2007 Journey

July 2, 2007

This journey begins tomorrow as if there is ever a real start or stop date for anything.  Like this journey, a marriage that begins with the ceremony totally ignores the spark of meeting, the uncertainty of pursuit, or the joys of courtship.  Millie J’s journey begins when her lines are cast from Olympia’s dock.  But this start denies the preparation, the finagling of stowage, the sweet melancholy of celebrating family and close friendships.

If the first sail on Greg’s Catalina 25 is ignored, as well as sailing lessons with Mike, the sailing vacation in Hawaii, purchasing the first sailboat, moving aboard, traveling to Alaska, the inception of Millie J, sailing vacations in St. Vincent, and the long long construction; this journey could just as well begun with Richard’s retirement.  His leaving the perfect job was necessary only because it’s hard to wake up in Tahiti and be at work in Seattle.

The beginning could just as easily have been the many farewell dinners with well-wishers and friends so dear your heart aches thinking of being afar, or Alayne’s last art show at the Side Door Studio as lovely Lori closes its door beginning a new journey of her own.  It certainly could have begun with the support of Richard’s sister and brother as they filled in nicely for their Mother, the boast namesake.  It may have started with the hugs and kisses from the grown children who remain in the Pacific Northwest whose lives and family bring constant joy, or the other grown children who have moved away showing how a family is maintained not through proximity but through love.  It could have begun when Alayne’s sweet Mother bashed Millie J with champagne at her christening while sister, Wendy, lent support even while wearing that “I can’t believe you let him talk you into going” expression.

Any of these times could be the beginning.  But for now, the journey begins tomorrow.

Today is it,  (New larger capacity alternator installed – Check.)  the culmination of planning and working,  (Secondary anchor rode installed – Yes.)  of progress and setbacks.  (Screens for air vents installed – Of course, there are mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds up north.)  The weather couldn’t be more perfect.  Summer is coming early to the Pacific Northwest.  (Rain jackets – Yes.  Rain boots – Yes.  Foul weather gear – Replaced, on board, stowed.)  Most years it rains from the day public school gets out until the 5th of July.  (Coolant replaced – Finally.  I’d forgotten how long it took to bleed the air out of the system.  If you don’t get that right, the engine will overheat.  I found that out the day we launched.) 

Friends, that don’t have to work, drift by asking if this is the day and what time is departure.  (Oil changed – Give me a break.  It’s getting late.  We’ll miss the tide.  I’ll change it at our next stop.  People are waiting.)  The last few tasks are completed; checking out of the marina and dropping the truck off for daughter Jennifer.  (What about the wind generator that we own part of but they stopped manufacturing the other part – We’ll figure that out later.  We’ve got to go.)  Hugs are exchanged all around.  An offering is made to Neptune (A good stiff drink, really.) to grant calm seas and then the voyage begins.

(Well, at least as far as the pump-out station.  It’s as important for the boat to use the bathroom before a trip as it is her passengers.)  Millie is escorted from the harbor by friends on their boat, Molly.  (They also have a sailboat, Maggie – it’s an ‘M’ thing.)  Adventure, travel, and romance await.  (Hey, shouldn’t we have filled the water tanks before we left.  Isn’t it a bad omen, leaving to wonder the world, with empty water tanks – Dooh!)

There is a sense of wonder, traveling by water.  In the Pacific Northwest, with its myriad islands and peninsulas, you are rarely too far from shore.  You can see a world that is otherwise hidden by fences, forests, or hedge rows.  The water provides a clearing – a place to gain perspective.

Still in south Puget Sound, the places gliding by are familiar: Kurt and Peggy’s home, the little town of Boston Harbor, Dana Passage, and Johnson Point.  The old house there, now remodeled and surrounded by many houses, was built by the father of one of Rich’s flight students.  John’s dad, Old Doc. Brown, would travel the dirt roads of Olympia by horse and buggy - practicing medicine in homes.  What now seems ancient isn’t really so long ago.

The prison at Mc Neil Island is an old Federal Penitentiary now run by Washington State.  As if walls and wire are not enough, cold water and strong currents play a confining roll.

