Just Gunkholing Along

“Gunkhole”: a quiet anchorage, as in a cove used by small yachts, where the anchor usually sinks into soft mud, or gunk. Thus, “gunkholing” applies to those who engage in this low-key, relaxed style of cruising. (from “Gunkholing in the San Juans”)

We are gunkholing in the Broughton Archipelago. The schedule gives us five days to meander and explore the inner passages and islands of this fascinating area. The First Mate is delighted. Five days to just kick back and relax: this to her is what cruising on a sailboat is all about.

After our little episode in Mound Island, the next morning (June 21st) we head out to Knight Inlet, whose length of almost 71 miles makes it the longest inlet in British Columbia. The views of snow-topped mountains in the distance as well as the sheer granite cliffs, heavy with pine forests and beribboned with waterfalls are familiar to us, but it is impossible to grow tired of this scenery.





Along the way, we spot another “Sleeping Elephant” similar to the formation we had seen off the coast of Wrangell, Alaska last year.





Landslides, during winter rains or anytime there are heavy rains, are as common up here as avalanches are in our snow-packed mountains. Blanchet in “The Curve of Time” recounts an afternoon hike with her children. It was a clear day after several days of rain, and everybody was ready for an excursion. They were traversing a moss-covered area that sloped steeply down and over a precipice to the sea a good ways below them. Feeling an oozy, slipping under her feet, she fell to her hands and knees. Grabbing a bush, she shouted to her children to do the same. The mossy slope slowly slid from beneath them. They painfully crawled upward over the now muddy exposed granite, edging bush to bush, hand hold to hand hold, until finally, exhausted, they reach the solid ground above them.


From a distance, it is hard to tell whether the vertical gashes we see are exposed granite, a waterfall, lumbering work or a landslide. As we approach, all of the above are identifiable in the mountainside ahead of us.





We do not follow Knight Inlet all 71 miles to its end, but take a left up Tribune Channel.

Watson Cove is impressive with both a spectacular granite wall

and





a waterfall cascading over another equally spectacular granite wall. Note the two groupings of pine trees that have somehow managed to secure a toe-hold in that granite..







Our destination is Kwatsi Bay Marina, which is a rather grandiose name to give to a dock that can hold 8 – 10 medium-sized boats. It does have potable water, but no power. There is one shower on dock and a small gift shop. Other than the home and a few out buildings belonging to the owners, Max and Inga – that’s it. However, it’s the “that’s it” that brings cruisers to this remote outpost. At the end of the channel, you go around a small island to find yourself in a pond-like setting surrounded by steep cliffs, trees and the sound of a waterfall hidden by the heavy vegetation. It is beautiful, quiet and serene. Though we did not expect there would be room for Avante at the dock, Bill radios in and is told that there is 60’ left between another sailboat and a motor vessel. We motor round the island into this peaceful bay. From our perspective and distance from the dock, both Captain and First Mate have doubts as to that 60’, but we figure Max should know his docks. We motor in, and I slowly circle toward the dock. It still does not look like 60’, and even if it is 60’, so what? That gives me a mere 8’ of angle-in room for Avante’s 52’. The First Mate is thinking she will need a shoe horn or a miracle or both to make this docking happen. The Captain tells her to hush up and keep on trucking. There are three capable-looking men on the dock ready to receive our lines, and if the space does prove too small, we will just do a “fly-by” says the former pilot. With little wind and negligible current, I should be able to ease Avante close to the dock. If she could just shimmy sideways, all this docking angst would be for nothing. I let Avante bleed off speed because obviously there is not going to be a lot of room to back her down to get rid of excess speed. We slowly angle in gliding close to this gorgeous mahogany-hulled sailboat. Avante slides into the spot. Ropes are thrown by The Captain, three men pull her in and secure her to the dock, and The First Mate has impressed everyone as well as floored herself. Wow! (She needs a drink!) But, wait, don’t let it go to your head because we all know how quickly and easily disaster can strike out here.

Happy Hour starts shortly. We dash off to shower and get more presentable and then join everyone sitting in a covered porch area on the dock. The evening is warm, and the companionship of 8 other boaters plus Max and Inga is fun and pleasant. What a delightful spot! It feels totally closed off from the rest of the world. We learn that Max and Inga live here all year with their two children. The children were initially home-schooled by Inga and later attended a one-room schoolhouse in Echo Bay, a mere half-hour or so away by small motor boat, a distance to be navigated in all kinds of weather. Talk about lonely and remote! But this is their dream, and we hear them bemoaning the fact that they are going to have to move to Port McNeill, pop 2,641, for the winters as their oldest child is now entering high school.

