There is a salmon cannery in Glendale. While we were there a packer came in with a load of fish. The manager invited us up to watch operations. Most of the operators were Indian women. We watched the fish leap from the packer onto the endless belt, onto the moving tables where the Indian women waited with sharp knives, and then into the tins, in an unbelievably short time. So fast that you still seemed to sense some life in the labelled tins....We rowed up to the little river at the end of the cove, and had some warm fresh-water swimming. There was supposed to be a lake, but we couldn’t find the trail.
We left Glendale at five-thirty next morning. As we had hoped, Knight still slept. Great clouds hung low and white, tucking him in like a great downy comforter—and we tiptoed past in the quiet, grey dawn.
Knight Inlet averages about one and a half miles in width. Jervis Inlet about a mile. The mountains are about the same height in each—but Knight gives you an entirely different impression. It is bolder, the reaches are shorter. You no sooner get well started on one reach than a stupendous mountain, sitting on a great cape, shoulders you aside without any apology. You stagger across to the other side, only to be just as rudely shoved back the other way. The mountains in Knight don’t just line your way—they block it. Perhaps it was because I was on someone else’s boat and not my own, but I have never felt so insignificant, anywhere on the coast, as I did in Knight Inlet.
Then gradually, one by one, the snowy peaks tossed the clouds aside and raised their shining heads to watch us pass, turning, as we did, to show new beauties of some different facet. Then a light breeze drifted up the inlet and made varied patterns on the quiet water. We set our sails, which gradually filled, and helped to carry us gently forward. Long shafts of sunlight crept through the valleys to strike the opposite snow-capped peaks. Down...down...the shafts slowly dropped and spread...then caught and held our white sails. We stretched cold, stiff limbs; the mist rose off our dripping decks and canvas; we shouted, and the sleepy crew streamed up on deck to greet the sun.
We had cups of hot tea to warm us up. Then sat there in the sun, watching reach after reach unfold to reveal something still more lovely. When it became apparent that it was going to be after lunch before we reached Cascade Point, where we were to look for twin waterfalls, we cooked our breakfast and ate it on deck.
The great blocky bulk of Tsukola and Cascade Points thrust themselves out...and out. We were too close to see the six-thousand-foot mountain that lay behind. Then just past Cascade Point the Twin Falls leapt into view, divided from each other by a sharp ridge of rock. There was no place there to anchor; but three or four miles farther on, in Glacier Bay, there was a small logging camp. We tied up behind their boom. The children spent the next couple of hours playing in a spur of snow that came right down to the water’s edge. Glacier Peaks lie behind the bay—two or three miles inland. I think the spur of snow must be where the old glacier has retreated. Early records mention it as down to the sea. We could have stayed where we were for the night, but when we asked the loggers about possible anchorages, they told us of a place just beyond Grave Point, on the opposite side of the inlet where a valley cuts the mountain. It is marked forty fathoms, no bottom, on the chart; but they told us that, in the left-hand corner, we would find a little beach and creek, with anchorage in ten fathoms.
We found everything just as they had said. That evening we built a great beach fire on the shore of Ahnuhati Valley, and watched the light die off the purple mountains with the white tops on the opposite shore.
We had decided on another early morning run, unwilling to miss the sight of Knight asleep, and Knight awakening....So we left the shores of Ahnuhati Valley and crept out past Transit Point, with Mount Lang and Mount Dunbar white and cold in the sky above us. Then, quite suddenly, we were in glacial water—and we slipped over a sea as dense as milk, which hid all beneath us. Captain Vancouver in his diary speaks again and again of the milky water they encountered at the ends of the inlets. They made many guesses, but never the right one. We slowed down a little...gave the capes a little more room. There was nothing else we could do.
Then, still surrounded by the early mists, for it was too soon for the sun to top those sleeping mountains, we slipped into Wahshihlas Bay for breakfast. Afterwards we landed on the wide sand flats to stretch our legs. A rather extraordinary place for sand flats to be. Great rocky Hatchet Point to the north, and Indian Corner to the south. Two miles inland, and centred in the middle of Wahshihlas Bay, Mount Everard rises up in a perfect cone to seven thousand feet—the upper three thousand covered with snow. Although you cannot see it, it is joined by a narrow hog’s-back to another peak directly behind it—the same shape and same height. The drainage from that double mountain must sweep the sand out through the bay, and then drop suddenly into those milky depths.