The two parallel Tacoma Narrows Bridges are the Mason-Dixon Line of Puget Sound separating South from North.  All tidal waters for the thirty-odd miles south of this point funnel through the ¾-mile wide channel.  Currents may be quite strong, over 5 ½-knots at times.  This can have a chilling effect as Millie J motors at about 6-knots.  Head current, tail current, or the slack water in between; timing is everything.

Millie J spent her first voyaging night anchored off the town of Burton in Quartermaster Harbor on Vashon Island.  Normally a great anchorage, this night before the U.S. Independence Day celebration brought random fireworks, skiers, and mini-hydrofoil racing boats.  The cacophony could have made crows jealous.

An evening and a morning and the journey has started.

Any activity you enjoy is understandably acceptable.  Pastimes of others don’t necessarily fall into that category.  The water is generally exceptionally smooth at 4:30 in the morning, even the wind hasn’t risen, yet that is the hour chosen by a 4th of July celebrant to see how fast his hydro-foil can travel around the harbor.  Yes mister, you better try another lap, there’s probably someone in Western Washington still asleep.  Relax, you are retired.  You have your whole life.  This person has only today.

After leaving Olympia, the hope is to restrict the goal setting to general ideas of direction and approximate weather-wise times of the year for travel (To paraphrase Capt. Jack Sparrow, ‘we don’t want to think of them as goals – more like guidelines.’) yet sometimes appointments are made.  The initial plan is to be in Port Townsend Friday morning for the final tuning of the mast rigging.  It was done when the mast was stepped but since then new wire has stretched and should be tightened.  The early morning call of our hydro-songbird spurred Millie into action.

North she went, still passing places she had seen yet finding new boats to share a greeting.  Past Seattle, (And this morning I-5 northbound is backed up from 405 all the way to the Nisqually Delta.  Rich does not miss that at all.) past Eagle Harbor, (The ferry from Kingston is on a one boat schedule.  A problem on the Issaquah will keep it out of service until late this afternoon.) past Point No Point, (What a great name.) past

Foul Weather Bluff, (Not really foul weather today but the wind and fetch combine to make a wave frequency that causes Millie to rock side-to-side at an annoying rate.) and finally into Port Ludlow for the night.  A resident of this mainly vacation home enclave treats Millie to a pretty impressive fireworks show.  Happy birthday, daughter Alyssa.  Happy birthday, America.

If Millie gets up early and eats breakfast on the road, she will have a slight following current through the Marrowstone Island cut and an easier way than around through Admiralty Inlet, through the patchy fog, and into port.

She is rewarded with beautiful views of Mount Baker in the distance and unperturbed wildlife.  The bald eagle, symbol of the United States, deserves protection, (Don’t build here; there’s an eagles nest down the hill.  Can’t disturb them.) yet on a cruise to Alaska in 1994, the eagles were thick as fleas, over one-hundred nesting in trees along Ketchikan’s main road through a business area.  A balance in all things.

Tuning went well.  Brion Toss and staff are joys to be around.  Port Townsend has such interesting people working nearby - people fitting out for world voyages – people refitting themselves and their boats after long passages.

The town manages to walk a line between a quaint Victorian tourist’s Mecca and a working maritime hub.  Large trawlers, fresh from the Alaskan fishery, have new planks installed at the turn-of-the-bilge alongside 30-foot fan-tailed sloops whose fresh varnish gleams in the sun.  There is also a steady supply of good local-brewed beer, characters, and would-be pirates (in the nicest sense of the word).

Did you hear about the pirate who walked into a bar?
He had a truck’s steering wheel attached to his pants by the zipper.
Bartender says, “Hey, did you know you’ve got a wheel attached to your pants?”
“Arrr”, he replied, “it’s drivin’ me nuts.”

