Coastal Exploration Isn't Easy

[capt josh]

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.

 

[capt josh]

We require a bit of extra time during takeoff, the plane is noticeably listing to port, thanks no doubt to the terrible drag of the canoe. I'm seated on the left side of the aircraft, so i have a nice view of the rocks and trees as we finally clear the water and zoom, albeit slowly, off.

Harvey seems to enjoy flying, thankfully, because Matt lets us know at that moment over the intercom and headphones that he usually throws up in the truck, a lot. I start to pay more attention to Harvey, and notice that he is drooling considerably. I'm not sure if that's a good sign, or not.

The flight into the lake is spectacular, there is very little that can compare in the way of beauty to the aerial view of Clayoquot Sound on a sunny, bluebird day. Millions of acres of pristine fjord wilderness, countless rives, streams, and lakes. Whales, cetaceans and mammals of all kinds, working the shorelines, feasting on abundant shoals of baitfish and krill. We admire our backyard and tell stories and laugh over the headphones. We are happy to be alive, we feel free.

Josh eventually banks around the mountains and lands on a perfectly still and silent surface, taxying across the lake to a large gravel bar where the upper river flows in. Fish are jumping EVERYWHERE. Three species of salmon roll in the lake and river, and trout are gorging themselves on a diverse hatch of bugs and roe. It's all we can do to get the canoe unlashed, and the rest of the gear put together. Harvey bolts upstream in the direction of the canyon as we push the plane off and give Josh directions on where to meet us later that evening. Don't be late, he tells us, we can't fly in the dark. Roger that one, Matt says, we'll be there.

We don't waste any time putting a line in the water. I dive for my 5-weight, Matt goes for the spinning rod, and Oren produces a small fly reel from his jacket pocket. You didn't bring a rod?, i ask him. No need for a rod dude, he says, stripping line from the reel and twirling it around above his head. He builds up momentum and then eventually lets the twirling mass of fly-line and lure go in the direction of the river, and his line and lure shoot off. Oren is the only person i've ever seen hand-line for trout and salmon, ever. I ask him why he chooses to use a fly reel and fly-line for this particular endeavor. It's easier to see in the water, he says, as though this were an obvious fact. He catches a three and a half pound wild cutthroat trout on his first cast, I do not.

After a half-hour of catching fish, Matt is showing obvious signs of restlessness - he likes to fish, sure, but he is not what i would consider a die-hard fisherman. He suggests we head upriver for a while and see if we can make it to the canyon. The upper river canyon?, i ask, remembering stories Oren and Matt have told me from past adventures up there. Yes!, he says, come on, it will be fun.

The little man on my shoulder makes an appearance. He takes one look at the position of the sun, deduces that despite the hour of the day we still have plenty of time, and forces the words from my mouth. Let's do it! And we are off.

We spend the next two and a half hours alternately dragging and paddling the canoe up the upper river. Negotiating some severe class-3 rapids, log jams, and long stretches of turbulent whitewater along the way. We see three bears chasing salmon through the rapids, and at one point I ask Matt if he thinks we should stop and do some more fishing. The canyon is just around the corner, he says, we really have to reach it, it's breathtaking. He says this twice more during the next hour. Almost there, he says.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, we reach the upper river canyon. Steep, slippery walls guard the upper canyon, and there is a very large spillway at the entrance to the gorge, a vertical drop of whitewater that looks all of six feet. We need to get up and over that spillway, Matt suggests, and lays out his playbook.

Ok, JT, you need to sit in the front of the canoe. When Oren and I paddle up to that rock face on the left, jump out with the bow line and keep us steady in the current. Then, Oren and I will climb out and we'll all drag the canoe up and over the ledge. Ready? OK, GO!!!

It wasn't pretty, but we actually managed to pull it. Except that we lost half of our stuff on the first try dragging the canoe over the rapids. Finally, on the second try we did it, we were somewhat safely afloat and paddling through the canyon. Matt was right, it was breathtaking.

After a while Oren said something about the hour of the day. Something like - it's getting dark, isn't it?

CHIT.

We turned the canoe around in a hurry and paddled like mad. Don't worry, Matt said, it's a lot quicker going down then coming up. The little man on my shoulder agreed with him, and urged me to paddle faster. Faster is good.

We made our way down river in a hurry but Harvey was falling behind, no doubt exhausted. Matt suggested that we load him into the canoe in order to speed up the procession. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I noticed the sound of the spillway before i actually saw it. I turned around to look at Matt in the stern of the canoe, he was smiling. He was zipping up his drysuit. Oren and I began to cinch up our waders, I remember thinking i should have at least brought a lifejacket, but the little man on my shoulder reminded me that i was a good swimmer. I closed my eyes and braced myself for what lay ahead. Harvey shrank in the bottom of the canoe, he looked nervous. I couldn't blame him.