To reach the more solid sand we had to wade through one of those glacial streams—so cold that we were numb to the knees. We raced to get warm, our bare feet sinking into the soft damp sand. Suddenly, beside our footprints, we spied a great webbed footprint...Robinson Crusoe-like, we stared—then a great goose, with a loud “honk-honk,” flew out of the reeds and flopped down some yards away. We chased it with outstretched hands—again and again it flew and flopped—and again and again we chased it....All at once it dawned on us that we were doing exactly what she wanted us to do—and we ran back to find her brood.
“Honk-honk!” warned the mother goose, and not a gosling stirred.
There was no hurry—it was only ten or twelve miles up to Dutchman’s Head, which, as far as that deep-keeled boat was concerned, was the end of the inlet. We could either stay near Dutchman’s Head for the night or come back to Wahshihlas Bay to get a good start down the inlet in the morning. We would be bucking wind the whole way down.
When we got well out beyond Hatchet Point we could see the sun shining on the great glaciers that stretched towards the east. The still larger one to the west was obscured by high mountains. We could see nothing much below the surface of the water, and when the lookout in the bow called out “Deadhead!” we had to slow to a crawl. Deadheads are big logs, almost waterlogged, that float straight up and down. Many of them have a couple of feet showing above water, but just as many are floating a foot or so below the surface. They can rip a bottom out, or tear a propeller off. This last reach was full of them; and also with great stumps that floated with their roots all spread out like tentacles.
We “putted” along, barely moving, with four lookouts up in the bow, and gradually worked our way across to Dutchman’s Head. It was too deep to anchor, so we tied on to a deadhead that seemed fairly stationary. We were at once attacked by starving deerflies—something like horseflies, but bigger, and grey in colour with pointed wings. You could kill them on your legs at the rate of one a second. We had to eat our lunch below—on deck there was not a chance to get a bite in.
We had a parcel for the people who lived near Dutchman’s Head—the only white inhabitants of the region. They had lived there for years and the man was a well-known guide and trapper. So we landed all the youngsters on the flats of Ah-ash-na-ski Valley, then rowed over to the new log cabin. I could see the children racing around waving bunches of reeds—evidently the flies were bad in there too.
The cabin was delightfully dark and cool after the glare and heat outside, and it was well screened. They told us that the flies only lasted six weeks, and were over by the time the hunting season began. But up in the mountains there were no flies anyway, just down in the valley.
The talk turned to hunting, and then naturally to grizzlies, which abounded and promptly killed any other animals they tried to keep. The man offered to put us up a tree later, where we could safely watch them feeding below. No, he had never heard of grizzlies climbing trees, their claws were too long. Every afternoon about four o’clock half a dozen of them and some cubs came down to the flats to catch fish and feed.
“Funny thing,” he said, “they never seem to go for women or children�
��they don’t pay any attention to my wife, but as soon as they see me they come straight for me—they don’t like men.” “What flats do they come to at four o’clock?” we asked.
He pointed. “Along there, at Ah-ash-na-ski Valley.”
We got hurriedly to our feet and looked at watches. It was now almost half-past three. The boys we had left on the flats ranged from fourteen down to five. Just when did a grizzly consider that a boy had reached man’s estate? Was four o’clock the same on a sunny day as it was on a dull day? Or did it just depend on when the bears felt four-o’clockish, and simply had to have their tea? Our reactions were simple and to the point...we rowed wildly to the rescue, our shouts drowned in the roar of the streams. Not a single child paid any attention to us. I transhipped the others to the ketch to start the engine and follow—the dinghy would not hold everybody.
It wasn’t until I ran right up to the children that they heard me; they were busy examining the huge spoor of those same chivalrous grizzlies that never touched women or children, but always made for the men. I explained in a hurry—and we reached the dinghy all at the same time. No one would go back for a line they had left under the tree, and nobody breathed quite properly until we were safely on board the ketch.