Top-off the water tanks (don’t want to get caught a second time), refuel, and pump out the holding tank.  Off to the San Juan Islands, maybe to catch friends, John and Roxie, before they depart to Desolation Sound.  The plan is to meet them later in July and together cruise the Broughton Islands, just north of Vancouver Island.  Wait.  Millie, what’s that hiccup in your get-up?  Above 1300 rpm’s a vibration shudders the stern of the boat.  Did we hook some fishing line or net at the fuel dock?  Did we shed a propeller blade?  It was working fine a minute ago.  (Everything is always fine just before it breaks.)  Limp back in, thankful that if it was going to happen, at least it is near a place with a travel-lift to raise the boat from the water for inspection.

By the time Millie makes it to the dock and the lift operators are rounded up it’s just about closing time - just enough time left for a “short haul” to see if it is going to be a quick fix.  (“Darn that fishing line”, is the hope.)  The worst thought is if a blade came off, yet this would give the maximum time to get one ordered from the east coast.  Up she comes.  Everything looks fine.  All blades are firmly attached and swivel the same amount as always.  Nothing binding them.  Cutlass bearing seems tight.  Oh well, back into the water.  These guys want to go home.

Sometimes nothing is easy.  The motor mounts seem good.  The coupling between the propeller shaft and the transmission seems tight with the alignment still good – you can spin the shaft by hand and it continues around for one-and-a-half revolutions.  There is no vibration when the engine runs in neutral.  To the dock to wait for someone smarter than Rich.  Nothing to do but wait for Monday.

Port Townsend is such an interesting town (have I heard this before) - lovely boats to look at and a steady supply of good local-brewed beer.  (I mean a real steady supply.)  Alayne wanders the docks taking pictures of interesting boats, perhaps the subject of her next painting.  Rich dreams of pinion gears falling apart and the dollars it will take to put them together.  Monday brings mechanics and the propeller manufacturer into the picture but with no quick solutions.  They recheck everything Rich had checked with the same conclusion.  The prop maker wants more information: power settings, boat speed attained, exactly what setting the vibrations started, and how much power the engine will produce.  All information is supplied with only the engineers remaining to be heard from.

In the mean time, a wonderful local mechanic, Doug, remembers having to just slightly miss-align an engine to make one of these propellers stop vibrating.  Might as well try that while waiting.  While loosening the nuts on the motor mounts, Doug discovers a fractured stud.  It is the major cause of Millie’s ailments.  When looked at before disassembly, it could not be seen - most unusual, but true.  Finally, something to fix.  It is a good day and soon Millie is walking without a crane.

Port Townsend to the San Juan archipelago requires crossing 24-miles of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.  This is the opening between mainland U.S. and Canada’s Vancouver Island.  It supplies and flushes all the tidal water for Puget Sound and parts of the Georgia Strait.  Currents are with Millie as she shoots out of Admiralty Inlet at 10.9-knots.  Along with this gift comes the payment of short choppy seas – four feet up, four feet down. 

Soon the inlet is crossed and with Whidbey Island to lee, a great sail follows.  Rain clouds chase but never quite catch up and then, rounding Point Colville into the San Juans.  It is usually sunny here, located in the rain shadow of the Olympic Mountains.  Hunter Bay, on Lopez Island, affords good holding for the anchor, lovely scenery, and Dungeness crabs – big, fat, delicious crabs.

The crabbing - great; the weather – perfect; the company –ideal from Rich’s point-of-view; and three days anchored are blissful.  However, even retired people spring into action when friends or family ask for assistance.  A close friend, Willi, phoned to ask for help re-doing the standing rigging on his boat in Olympia.  He is one of the world’s foremost mountain climbing guides and lived aboard with his bride, Ellie, for years before moving to Alaska (from a 140-square foot boat to 140-acres in the woods.)

This is Rich's bride with Willi last spring.

It sounds like a daily passing-on-the-dock friendship but when you guide for a living, you are seldom home.  Willi was on his boat a total of three days during the new millennium year when clients wanted to climb each of the highest peaks on the seven continents.  Willi did all but Australia.  Moving to Alaska two-years ago did not help with finding time for boat maintenance.  Now it was time to re-rig.

Millie sailed south to Port Townsend while Willi drove from the base of Mount Rainier to pick up Rich and Alayne and transport them to Olympia.  Everything cooperated but the weather.  If a meteorologist in Western Washington were to pick a time for their daughter’s outdoor wedding, it would be the second half of July; this year, nothing but rain.

