were all knocked out early, but the level of competition still kept the entire home town crowd glued to the beach, OOOHing and AAAHHHing on just about every ride. Josh Kerr went on to win the event, and the celebrations lasted well into the weekend. I've come to realize that nobody parties harder than Aussies, and a quick check of the police report in our local paper this morning confirms my suspicions. There's more than one Aussie that won't be making the next Cold Water Classic event in Santa Cruz, CA on time, or ever for that matter. Perhaps in Australia these things are OK. But Tofino is a looooooong way from Australia, and that chit don't fly around here.
Right after the contest wrapped up I got a call from my brother-in-law Raph, asking if my boat was available for an emergency trip up the coast. Renown feral and big surf hellman Timmy Turner, originally made famous from his Indo exploits that led to a severe staph infection that forced doctors to remove half of his head, needed a ride up the coast in a hurry. Turns out Timmy had been camping and filming on a remote stretch of coast with a few friends, chasing gnarly slabs and death pits in the deep wilderness in hopes of making another movie. Since his infection in the tropics, doctors instructed Timmy that it would be a bad idea to return to bacteria-laden warm water lest the infection return. So what does Timmy do with his new titanium cranium? He departs for cold water Canada, where somehow he convinces himself that as long as he throws himself over dry reef in cold water, everything will be OK.
Anyway, a week and a half ago Timmy and his friends were running out of supplies, so Timmy hitched a ride 65 miles into town with a passing sailboat to re-supply, leaving his friends Ramrod and Will behind. While he's at the grocery store shopping he gets a frantic call from his mother back in California. Seems Timmy's Dad is in the hospital, and things aren't looking good. Timmy drops everything in his haste and flies home, where he spends a week holding his fathers hand as he suffers through a traumatic hospital stay. His father miraculously pulls through, though just barely. Timmy, happy that his father is going to live, finally remembers that he has left two of his friends in the middle of nowhere over a week ago, without food. CHIT!
Fast forward a few days and I'm racing up the coast with Timmy and his new cameraman on my Grady. We are a long, LONG way from civilization and there's some grim talk going on with regards to whether or not his friends are still alive. A few hours before our departure we receive word from the Coast Guard that a weak radio communication came in from his two friends, but connections were lost before any real pertinent information could be gained. The plot ultimately thickens.
We finally arrive at the location of their camp and are relieved to discover Ramrod and WIll are indeed still alive, though they are shaken up badly. Eight days in the wilderness surviving on nothing but berries and a few rock cod has a tendency to do that. Ramrod is screaming at Timmy before we drop anchor, and appears to have no intention of staying another minute out there. Timmy waves a case of beer in the air, as if to signal that everything is OK now. I have beer!, he tells them. Ramrod apparently doesn't hear him, and is picking up large rocks from the beach and throwing them in our direction. Luckily, he is weak from near-starvation and the rocks fall harmlessly into the water about half-way to the boat.
I guess Timmy was in such a hurry to return to check on his friends that he neglected to do much shopping. I count one Costco box of packaged oatmeal and six cases of cheap Canadian beer, the sum of their emergency rescue rations, and scarcely enough to sustain four guys for the duration of their trip. Is that going to be enough food?, I ask Timmy. Oh, we are going to eat clams and mussels, he tells me. I motion towards the water and point out that the red tide that has turned the surface of the bay to ketchup. Not with that in the water you aren't, i warn him. Oh, he says. CHIT!, again.
I scrounge up what i can for the boys from within the dark corners of the boat, and hand his new camera man a meagre bag of chips, chocolate bars, and a few mangy bottles of apple juice - expiration date unknown. Do you think we should stay out here? the cameraman asks me. I whistle, shaking my head.
Ramrod starts to recount their week of survival, sharing that they've had to shoot a black bear and a cougar in the past few days, citing self defence as the animals, evidently sensing the two stranded campers desperation, started to move in for the kill. There's still another cougar around, stalking us, he says.
Why didn't you shoot that one too?, asks Timmy. Oh, we ran out of bullets, RamRod says. But I left you a full box of shells!, Timmy responds. Ramrod nods his head, yes, he says, but the animals were persistent.
There's a seriously heated argument between the four friends as supplies are loaded onto surf boards and shuttled ashore, but eventually Timmy convinces them to stay at least a few more days. Ramrod does not look happy, but after helping them with the last of their gear i don't stick around much longer to offer condolences. I can't help but glimpse back towards the beach as i drive away from them, wondering how long the oatmeal and beer will hold out, and whether or not Timmy will ever appreciate how lucky he is that they've run out of ammo, or that he has a titanium plate for a skull.
Via con dios!, i wish them silently, and drive away.