Max told us a frightening story about their experience with landslides. Last winter in the middle of the night, they were awoken by the sound of a freight train crashing and rumbling thru and past their home so snuggly nestled on the sides of the shore underneath the beautiful cliffs. Panic and fear take over, but they don’t know where to turn, hide or run. The noise continues to grow louder and then ends quickly. When Max goes outside with a flashlight, he finds a wide wedge of landslide just off the side of his house. A few more feet, and it would have wiped out their house and them along with it.

As the evening cools, we all gradually return to our respective boats for dinner. Later, the couple in the beautiful mahogany sailboat I had so carefully glided past to dock invite us over for tea. They had listened to our itinerary and wanted to give us some good anchorages on the west coast of Vancouver.

Max and Pat Maxwell own Liz of Hanko, a former British racing sailboat. Liz is a classic beauty with elegant lines. Her newly refinished mahogany exterior makes her a delight to look at either at dock or cruising the waters.










The next day our two boats leave at the same time. We raise sail when we get out to Tribune Channel and tack up the channel together until Avante veers off to head to Echo Bay and Liz of Hanko continues on to Port McNeill to have a water pump replaced. (It’s not only Avante that needs work now and then.)

Years ago, logging men lived up here with their families. They worked claims, moving from site to site, as the worked demanded. To accomplish this moving of house and kin easily and readily in a topography where finding a level piece of land was just about impossible, they built floating houses that were towed to each site and tied up just off the shore. Some of these sites held enough people to support a one-room school and small store. Though the floating logging camps no longer exist, many people have bought and restored these homes or simply built new ones. Funky little summer tourist communities have grown up, and a few hearty souls, in an attempt to recapture a vanished way of life, have chosen to live in these isolated little bergs full time.

Echo Bay, our next destination, is one such area.



The Bead Lady of Echo Bay, as she calls herself, comes out of her store to lend a hand with docking ropes. As referred to several times previously, one must not rest on one’s laurels when it comes to boating accomplishment. This turns out not to be one of my crowning moments. Not heeding Bill’s warning, I fail to fully account for the wind blowing down our bow as we turn into the wind to come up to the dock. As The Captain warned, the wind ta

kes hold of the bow and blows it off and away from the dock. The poor Bead Lady and Bill have a heck of a time pulling Avante back to the dock. The First Mate earns one of those “I told you so” looks, and I humbly apologize to the Bead Lady. She shrugs it off saying she has seen worse, and we are each given a hug of welcome that we are told is the custom here. Not a bad custom in our often cold, unwelcoming world, and it does make me feel better.

We have a pleasant time talking with her and, of course, head over to look at her store. Our conversation with her confirms what we already suspected. These little tourist areas are suffering this season from both the unusually cold weather and the price of fuel – both of which have been keeping boaters home or closer to home. The season up here is a very marginal two months: July 1st to August 31st. There is some activity prior to and later than those dates, but the make-or-break time for them is those two short months. Things were not looking good.


Echo Bay was once the home of the largest First Nations village in the area. At the head of the bay is a large midden beach as proof to their early inhabitance. These people, like the residents of Mamalilaculla, also knew how to pick a spot. What a gorgeous setting!










That granite wall, looking too perfectly like a theatre backdrop, retains faded native paintings – if one looks hard enough and knows where to look and for what to look.




Remember the one-room schoolhouse that Max and Inga’s children from Kwatski Bay attended? Here it is. Children come from several of these remote communities or from isolated, remote homes to attend. We were there at the close of school and saw the kids walking down to the dock to get into small family motor boats to head on home. Fine on a sunny, warm June day, but I do not envy any of them on a cold, stormy January day.


We take a short hike over to Proctor Bay to visit Billy Proctor’s eclectic museum of local memorabilia that he has collected over the years. The museum is full to busting, but well labeled and organized. We enjoy looking at old logging and fishing paraphernalia and perusing vintage Sears Roebuck catalogs and Time Life magazines. Billy was born and raised here and is the stuff of legend in these parts. He enjoys meeting all visitors to his home site and museum, but, unfortunately, he was not in that day.

After listening to the Bead Lady’s description of the economic issues of these little tourist spots, I feel guilty that we do not have plans to spend the night so that we could help the season by paying overnight dock fees. I head back to her store to say good bye and to buy a pair of earrings to ease my quilt. However, I really do like these earrings and will remember a very pleasant afternoon each time I wear them.

We motor out of harbor and head to Waddington Bay, an area of many, many islands and rocky protuberances. After setting the anchor, we launch The Dingbat to drop the crab trap and to explore. We meander back into little coves with me sitting bow watch for rocks or heavy seaweed that could clog up the motor. Driftwood covers the shore, and I get out occasionally to look for that perfect piece to make a candle holder for the boat. This perfect piece continues to allude me, but I keep looking. The Captain puts up with this search with the resignation learned by all intelligent married men.





Way too big a piece, but look at those gnarly roots!