We made a hurried tea before we faced the deadheads and the flies. The tracks of the bears grew longer and longer as the children told the story and argued.
“Look! Look!” they shrieked, and we scrambled up on deck after them.
There under the tree on the flat were five big bears—twice the size of black bears—and three small cubs—all smelling the footprints the children had made under the trees...lifting and swinging their noses high in the air...trying to trace where the intruders had gone.
“Whose been stepping on my sand?” growled John. And all the youngsters took up the cry, and the bears came closer and looked at us.
The trip down Knight was wearing but uneventful as far as Ahnuhati Valley, where we were thankful to creep into the little bay and get out of the wind. Once more our fire at night lighted up the surrounding cliffs and water with its flickering flames. And once more the sense of humility at the feet of the reaching mountains.
We left at six in the morning, hoping to get to Glendale before the worst of the wind got up. It always blows up Knight in the summer, gathered and funnelled in from the open Pacific. But the wind had similar ideas about an early start, and before long our small engine could only push the heavy boat at a poor three knots—pounding into the seas, the spray flying high. Finally we put up the jib and mizzen to steady us, losing time but gaining in comfort. Then the engine sputtered...and died. There was little or no room to tack, with every shore a lee-shore and no possible anchorage. One of us tried to keep the boat in mid-channel, while we drifted backwards or stood still under the two little fluttering sails. After a long, long time the trouble was diagnosed—and once more we fought our way along.
It was rolling high and white when we reached the more open stretch off Glendale. After struggling ahead for a while to get a better slant, we tacked into the bay under a reefed mainsail. It was three o’clock before a very wet and weary crew lowered the sail and moved in behind the boom.
Once more we left at six o’clock—the wind too. At eight, uncertain of our engine which was acting up, we took shelter behind a log boom which was also taking shelter behind an island. At five o’clock in the evening it began to rain and the wind dropped a little. We started off again hoping to get to Minstrel Island for the night. But at dusk, wet and cold, we thankfully crept into Tsakonu Cove, in behind Protection Point. We anchored and stumbled below to get dry and fed, only to hear a shout that the anchor was dragging.
There were no waves in there—but it was low land behind, leading through to a bay on another channel, and the wind blew through and we dragged right out of the bay. Twice we dragged—the bottom was evidently round stones from the creek at the head. Then we put down the big eighty-pound kedge and got some rest.
It was good to see our own little boat again and to find her safe, but rather smaller than I remembered—Knight would have been a little tough in her.
FOG ON THE MOUNTAIN
I SUPPOSE IT IS THE CONFINED QUARTERS OF A BOAT AND the usually limited amount of standing room on shore that makes the idea of walking or climbing so enticing. Which, being so enticing, makes one completely forget that the same cramped quarters are hardly good training for mountain climbing.
John, for two or three years, was a complete ball and chain. I suppose I must have walked miles with him astride my hip, on more or less level trails. It was the time in between—when he was too heavy for my hip, but not big enough to attempt the longer hikes or climbs, that we were most tied to the beach.
One September we bribed John to stay behind at sea level with some friends, and five of us set off to climb six or seven thousand feet up behind Louisa Inlet. We planned to stay on top over one night, so each of us had to carry a blanket or sleeping bag, plus a share of the provisions. The last we cut to a minimum—tea, as being lighter than coffee; rye-tack lighter than bread; beans, cheese, peanut butter—the least for the most. Even then, halfway up we would all have gladly slept without blankets and starved until we got back. A pack certainly takes the joy and spring out of climbing.
A mile, I believe, is 5,280 feet. If you climb 5,280 feet you are not going to be on top of a mountain of that height.
Our first point was a small trapper’s cabin at 600 feet. It was at the end of a skid-road that sloped up fairly gradually from sea level. I am sure that it was nine times 600 feet before we sank panting beside the cabin, and it seemed breathlessly hot there, in the middle of the tall trees. We drank from a running stream, we bathed our faces and arms in it, and bathed our feet in it while we emptied the earth and gravel out of our running shoes. “Doc,” who led the party because he knew the way to the top and had carried by far the heaviest pack, sat there deploring the idea of our waterlogging ourselves. The man off a yacht, who had come to go half-way with us to take pictures, spoke longingly of lunch. But Doc pointed out that lunchtime and the half-way mark was not until we reached the cliff where the black huckleberry patch was. That we knew perfectly well. We had all been as far as the huckleberry patch—but never with packs on our backs.
