A Canadian Odyssey

Renowned Canadian adventurer BRUCE KIRKBY has explored the extreme reaches of Africa, Arabia and the Himalayas. But it was in our own back yard that he set out on this 65-day, 1,500-kilometre expedition. In a three-part series, Kirkby chronicles his adventures sea kayaking, mountaineering and whitewater rafting a circuit around British Columbia's southern Coast Mountains

Stories A Canadian Odyssey: a three-part series Part 1: Paddling the Inside Passage Part 2: The mountain ascent Coming up Whitewater kayaking - May 18   Photo Galleries The mountain ascent Photo Gallery Paddling the Inside Passage Photo Gallery Coming up - more photos Whitewater kayaking - May 18   Videos The mountain ascent Video Duration: 04:50 Paddling the Inside Passage Video Duration: 04:55 Coming up - more video Whitewater kayaking - May 18   "The routine and hard work of such an extended expedition soon became meditation, and a salve for the soul. Day after day, we paddled northward, past Bowen Island, up the Sunshine Coast and on toward Desolation Sound, travelling as far as tides, weather and sore arms would let us. By late afternoon, our thoughts would turn to camp, and we would begin the search for a sheltered and uninhabited cove." Questions and Answers Bruce Kirkby talks about his trip. Submit your question Bruce answers your questions   Have Your Say Tell us about your favourite Canadian adventure. Submit your story Read other readers' stories   Click on map to zoom in Map by Bernard Bennell/The Globe and Mail The Author Bruce Kirkby Read the biography

PART ONE:

PADDLING THE INSIDE PASSAGE

The map was spread across two tables of a noisy Granville diner in Vancouver. A cold, grey rain pelted against the window where we sat. Although it was 10 years ago, I can still remember watching my friend Johan Krus's finger trace a sprawling loop through the fiords, mountains and rivers of southern British Columbia, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

Raw and daring, the plan was the embodiment of a child's adventure tale: We would launch our sea kayaks from Vancouver, packing only the basics; a tarp, an axe, a bag of rice, some fish hooks perhaps. Paddling up the Inside Passage to Knight Inlet, we would follow the longest fiord on the coast straight into the heart of the Coast Mountains, then climb up and over them by foot, hauling the plastic boats over vast icecaps toward the Interior.

Finally, we would paddle the creeks that drain the high peaks, join the Tatla River, which runs down to the Chilcotin and on to the Fraser, then enter a gauntlet of whitewater that would lead us all the way back to Vancouver. Beautiful in its simplicity, the 1,500-kilometre loop through the rugged and varied terrain of British Columbia's southern Coast Mountains would be no cake walk.

Full of youthful bravado, we thumped chests and shook hands. We would give it a shot.

But sometimes life can get in the way of grand plans. Krus married, moved to Rossland, B.C., and began hand-crafting furniture. I bumbled along, guiding raft trips in the Arctic and sea kayaks in the Caribbean, my nascent career in the outdoors eventually leading to journeys all around the world. But over the years, that magic and mysterious loop Krus traced on that map remained tucked in the recesses of my mind.

New beginnings often spring from the ashes of a previous devotion, and so it was in the May of 2001, when an expedition I had been planning for years (an attempt to cross Tibet's remote Chang Tang plateau) collapsed. Summer lay just around the corner, and suddenly I had no plans.

My mind raced back to that rainy day, the loop on the map. I dug out my old notes, and began to research the trip in earnest. Nearly everyone whose advice I sought assured me that the trip would be impossible, which only served to raise my interest.

While the sea-kayaking leg would be straightforward, I knew getting over the mountains would be difficult work. Hauling the boats over kilometres of rubble, brush and moraine to gain access to the icecaps seemed ludicrous. I decided instead to leave the sea kayaks behind on the coast, travel over the mountains by foot and retrieve a raft (stashed in the woods before the expedition) to run the rivers of the Interior.

The whitewater section would be a major challenge - more than 600 kilometres of formidable rapids, culminating in the Grand Canyon of the Fraser River, where the powerful water funnels into a narrow gorge, thundering through Hell's Gate on its way to the nearby coast at Vancouver.