Climb the mast, take down a rigging wire, lay it on the dock, put end fittings on the new wire (comparing with the old for length), and re-climb the mast to attach it at the top while it is also attached at the deck level.  Select another wire and repeat.  Willi, the climber, worked at the top of the mast while Rich, the retired guy, worked at deck level.  Looking up in the rain at Willi working, Rich felt simpatico with the domesticated farm turkey as water filled his nose.  Drowning was a concern.

Each evening, Rich dried out at dear friends, Kurt and Peggy’s.  The four of them (remember Alayne is here too, although she was wily and cunning enough to avoid standing out in the rain) have shared two sailing trips to the Caribbean.  Kurt allowed Millie to be completed in his shop, a two-year period, and Peggy put Rich and Alayne into her spare bedroom when their barge-house sold before Millie was finished, a three-month commitment.  They each share a friendship as close as any family.

While in Olympia, our intrepid travelers visited Alayne’s Mom, artists Winnie and Jerry, and went to the wedding of Katie, daughter of boating friends Park and Carol.  (There was a time the three of them lived across the dock in a twenty-eight foot power boat – through the winter – with a dog and a cat – and came out of the ordeal still loving each other.)  Transportation to the event and back to Port Townsend was provided by Matt and Terri.  Fellow live-aboards, they had the good common sense to move ashore and visit their boat evenings and weekends.  Matt, not that he would admit, is an accomplished guitarist.  He drove to Port Townsend to attend a music seminar running concurrent with the jazz festival.

It is wonderful being with friends in their world, but being back on the water feels so natural.  There are still schedules to keep, but they are driven by tides, currents, and the weather.  The crossing to the San Juans not only brought the elation of being on the water but also the sunshine.  Each mile covered, each tidal boil crossed, the rhythm of life on Millie came back.  Rich and Alayne keep telling themselves they must accomplish something while underway but each day they stare-off at the world as it passes: look at the size of that eagle - over there, porpoise - good gravy Alayne, you are beautiful - would you like some more tea, sure but first I have to pee.

Anchoring locations are chosen for several reasons: water depth; whether the bottom is rocky, covered with anchor repelling kelp, or the good holding power of sand and mud; and protection from winds, waves, and boat traffic.  There is another important factor however, the aesthetic.  What’s the view?  Sometimes Millie shares the anchorage with several other boats, at times solitude in a small inlet, and at other times she is the temporary neighbor of land-lubbing financial wealth.  Water – the great equalizer.  No matter the location, shortly after sunset snoring is heard aboard Millie.

It is a short distance crossing Haro Strait into Canada but a big change in governmental attitude.  Phoning customs with Millie’s vitals and her Canpass number allowed her to pause at the customs dock in Bedwell Harbor and, finding no agent at the dock, move on to her anchorage in Montague Harbor, Galiano Island.  The American San Juans, except at major harbors, seems very un-crowded this year.  Crossing the border, it appears much of that traffic came north.

Tomorrow – Naniamo,

tonight - a long sleep.

Between Millie and the city of Naniamo is a passage called Dodd Narrows.  It has 9 ½ knots of current at its strongest.  Today, since it is between the new and full moon cycles, the current is not so bad, 6 ½ knots.  However, since Millie travels at about 6 knots, timing the passage at slack water (when the tide begins the change from either low or high tide) is important.  The Canadian Tides and Current Table says slack is at 1433 (2:30 pm) Pacific Standard Time.  Since Canada and the U.S. spring-forward into Daylight Savings Time, Millie needs to move the time ahead one-hour (1533) to get the local time for slack water.  It is 24-miles from Montague Harbor to Dodd Narrows and takes 4-hours to cover the distance.  Plan for errors or breakdowns by adding an extra hour travel time and that makes departure 1030.  And there you have it, the procedure for traveling in British Columbia and Alaska, where there are so many narrow passages with very high tidal ranges.  At the equator, the tide may change 6-inches between high and low.  In Millie’s part of the world the difference can be 17-feet.