We made fresh blazes on some of the trees as we moved on—double blazes at some of the turns. The man off the yacht was going back by himself, and it was not good country to be lost in.
At long last—at 4,000 feet—we climbed the “chimney” and sank exhausted beside the huckleberry patch. We boiled a billy for tea, and ate the sandwiches that the yachtsmen had carried for the first meal. There were not many huckleberries left. A little late in the season, but I thought, judging by the broken branches, that the bears had been feeding on them.
Doc warned the man off the yacht against attempting any short cuts on the way back, there just were none. Then we shouldered our packs, said good-bye to him, and started climbing.
Doc had been up once before, so knew the general direction we had to take. He was looking out for a diagonal stretch of red granite—an intrusion in the midst of the grey granite. If we could find it—and we had to find it—it would lead us up the next two thousand feet. After some false starts, and having to retrace our steps, we spotted a cairn of stones. Doc identified it as the place where we had to begin angling up towards the beginning of what he called “Hasting Street.” We could see that if we didn’t angle we would get involved with cliffs ahead. Once on Hasting Street we would start angling back in the opposite direction.
It was time for another cup of tea before we finally came out on Hasting Street. We had spent the last couple of hours scrambling up and down and over...and up again. Cliffs above us and cliffs not far below us. Then suddenly, in the midst of the tall mountains, we came out on an almost civilized highway—a strip of smooth red granite stretching up at a forty-five degree angle. It was perhaps thirty feet wide, with a gutter of running water over on
the left side. The road itself was smooth and dry, with no obstructions. It was the uniformity of its width that was its most arresting feature—after you recovered from the shock of its being there at all.
We drank from the gutter, we bathed our tired feet, we lay down on the hot rock in the sun....All but Peter, who ran up and down, sailed scraps of paper in the gutter, and raced down the smooth granite to intercept them below. The resiliency of small boys always astonishes me—they are either awake and in constant motion or else asleep and unconscious—nothing in between.
The Doc looked at his watch, and remarked that it was still a long way from the top—and it was now almost five o’clock. Far down below, the sun would have left the little inlet. But up here it still shone on our bent backs, and a blast of hot air came up from the rock as we toiled along. The calves of our legs stretched and stretched...the soles of our running shoes got hotter and hotter—and we could feel the skin on the soles of our feet cracking and curling. We would stop for any excuse at all...and then trudge, trudge again....Doc started zigzagging, and we all followed. That cut the angle in half, but lengthened the distance. However, it did help our laboured breathing.
Then the peaks of the mountains came into sight ahead of us...then the snow-filled gullies...and our tiredness was forgotten. Towards the west, as far as we could see, there was one vast expanse of snow, dotted with snowy peaks poking through. We were level with it all, and couldn’t see the valleys and ravines that must cut down between the peaks. It was easy to imagine putting on skis and gliding across the snowfield the whole way to Desolation Sound. But we knew that quite close on that snowfield it was possible to step off the mile-high cliff and fall straight down to the inlet below. We knew that, if we followed the ridge we were now standing on to the south-east, it would lead us over to Potato Valley and on down in the Queen’s Reach of Jervis Inlet. A prospector had told us of trips he had had up on the ridges that skirted the ravines. There were mountain sheep that followed the ridges from valley to valley—hunting the green leaves and grass. And the grizzlies followed—hunting the sheep. He told us of one night, a couple of ridges over from where we were now, when he had barricaded himself in a cave, with his rifle across his knees—and two grizzlies had prowled outside all night, standing up and drumming on their huge chests, the way gorillas do. He hadn’t exactly enjoyed that night—then he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out samples of quartz flaked with gold, and pure white quartz crystals that they use in optical instruments—it was for these that he followed the ridges.
The Curve of Time Page 11