Krus was not able to join me. My regular climbing partner, Chris Ferguson, was eager to undertake the coastal paddle and mountain traverse - but not the whitewater leg. Two expert kayakers, Shaun Boughten (an old friend from university) and Derrick Law, happily agreed to meet me for the river run. To complete the patchwork group, I asked my brother, Douglas, and my girlfriend, Christine Pitkanen, to join the sea-kayak portion of the loop, as a chance to introduce them to the world of wilderness travel.

I was attracted to the simplicity of the expedition. Unlike my previous journeys to Africa, Arabia and the Himalayas, there would be no funds to raise, no Web site to develop, no major sponsors to court, no permits, visas or bribes. Not even a plane flight. We would begin and end the journey in Vancouver.

I wanted to show that one does not have to travel to exotic locations in search of great adventures - they exist right here in our own back yard. And I wanted to raise awareness, especially among the school groups I give talks to, of the precious Canadian wilderness, to urge them to enjoy, respect and protect the land. “Chris. Stop the car!” I felt the first tinges of panic. Where was the river? It was supposed to be beside the highway. Instead, I saw parched earth, rounded boulders and a scattering of scarred stumps.

During the previous three weeks, Ferguson and I had chopped and dehydrated a mass of meat and vegetables, meticulously packed 70 days of food, bought a satellite phone, organized more than a ton of gear, driven to Montana to purchase a catamaran-style pontoon raft for running the whitewater and arranged for a water taxi to retrieve the sea kayaks at the head of Knight Inlet and bring us our mountaineering equipment.

Now, only days before departure, we realized that the Tatla River, a crucial link in the third leg of our route, was nothing more than a bone-dry creek bed.

We drove on in silence. There had to be a solution. I tore through the topographic maps. And then I saw it. Just south of the Tatla, the powerful Chilko River thundered through Lava Canyon on its way to the Chilcotin. We would have to hike an extra 85 kilometres to reach its headwaters, but the loop could be completed, the journey saved.

The morning of departure dawned grey and cool, a stiff breeze rippling the steely waters of Vancouver's English Bay. Thick clouds swept in from the west, piling against the North Shore mountains. My aunt and uncle dropped the four of us at Jericho Beach, along with an intimidating pile of gear and food. Half an hour later, the first miracle was complete. Carefully rolled sleeping pads and bags had been crammed far down the narrow bulkheads of the kayaks, followed by stuff sacks of food and clothing. Jugs of water filled space in the cockpits between our feet. Waterproof camera cases, fishing rods and rescue gear were mounted on the decks.

A few early-morning joggers paused to watch, but otherwise the beach was deserted. And then we were off, sliding silently away from the shore, toward the lighthouse at Horseshoe Bay.

The routine and hard work of an extended expedition soon became meditation, and a salve for the soul. Day after day, we paddled northward, past Bowen Island, up the Sunshine Coast and on toward Desolation Sound, travelling as far as tides, weather and sore arms would let us. When our bottoms fell asleep from sitting in the kayaks too long, we would stop to stretch and snack.

By late afternoon, our thoughts would turn to camp, and we would begin the search for a sheltered and uninhabited cove. After unloading the boats and carrying all the gear above the high-tide mark, we would sprawl across the rocky beaches, our faces tingling from sun, wind and salt.

Each night, we slept under a blanket of stars, each morning we rose with the sun. While one brewed coffee over a crackling fire, the others rolled sleeping bags, took down tents and loaded the boats. Life became focused on the basics: water, shelter, food and travel. Time began to lose importance.

The protected ocean waters of the Inside Passage, between Vancouver Island and the mainland, abound with life. Twice a day, tidal action pumps nutrient-rich waters through a maze of islets, straits and sounds. Krill and plankton feed schools of herring, hake and salmon, which in turn nourish healthy populations of orcas, sea lions and Dall's porpoise.

The thriving intertidal zone teems with riotous life. Mats of purple-ochre sea stars, beds of California mussels, sharp limpets and gigantic Pacific oysters cover every exposed rock surface. The salty air is filled with the shrill cry of gulls and oyster catchers.