We hit the chute with all we could muster, but it wasn't enough. Our fourteen foot canoe was unceremoniously ejected as the bow fell over the rapids and Harvey leapt, dismounting. The force of the dog jumping over the side was no match for our inertia, and we capsized in mid-air, dumping the canoe, and all of it's occupants, into the river. It would have definitely happened anyway, but Harvey flying out of the canoe certainly didn't help as the centrifugal spin he caused as he leapt free made sure everything made it into the water.

Class-3 rapids are no place to be in the middle of October in waders. The freezing water hit my body and I screamed, blowing bubbles under the water. I thought of a bear fishing my body out of the river downstream as i kicked with biblical fury towards the shore. I bobbed to the surface, pieces of our gear floated everywhere, it was a yard-sale. I scrambled up on the rocks, fighting for air. I saw Matt float by, buoyed by the air trapped in his drysuit, he was still smiling. Oren crawled out on the opposite side of the river, dragging himself up on the rocks, the canoe was half-sunk and disappearing downstream. Harvey came kicking by next, holding a paddle in his teeth. Good dog.

It took all of us to put the pieces back together. Finally, after a long, wet, shivering eternity, back down the river we go. Harvey is back in the canoe. I don't care at this point, it's already gone terribly wrong.

 

[capt josh]

There was a particularly nasty corner and log jam that we had to negotiate on the way upriver. It looked far worse and ultimately more dangerous coming down. Half-way through the corner one of the logs that stuck out into the river peeled us in rapid succession from the canoe, dumping us into the river once more.

Every man went for himself as the current swept us through logs and stump wads, i pulled a mid-river Tarzan as i reached out and successfully latched onto one of the limbs and swung myself up and onto a log, safely. Matt floated downstream, holding onto the overturned canoe, while Oren managed to reach the opposite shore once again. My waders were now completely brimming with water, adding a new meaning to the term bone drenched and freezing. I had to pull them down and contort myself upside down on the logjam in order to drain most of the water out. Harvey floated past me as i was doing this, whining like he'd been hit by a car.

By the time we finally manage to get going again, we hear the sound of Josh and the float plane in the distance. I hope he thinks of checking the upper river when he see's we're not downstream in the estuary, Oren says. Matt suggests we paddle harder.

The sound of the plane disappears in the distance, my attitude, already dampening, becomes forlorn. I do not like the sound of a night, soaking wet, in the wilderness.

All of a sudden the sound of the plane is back, and Josh, god bless him, literally scrapes the pine cones from the tree-tops as he buzzes the river valley. He see's us, but just barely. The sun, already set, is leaving the sky growing dark.

Before we reach the lake we dump the canoe once more. Do not ever let anyone tell you that whitewater canoeing is easy.

It is a race to paddle out to the float plane, unload what remains of our gear, strap the canoe down, and literally force Harvey back into the plane. Matt and Oren have to stuff the snapping, convulsing animal into the cargo bay, it doesn't look easy. Kujo and a shoebox come to mind. Good boy, Matt keeps saying as he dodges Harvey's teeth, good dog.

Oren and I are literally shaking once we go airborne, frozen from the inside out. A short time later, as we pass Catface Mountain Harvey pops his head out of the cargo netting, coughs twice, and vomits all over my neck and right shoulder. Normally I would say something, but my teeth are chattering too much, and to be honest the puke felt quite warm.

There are several lessons to be garnered from the aforementioned excursion - namely that i will never go canoeing with Matt or Harvey without my own top quality drysuit ever, EVER again.

When we got back to town I spent three full days in bed with the flu, hammered with sickness as soon as i got home. A good strong flu, complete with high fever, constant sinus headache, and vivid, psychotic hallucinations. I went to the medicine cabinet and put myself into a NeoCitrin-induced coma as fast as i could.

On the afternoon of the third day, while i lay in bed sucking down 1200 mg's of cold medicine every four hours, my daughter came home from school and assessed my condition. She took one look at the various bottles of cold medicine next to the bed and the glassy, dilated look in my eyes. Now is the time to strike, she must have thought, Dad is ripe for the plucking.

Before i knew what was happening I had bought and paid for three tickets to the Justin Bieber concert for the following evening in Vancouver, fully intent on taking my daughter and her friend to their first concert, to JUSTIN BIEBER NO LESS!!! My daughter ran from the room, frantically dialling her friends. Mission accomplished. I am the world's greatest Dad, the thought occurred to me, over and over. Smiling, i took another shot of Nyquil and drifted back into my coma.