Fast forward again to a few days later, and my cell phone starts ringing. It's Raph, he tells me there's been a mutiny, and that the boys, even Timmy, all want a ride home. Lo siento, i tell Raph, but i'm busy. I hear someone mutter CHIT! in that same disheartening way for the third time that week.
I never find out what happened, though i am strangely curious to find out what eventually happened to the second cougar, and the oatmeal and beer.
What I don't tell Raph is that the reason i can't go and get Timmy is because I am at that very moment loading a float plane with fly-fishing gear, and headed for my own wilderness adventure for the duration of the afternoon. Oren and Matt, whom you all know by now, are strapping our canoe to the plane's floats, and our good friend and pilot Josh is doing whatever pilots do before planes take off.
The plan, as simple as it sounds, was to head up to a remote lake and fish/canoe our way down the river to the estuary, where the float plane would pick us up at the end of the day. Oren and i have done this a dozen times this summer already, no biggie.
In hindsight, the mitigating factor that made this one particular trip different from the rest of our prior excursions was the appearance and inclusion of Oren's older brother, Matt. And also his dog, Harvey.
The dog didn't worry me, I've known Harvey for years, he's a good dog. What did worry me was the fact that Matt showed up wearing his Coast Guard Search & Rescue - North Pacific When The Chit Hits The Fan Edition survival drysuit. That is never a good sign, particularly when you are supposedly just going fishing.
Matt tries to shrug off our inquiries with the kind of calculated, experienced ease that often veils the underlying truth of what he is really thinking - namely that he is expecting something gnarly, and as such he has sufficiently prepared. Oren and I are left wondering, eyeing each other up in our waders, if this trip is even a good idea at all.
Matt, Oren, pilot Josh, Harvey, and I all cram into the tiny little float plane. The canoe strapped to the port float is longer than the fuselage of the aircraft. Oren is riding shotgun, Matt and I are in the back seats, and Harvey is drooling on the both of us from the cargo locker. I cannot imagine what we must have looked like pulling away from the dock.
I'm looking out my living room window towards the Bedwell river valley, where no doubt countless salmon, trout, and steelhead are making their way upstream in preparation for the spawn, conditioned and oblivious to the weather. While our anadromous friends are happy with the conditions, I'm furiously planning our winter calendar, which will see us depart Vancouver in a few short weeks for PV, Cabo, Clarion, and Panama - and a different sort of migration that will hopefully yield likewise viable results come spring.
(sigh....) It's been a crazy few weeks since my last report, and in all honesty i'm at a loss with regards to exactly where to begin.
The O'neil Cold Water Classic wrapped up it's show late last week, and our quaint little seaside village of Tofino seems almost too quiet now that the 96 world class surfers have packed up their entourages and departed for the next stop on tour. It was an amazing week of surfing, in solid conditions, something of a spectacle to behold as big names like Julian Wilson, Mitch Coleburn, Josh Kerr, Eric Giesleman, Nat Curran, et all literally blew up our local breaks in search of the coveted 6-star WQS crown. Unlike last year, local favorites and family members Raph, Sepp, and Pete were all knocked out early, but the level of competition still kept the entire home town crowd glued to the beach, OOOHing and AAAHHHing on just about every ride. Josh Kerr went on to win the event, and the celebrations lasted well into the weekend. I've come to realize that nobody parties harder than Aussies, and a quick check of the police report in our local paper this morning confirms my suspicions. There's more than one Aussie that won't be making the next Cold Water Classic event in Santa Cruz, CA on time, or ever for that matter. Perhaps in Australia these things are OK. But Tofino is a looooooong way from Australia, and that chit don't fly around here.
Right after the contest wrapped up I got a call from my brother-in-law Raph, asking if my boat was available for an emergency trip up the coast. Renown feral and big surf hellman Timmy Turner, originally made famous from his Indo exploits that led to a severe staph infection that forced doctors to remove half of his head, needed a ride up the coast in a hurry. Turns out Timmy had been camping and filming on a remote stretch of coast with a few friends, chasing gnarly slabs and death pits in the deep wilderness in hopes of making another movie. Since his infection in the tropics, doctors instructed Timmy that it would be a bad idea to return to bacteria-laden warm water lest the infection return. So what does Timmy do with his new titanium cranium? He departs for cold water Canada, where somehow he convinces himself that as long as he throws himself over dry reef in cold water, everything will be OK.
Anyway, a week and a half ago Timmy and his friends were running out of supplies, so Timmy hitched a ride 65 miles into town with a passing sailboat to re-supply, leaving his friends Ramrod and Will behind. While he's at the grocery store shopping he gets a frantic call from his mother back in California. Seems Timmy's Dad is in the hospital, and things aren't looking good. Timmy drops everything in his haste and flies home, where he spends a week holding his fathers hand as he suffers through a traumatic hospital stay. His father miraculously pulls through, though just barely. Timmy, happy that his father is going to live, finally remembers that he has left two of his friends in the middle of nowhere over a week ago, without food. CHIT!