After four days of sunny weather, a storm front passed, and the sea's mood turned angry. We stopped to wait out the weather on a pebble beach north of Point Cockburn.

Wandering along a shoreline, I gravitated to the water's edge, and my brother followed. Together we watched sanderlings dart after receding waves. I rolled a boulder aside, and hundreds of penny-sized crabs scurried for cover. Brilliant green anemones closed around our fingers as we prodded them, convinced that they had just captured the meal of the century.

A jet of water erupted from the beach, hitting Douglas squarely in the chest. “What was that?” he howled with laughter, dropping to his hands and knees and digging intently in search of the “piss clams.”

Pitkanen joined us, and found a sea star with its arms wrapped completely around a mussel, hundreds of hydraulic feet exerting an unrelenting pressure on the bivalve. If the shell opened just a crack, the sea star would thrust its stomach through and digest the mussel in its own house.

Ten days after leaving Vancouver, we passed the mouth of Bute Inlet and entered the serpentine passages of the Discovery Islands. With each rise and fall of the tide, an enormous volume of water is pumped through this sieve of islets and channels. Strong currents turn the ocean into a river, and narrows into thundering rapids. As we approached the Arron tidal rapids, the first of many we would encounter, a noticeable current dragged us onward. Despite timing our arrival as close to slack water as possible, the tide had already turned.

An eagle, disturbed by our presence, alighted from its perch, soared out over the water, and rose majestically to settle farther down shore. I noticed another eagle on the same branch. And another higher in the tree. As the current swept us onward, we suddenly realized there were eagles everywhere, hopping among shoreline rocks, soaring from tree to tree, taking turns swooping down and striking with outstretched talons at mats of dead and dying fish that floated on the surface around us.

The powerful tidal upwelling was forcing schools of Pacific hake to the surface. Thrown upward from great depths in seconds, thousands were dying of decompression, providing a bountiful feast.

Seals joined the frenzy, frolicking in the current, splashing in the golden, late-afternoon sun. We had fallen upon this miraculous display by chance, and quickly began to search for a campsite so we could linger and enjoy.

Toward the end of the rapids, I was startled to see an asphalt path running into the forest. Looking up the hillside, I saw what had once been a clear-cut and was now a manicured golf course. As the narrow channel opened out into a large bay, we discovered a modern resort sprawled through the forest clearings. An old stern wheeler, now a floating restaurant, lay docked to one side, lit by thousands of glittering lights. The shoreline coves were dotted with chalets, an industrial workshop and several concrete patios.

There was nowhere for us to stop. Although we had no more right to the wilderness than the sport fishermen in bright-orange survival suits that now zipped by us in speed boats, we felt deflated, disappointed, ripped off.

For more than an hour, we paddled around the large bay, searching for a place to camp, growing tired and frustrated. We could not continue onward either, as a second set of booming tidal rapids guarded the bay's exit.

Finally, we found an old, abandoned dock floating offshore. Hauling the boats up, we spread out across it, cooking by stove and settling down to sleep under the stars.

Lying awake, I found myself wondering about the future of our wilderness. In the face of economic pressures, how can we represent the value of wild places? Can all land be bought if the price is right? Everyone should be able to experience vast tracts of nature in an untarnished state, but is this a right or a privilege, or both?

Cool air washed over my bare shoulders and I burrowed deeper into the glorious warmth of my sleeping bag. The stars spread overhead. Rocked by the sloshing sea, I surrendered to the beauty around me, and fell into a relaxed sleep.

With each passing day, our beards grew and our hair bleached in the sun. Thick calluses formed on our hands, eventually drying and cracking. Streaks of white salt from the ocean stained our crusty clothes.

Two weeks after leaving Vancouver, we passed through Sunderland Channel in a silent mist, and entered the windy waters of Johnstone Strait. Around us, the land grew wilder and more austere. Jumbled piles of bleached driftwood lay strewn across every beach. Immense logs wrapped in rusted chains had been spat high ashore, once part of booms headed to southern mills that were torn apart by violent storms.