The Captain waiting patiently while The First Mate clambers ashore to hunt for that special piece of driftwood.









The next morning we find two nice male crabs in our trap, and we leave Waddington Bay carefully working our way thru the many islets into the main channel.

Once in the channel, we pick up the shrimp trap we had dropped on our way in and are surprised, elated and delighted to find 22 of the critters in there – along with one crab of unknown origins. We have choices tonight for dinner – all fresh from the sea!


Winds are up as we sail into Kingcome Channel. Obviously from the look and stance in this photo, The First Mate is not totally at ease. That is not a smile you see on her face, and she is holding on for all she’s worth. This is a big boat to hold on to when it’s anywhere past a 12 degree angle. Though she’s getting there and finds her mind and body more accepting of sailing forces she never imagined they’d be subjected to or even knew existed, she still has a ways to go. The Captain is bamboozled that she could be such a slow learner and still be related to him, but such things do happen. To his credit, he perseveres, and to her credit, she does, too. We’ll make a sailor out of her yet!

The next day we visit another one of those funky little floating towns. We had stopped in Sullivan Bay on our trip north last year. It was our first truly miserable, rainy day. We went into the little restaurant and treated ourselves to great tasting hamburgers and a mountain of French fries. We were looking forward to another such treat even though the weather was beautiful and, therefore, we did not deserve it. We motor toward the long dock. This time wind is not a factor, nor is room. The First Mate has plenty of room, but what she is not aware of is the very strong current that is very soon going to be pushing Avante off the dock. The first pass has to be aborted. On the second pass, two men from a nearby motorboat come forward. It takes these men plus Bill to haul Avante onto the dock. For a moment there, The First Mate thought the current was going to win, and she was going to be set loose to drift and manage alone, but the men were valiant, gallant and, fortunately, strong. I could have kissed them all except that The Captain was not pleased with our demonstration of boat management and wanted no further show from The First Mate - so I kept quiet after offering a sincere thank you. As I said, one cannot let anything go to one’s head on a boat, because anything and everything does seem to happen out there. Hey, at least we didn’t end up stern-tied to the dock and sticking straight out into the bay.

It is delightfully warm once we are in the shelter of the bay. Leaving Avante tied to the dock with those blessed black dock ropes stretched so tightly with the strain of holding her on the dock that one might not be surprised to see a line or two frazzle and fray, we head off to the little restaurant. Our cholesterol orgy is not to be. We are told that the cook had quit the day before miffed that a request for more money had been denied, and the waitress, after a drunken night where she almost fell off the dock and drowned, had left with him. They were expecting another cook in the next day by plane, but we were welcomed to join them for a potluck dinner on the dock that evening. Such is the way with these little places out here. I do believe they have it worse than Telluride!

We thank them and decline dinner for we already had plans to spend our last evening gunkholed in Clayton Bay. I offer Bill a meager lunch of soup and garlic bread before we head off. Out in the harbor, we raise sail even though the wind is light. It, of course, gets lighter. We flounder around for a bit and, then it picks up. We’re heading down a narrow channel to Clayton Bay under a slow sail. There are rocks to steer around and curving shores to navigate. All is quiet. It’s just us on Avante slowly moving along listening to the sound of the water passing the boat, birds in the trees and hidden waterfalls. It must have been like this for Vancouver and all other early explorers. Slowly, quietly passing, listening to the sounds around them, absorbing all they see and straining forward to see the unknown that lies ahead.

We anchor in Clayton Bay. Again, we lower The Dingbat to set both shrimp and crab traps. The shrimp trap now has a new canvas bucket whose sides collapse neatly to contain the rope. The Captain wanted his bright orange bucket back ready for other uses. He is resignedly putting up with this shrimping, and even on occasion helps with the dispensing of the rope.

The next morning, there are no crabs, but we do bring up some of the biggest shrimp we have had to date. Not a bad way to end our gunkholing holiday.

Gunkholing: setting one’s anchor in mud or gunk. Thankfully Avante has a salt water hose to wash off all that wonderful, sticky, gooey, anchor-holding gunk.




We cross the channel to Port McNeil to get ourselves and Avante ready to make the voyage out and around the west coast of Vancouver Island. There are nightmarish stories about the adventures people have had circumnavigating Vancouver Island. Even with careful planning and great consideration given to tides and weather, this west coast passage has proven a nightmare to many. The First Mate refuses to read about or listen to these horror tales. The Captain thinks this is being a bit short-sighted or more like an ostrich with her head in the sand. Let him think what he wants. In this case, she knows that the less she knows, the better off she will be. She tells The Captain that she will read up on everything after the voyage is over. For right now, she knows enough to respect what they are doing, and that’s enough. She’s not going to back out -- so let her do it her way. Dumb and happy has got to be better that sleepless and scared!