Fast forward a few days and I'm racing up the coast with Timmy and his new cameraman on my Grady. We are a long, LONG way from civilization and there's some grim talk going on with regards to whether or not his friends are still alive. A few hours before our departure we receive word from the Coast Guard that a weak radio communication came in from his two friends, but connections were lost before any real pertinent information could be gained. The plot ultimately thickens.
We finally arrive at the location of their camp and are relieved to discover Ramrod and WIll are indeed still alive, though they are shaken up badly. Eight days in the wilderness surviving on nothing but berries and a few rock cod has a tendency to do that. Ramrod is screaming at Timmy before we drop anchor, and appears to have no intention of staying another minute out there. Timmy waves a case of beer in the air, as if to signal that everything is OK now. I have beer!, he tells them. Ramrod apparently doesn't hear him, and is picking up large rocks from the beach and throwing them in our direction. Luckily, he is weak from near-starvation and the rocks fall harmlessly into the water about half-way to the boat.
I guess Timmy was in such a hurry to return to check on his friends that he neglected to do much shopping. I count one Costco box of packaged oatmeal and six cases of cheap Canadian beer, the sum of their emergency rescue rations, and scarcely enough to sustain four guys for the duration of their trip. Is that going to be enough food?, I ask Timmy. Oh, we are going to eat clams and mussels, he tells me. I motion towards the water and point out that the red tide that has turned the surface of the bay to ketchup. Not with that in the water you aren't, i warn him. Oh, he says. CHIT!, again.
I scrounge up what i can for the boys from within the dark corners of the boat, and hand his new camera man a meagre bag of chips, chocolate bars, and a few mangy bottles of apple juice - expiration date unknown. Do you think we should stay out here? the cameraman asks me. I whistle, shaking my head.
Ramrod starts to recount their week of survival, sharing that they've had to shoot a black bear and a cougar in the past few days, citing self defence as the animals, evidently sensing the two stranded campers desperation, started to move in for the kill. There's still another cougar around, stalking us, he says.
Why didn't you shoot that one too?, asks Timmy. Oh, we ran out of bullets, RamRod says. But I left you a full box of shells!, Timmy responds. Ramrod nods his head, yes, he says, but the animals were persistent.
There's a seriously heated argument between the four friends as supplies are loaded onto surf boards and shuttled ashore, but eventually Timmy convinces them to stay at least a few more days. Ramrod does not look happy, but after helping them with the last of their gear i don't stick around much longer to offer condolences. I can't help but glimpse back towards the beach as i drive away from them, wondering how long the oatmeal and beer will hold out, and whether or not Timmy will ever appreciate how lucky he is that they've run out of ammo, or that he has a titanium plate for a skull.
Via con dios!, i wish them silently, and drive away.
Fast forward again to a few days later, and my cell phone starts ringing. It's Raph, he tells me there's been a mutiny, and that the boys, even Timmy, all want a ride home. Lo siento, i tell Raph, but i'm busy. I hear someone mutter CHIT! in that same disheartening way for the third time that week.
I never find out what happened, though i am strangely curious to find out what eventually happened to the second cougar, and the oatmeal and beer.
What I don't tell Raph is that the reason i can't go and get Timmy is because I am at that very moment loading a float plane with fly-fishing gear, and headed for my own wilderness adventure for the duration of the afternoon. Oren and Matt, whom you all know by now, are strapping our canoe to the plane's floats, and our good friend and pilot Josh is doing whatever pilots do before planes take off.
The plan, as simple as it sounds, was to head up to a remote lake and fish/canoe our way down the river to the estuary, where the float plane would pick us up at the end of the day. Oren and i have done this a dozen times this summer already, no biggie.
In hindsight, the mitigating factor that made this one particular trip different from the rest of our prior excursions was the appearance and inclusion of Oren's older brother, Matt. And also his dog, Harvey.
The dog didn't worry me, I've known Harvey for years, he's a good dog. What did worry me was the fact that Matt showed up wearing his Coast Guard Search & Rescue - North Pacific When The Chit Hits The Fan Edition survival drysuit. That is never a good sign, particularly when you are supposedly just going fishing.
Matt tries to shrug off our inquiries with the kind of calculated, experienced ease that often veils the underlying truth of what he is really thinking - namely that he is expecting something gnarly, and as such he has sufficiently prepared. Oren and I are left wondering, eyeing each other up in our waders, if this trip is even a good idea at all.
Matt, Oren, pilot Josh, Harvey, and I all cram into the tiny little float plane. The canoe strapped to the port float is longer than the fuselage of the aircraft. Oren is riding shotgun, Matt and I are in the back seats, and Harvey is drooling on the both of us from the cargo locker. I cannot imagine what we must have looked like pulling away from the dock.