We paused to watch two black bears effortlessly push aside TV-sized boulders and greedily lick at the swarms of crabs hidden underneath. Each night, we camped on spongy sphagnum moss, under a soaring canopy of coastal rain forest, woken again at sunrise by the lilting songs of thrush and finch.

A cold and brooding wind blew as we entered the rough waters of Knight Inlet, the final stretch of our kayaking journey. Low clouds and intermittent drizzle raced in from the Pacific. Surging waves rebounded from sheer granite cliffs, turning the water into a confused cauldron of white and grey.

Two massive purse seining boats plowed by, their jaw-like bows jutting forward menacingly. In minutes, they disappeared down the yawning throat of the fiord, swallowed by the grandeur. In this vast arena, I felt utterly insignificant, a mere twig in the ocean.

The inhospitable shore offered no place to stop, so we sped on, surfing the breaking waves, our senses alert. I looked up and saw that my brother had flipped, but before I could offer help he had already righted his boat, pumped the cockpit, and was back in. We pressed on, rounding Protection Point, camping on an abandoned logging road. Using discarded sheets of plywood and our tarp, we constructed a “beach sauna.” Heated by boulders from a raging bonfire, we ran half-naked and dripping with sweat to dive into the cold waters. With each passing day, snowcapped peaks reared higher around us. Billowing waterfalls thundered down impossibly steep walls into the turquoise waters of the inlet. Clouds and sunlight played along the ridge lines, casting long, gnarled shadows of fir and cedar. There were few places to land, and we would raft the boats together for lunch, eating as we drifted.

By afternoon, towering swells would build, rumbling down the fiord from behind. Each steep wave would hoist us high above the sea, and for a brief instant our view stretched magically far and wide, but moments later the deep trough that invariably followed would swallow the kayaks in darkness.

And then we were there, the final beach ahead of us. Three boats abreast, we surged effortlessly forward on cresting waves. No one spoke. We landed and hugged. Emerald swaths of alder glowed on the steep hillsides above.

The terminus of Knight Inlet is dominated by a massive lumber booming operation. Thick cedar logs lay in sorted piles. Rusty orange bark was strewn around like drifting snow. We were surveying the heavy equipment when a blue half-ton jolted up.

“I'm Don, manager of this operation,” the driver barked, although a patch on his orange overalls read “Albert.” I bumbled into a hasty explanation of our trip up the coast.

“You guys are going up the Franklin?” he said. “That's dangerous land you know. A fella died up there a few years back. Young mountaineer from Quebec. Fell in the river. Couldn't get his pack off. Tragic. You be careful.”

“Have you seen many bears up the Franklin this year?” I asked, feeling silly as soon as I said it.

“Buddy,” Don peered at me over his glasses, “there are bears everywhere up here.”

He gave us free run of the camp. “Make yourself at home,” he insisted, swinging back up into the pickup. When the water taxi arrived the next afternoon with fresh supplies, Ferguson and I ripped through the duffels of gear, jumping into new clothes, sending the stinky ones home. I hugged Douglas, feeling a lump in my throat, proud to share part of such a special journey with him. As I kissed Christine, she slid me the silver bracelet I had worn for luck on Mount McKinley three years earlier. The boat slipped from its mooring logs.

And then we were two.

We sat down in silence, greedily gorging ourselves on fresh groceries the captain had delivered. By the next morning, the fruit and bread were gone, our packs stuffed with 15 days of supplies. It was time to go. With one last, long glance over the calm waters of the Inlet, we shouldered our immense loads and staggered from the logging camp, traipsing inland along a rutted dirt road that lead into the coastal jungle of alder and brush. More than 200 kilometres of thick bush and glaciated mountains lay between us and the Interior.

Next Saturday: Kirkby and Ferguson trek 225 kilometres to the summit of Mt. Waddington.

Bruce Kirkby is the author of Sand Dance, By Camel Across Arabia's Great Southern Desert. This article was condensed from the manuscript of his upcoming book, tentatively titled Shifting Frontiers. To learn more about Kirkby's adventures, visit the Web site http://www.brucekirkby.com.