Naniamo is a city that has redefined itself.  When the fishing all but collapsed and logging slowed during the 1970’s, it appeared on the brink of desertion.  With a lot of work, it is now a tourist magnet and an area drawing large numbers of Canadians from the prairie to live in the maritime.  There is good provisioning close to the harbor and great food and drink.  Millie is a happy little boat.

Naniamo is a wonderful place to accomplish all those housekeeping chores sailors save up for shore-side: A grocery store one block away from the marina, a good pub nearby to wash out the trail dust, laundry facilities at the docks, another pub just up the street to wash out the taste of laundry soap, a ships chandlery three blocks away, and several great restaurants within an easy walk.  Each restaurant sells beer in convenient pint containers.  Unfortunately, each of these things comes at a premium price.  The businesses can not be blamed.  Tourist season is short and it is important to make money when possible.

Because Alayne knows there will be other pubs in their future and she knows Rich needs to save some of his money for them, Millie moves across the harbor to the public anchorage.  It is not an original idea however.  There are so many other boats already present it is hard finding room to drop anchor and have room to swing after letting out sufficient chain.  After finding what appears to be the last spot, worry begins as many other boats join the flotilla and appear to let out barely enough anchor rode to even reach the bottom. 

Many novices think a boat stays put while anchored because of the anchor weight.  This is not the case.  Anchors have the ability to dig into the earth when drug across the bottom just like a farmer’s plow.  To get the right angle to plow in, there needs to be enough rode (rope or chain) let out.  For overnight anchoring, a length equal to five-times the water depth is desirable; if it’s going to be windy, seven is better.

Yet, this anchorage has some wonderful attributes.  Several water taxis shuttle people from town to Newcastle Island, a marine park and to a separate, yes you guessed it, floating pub.  (Canada is the greatest country on earth.)  If boaters in the anchorage want to go into town, these taxis take them.  Being diligent and not frivolous, Alayne works on projects.  The production of a drogue, for future ocean passages to keep Millie safe, seems a good use of time.  Rich listens over the water to songs being sung by patrons at the pub.

Distances fit nicely into the ‘Theory of Relativity’.  Rich used to drive 50-miles to work.  On a good day, at oh-dark-thirty in the morning, it took about an hour.  He got into the company airplane and flew to Campbell River and back to Seattle and the flight time was about an hour.  The distance between Naniamo and Campbell River is 70-miles.  On Millie it is broken into two days travel.  In the same amount of time it takes her to sail each 35-mile distance, the Falcon 50 aircraft can fly from Seattle to New York with enough time left for the flight crew to get settled into the hotel.  Fortunately, life isn’t a race to see who gets to their room first.  If it were, the occupants of Millie would win hands-down since she carries her room with her.  Everything is relative.

The sailing becomes glorious.  Starting out in nearly calm conditions, the wind soon fills in to a solid 10-knots.  At this wind speed the boat begins traveling near her maximum hull speed.  A little later, the wind builds and blows between 15 and 20-knots.  This is the first time Millie has been in open water with much wind since she had her wind powered steering vane installed on the stern.  Once Rich turns the wind paddle forward (it’s amazing how much better things work when you follow the directions), the vane works flawlessly.  It does not steer Millie on a constant compass heading, like her autopilot; rather it steers so the boat maintains a constant angle to the wind.  If the wind shifts to the left, the vane steers Millie more left.

The wind continues to increase to 25-knots.  The mainsail is reefed (lowered to an intermediate position where not as much sail is exposed to the wind) and Millie continues at her maximum hull speed.  If the wind builds and the sail area is not reduced, all that extra wind force goes into tipping Millie farther over.  She’s in no danger of falling completely over because of the large amount of lead weight in her keel, but she cannot go faster than her hull speed and it becomes wasted energy and a more uncomfortable ride.

When the wind continues to build, Millie seeks a break and ducks into Anderson Bay on the south end of Texada Island.  Narrow, with high rock walls, the water depth remains surprisingly deep until very near the bay’s head.  With the anchor dropped and some chain let out, there is little more than enough room for Millie to swing with her stern narrowly missing each wall.  As the winds abate and Millie hauls anchor to depart, three cruising sailboats enter the harbor, drop anchor, and back their sterns close enough where they can attach a mooring line to the rock wall.  That way the boat can’t swing and they can remain as if in a Costco parking lot.