I dreamt of topless girls fly-fishing for steelhead that night, and I was in heaven. Beautiful women of various ethnicity, naughty nymphs half-neked and fishing. There were dozens of them, young, feisty, and hungry - and i was their king. Just as the dream was getting personal, a loud, fearful sound seemed to catch my harem's attention. They were scared, and now they were running. Running in the opposite direction. One by one my beautiful fisher-girls deserted me, disappearing into the night. What the hell is that sound?, I demanded, answer the king!

And then it hit me. The alarm was ringing, Justin Bieber already blaring from the ipod in my daughters room. No. Nonononononononononono. I didn't.

Just then the door flew open and Soleille barged into the room.

Daddy you havetogetup! Getupgetupgetup!!! We have to pick up Hannah, stop off at Sophie's cause she has a Justin Bieber t-shirt that she's going to loan me, and OH GOD! I almost forgot we have to drop the rabbit off with Moa so she can feed Moss while we're gone. COMEONDADWE'REGONNABELATEFORTHEFERRY!!!! ICAN'TBELIEVEWE'REGONNABEINTHESAMEROOMASBIEEEEEEEEEEEBER!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

She turned and spun out of the room, a flurry of excitement and activity at seven in the morning. I reached over and grabbed my cell phone, throwing it against the wall, hard. It exploded and the battery went flying, finally silencing the alarm.

If there is ever a challenge or test of a man's mettle, his ability to overcome adversity at all cost, then what i endured over the next forty-eight hours surely counts.

Nothing like taking your daughter and her friends to their first concert, while you have the flu, to endure fifteen hours of travel, five hours of booming, monotonous radio pop drivel, and 30,000 pre-teen girls all screaming "WELOVEYOUJUSTINBIEEEEEEEBER!!!!" at once over, and OVER again. I actually wrote a note to a few of my friends and family and i quote - "Well I am on my way to the Justin Bieber concert in Vancouver tonight with Soleille and legions of fanatic pre-teen girls. I have survived many hardships in my lifetime, including more than one harrowing near death experience, but somehow I believe I am about to endure my most challenging endeavor thus far. Should I be clawed, mobbed, or trampled to death by over-makeuped tweens during the show, I trust that you all will remember me as the father who braved it all, threw caution to the wind, and at least tried to show his daughter and her gang a good time. "

It was a Herculean feat worthy of Homer's stoic prose, i assure you, and in the end i did eventually survive - though just barely.

So forgive me if i've been taking it easy these past few days. Daddy, as it were, has endured one hell of a beating lately.

With a few short weeks before we all depart for Mexico, and beyond, I am left to wonder what this northern land has left in store for me before it's all over. With a perfect storm brewing offshore, and international surfers once again pinging Tofino on their swell-dar, god only knows whats likely to happen from here.

 

[Dave H]

Really good stuff amigo.

May I have your permission to post it elsewhere........please?

If not......no problem.

Thanks for sharing.

Take care.

 

[capt josh]

Of course Dave! I have definitely been remiss about posting around here in the last few years with all the travel down south, but i'll try to keep them coming. Most of our exploits from this time of year are down in Mx and Panama, but once BC season starts again for us in the spring it'll be game on all season long!

Hope you are having a great winter season, and happy holidays to you and the rest of the SFBC family and crew!

 

[Lipripper]

Top Drawer Cptn!

Top drawer.................

 

[Roe Bags]

Great Read!! Brings back some good memories. We flew in and floated the Megin two years ago in pursuit of some big steel. It was a bit of a mission but it paid off, I'll try and dig up some pics.

 

[Kris]

Capt Josh,..would you be willing to post at this site? http://seastriper.com/forums/index.php . There are alot of baja fishermen online there, and I think it would really add to the site. Dick Slavens AKA "White Bear" runs the site. Its up to you, but I really think it would add something new to the fourum.

Thanks,..Kris

 

[capt josh]

Hey Kris, I'm taking off for PV again this morning, so won't have much of a chance till after the holidays, but I'll definitely check it out when i get back. Thanks for the heads up and happy holidays to you guys!

 

[capt josh]

Yeah definitely lots of great rivers to fish. Oren, Matt, and I hit just about every one we could feasibly get to this fall/early winter and had great fishing for trout and salmon in every one. Certainly not easy to get to at all, and lots of hauling the canoe around, but the experience of fishing all by yourself in these remote coastal streams is second to none. Looking forward to getting back out in the late spring for some steelhead!

 

[Dave H]

Thanks for sharing your stories.

Did you get my PM?

You're a hit elsewhere too. LOL

Take care.

 

[capt josh]

Thanks Dave! Just checked out that other forum, have to get signed up there and post up some surfing yarns for sure. Flying over Arizona at the moment and headed to PV for another week of (hopefully) tuna carnage. Gotta love these new wi-fi equipped flights!

Hope you guys all have a great week, I'll be back with a fresh report before x-mas. Adios!