The day’s destination is at the north end of Lasquiti Island at an anchorage called Maple Bay.  Here Millie anchors in solitude and is treated to a beautiful view and a demonstration of tidal range.

Alayne takes the opportunity to paint.  Rich takes the opportunity to fix something.  At each of the two sunsets witnessed from Maple Bay, birds congregated on a spit of land making a racket as they settled in.  Then, they seemed to stand facing west and watch the sun dip behind Vancouver Island.

Campbell River is located on Vancouver Island where the Strait of Georgia ends and a labyrinth of channels around hundreds of islands begins.  It is about 80-miles southeast of the Broughton Archipelago, Millie’s immediate goal.  Having been here by boat several years ago, the crew is looking forward to the long walk around town to get little errands accomplished.  They are surprised to find a new shopping center built at the top of the dock.

Making the best of things, Alayne shows Rich the fine art of pin-ball machine shopping; one side of the center, across to the other side, then bouncing at some oblique angle to another store before using her flapper to head him once again to the original location; fifty-points Alayne.  It is actually a very nice shopping area with all the services a sailor could want.

North of Campbell River the main channel passes through Seymour Narrows, an area where currents can run over 10-knots and strong eddies keep all sensible boats waiting for slack water between tides.  As boisterous as this area is, it has been improved from nature’s design.  Before it was demolished, in 1958, a large rock stood in the middle just nine feet below the surface, making transit much more exciting.  Many boats were lost as they tried to navigate in poor conditions; 114 lives, 14 ships, and 100 small boats were damaged or sunk.  A plan was conceived to blow-up the rock by tunneling under the channel placing explosives from below.  After five years work, the advertised ‘world’s largest non-nuclear explosion’ (1,500 tons) took the top off Ripple Rock leaving 45-feet of water over it; cool.

Past the narrows the atmosphere continues to change.  Far fewer boats are present with the majority being small commercial trawlers.  The scenery changes to expose higher hills with snow fields much closer.  Every direction contains a photograph worthy vista.  Fish farm pens become conspicuous while small rocks and loose logs, some floating vertically with only a small part of their 20-foot length visible above the water, try to hide from view.  A sailor’s eye, always vigilant for weather, must also watch for things that whack.

Johnstone Strait is the next channel to navigate but each day brings winds building to gale force with few places to anchor and be sheltered from the wind.  Cameleon Harbor, on Sonora Island, provides a place to wait a lull in the wind.  The strait is certainly passable if necessary, but our sailors are retired.  They don’t have to go.  Time is spent rowing the anchorage, setting up fishing gear, and watching as eagles fledge their young. 

A trip ashore, to cut hair, is partially successful.  Alayne’s hair is completed but half way through Rich’s haircut, the sound of a mother bear and her cub is heard in the trees just behind them; a hasty retreat to the dinghy.  Mountaineer and backwoods friend Ellie says there are two kinds of animals: snafflies, who beg for or try to steal your food behind your back, and snarlies, who just take your food or make you be their food.  Snarlies are to be avoided.

Three days of idyllic lounging and still the forecast is for a gale to blow up the strait but this time not until early evening.  Millie leaves early enough to be sheltered at her next harbor, Port Neville, by early afternoon.  For Johnstone Strait, the wind starts out light, 10-knots, but signs of the turbulent currents are already visible.  Upwellings of water abound with whirlpools beginning to form on their edges.  Kelp and loose logs form the turning points as a slalom course is set.

On the advice of fishing-person friend David, a lure drags behind the boat.  “You might catch something by accident,” he had said and he was right.  A skoogie (or hootchie, it’s impossible to remember which lure is which) tempted a bird.  Only through rapid reeling is a mishap avoided.

Port Neville boasts a store, turned museum, and a nice bay to hide from winds.  The arrival of evening brought its arrival.  Already at 25-knots for much of the afternoon, gusts to 35 become common.  During the night, that becomes the norm with higher gusts and Millie, imitating a rocking-horse keeps the sailors half-awake most of the night.  By five-o’clock, as predicted, the winds abated and soon the voyage continued.

Millie skirted the southern islands in the Broughton Archipelago on her way to Port McNeill which is the last good spot to gather fresh produce.  Thinking it was just another town, our sailors were surprised to find a delightful community; friendly people, nice grocery store, and a good pub.  August 6th is “British Columbia Day,” a Provincial holiday, but the grocery is open as is the restaurant.  The local holiday pastime is fishing and a parade of skiffs returns to the haul-out ramp with bags of salmon and halibut.  Happy B.C. Day, Canada.

The visibility increases from nil to ¼-mile as Millie creeps from the harbor.  Echo returns of fishing skiffs bounce back to plod their way across the radar display.  On the water, their fleeting presence is felt more than seen as boat wake ripples outward on the flat oily sea.  Turning to follow the shore past Little Haddington Island, Millie exchanges fog horn blasts with a car ferry as it passes going the opposite direction.  She threads her way between buoys marking Alert Rock and Yellow Bluff on Cormorant Island, and passes from behind the curtain into the fog free town of Alert Bay.

From a distance, the community looks in need of paint, but the friendliness of the residents more than polishes their image.  Smiles and hellos come from all directions.  Some of this warmth comes from the locals, the rest from other voyagers.  Millie is greeted at the dock by Olympia friends John and Roxie, who are on a summer cruise aboard their boat, Xanadu, and by acquaintances Rod and Susan aboard their brand new Nordic Tug, Merlin.  Soon the circle includes other cruisers in the middle of summer trips and one couple nearing the end of an extensive voyage.

John and Roxie

Peter and Marlene cruised for many years – traveling down the west coast to Mexico, through the Panama Canal, up the eastern seaboard to Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, into the Great Lakes – returning to Alert Bay.  Now they are about to move ashore.  Marlene spent her early childhood in the Broughton Islands and has a deep love of this area.  Their boat has the most perfect native Kwakiutl ceremonial name.  At the end of a potlatch gathering, filled with dances of great symbolism and serious lessons, comes a frivolous, carefree dance called Ka’sala.  What could be more fitting for this retired couple than to sail on their Ka’sala?

A portion of Alert Bay is a First Nations reserve.  Its population moved here primarily from Village Island in the early 1900’s.  While the United States had its own idea of how to deal with indigenous people, the government of Canada wanted to integrate natives into the British ideal of hard working proper Christian citizens.  To this end a law was passed abolishing the coastal native’s traditional potlatch, a ceremony in which a village’s greatness was demonstrated by the number of gifts it bestowed on visiting villages.  When a gathering was discovered, the government confiscated or destroyed the ceremonial artifacts (coppers, costumes, and masks) and arrested the participants.  In 1921, the last potlatch was held at the now abandoned Village Island.  Discovered, their masks were taken to the National Museum in Ottawa.

The U’Mista Cultural Center houses the repatriated masks from this potlatch and tells the story of First Nations coastal people.  This building’s creation signaled the rebirth of interest in the “old” ways.  Now the rush is on to learn and record the language, customs and ceremonies from elders before they are gone.

In their stories, two main creatures appear: Komogwa, purveyor of life under the water, and Tsonogwa, the forest equivalent.  Komogwa has a beak and penetrating eyes while Tsonogwa has pendulous breasts and half-open eyes.  Each represents the fierceness and viciousness found in nature.  Not malevolent but rather matter-of-fact – just the way things are.  The grizzly bear is not a teddy-bear but an animal with instincts to protect its young and its territory.  The wild killer whale is not “Seaworld” trained and hunts salmon and seals with a purpose - not meanness or vengeance, but hunger.

This was the world for First Nations people - one where a miscue could result in their canoe being sucked beneath the surface by a whirlpool or their becoming lost in the thickness of the forest.  These realities were expressed in the totem artwork. However, anthropologists noticed a change in carving style after the arrival of Europeans.  With the acquisition metal tools and firearms, the images lost their vicious look, softening from a past reality into a tale of the way things used to be.   Man gained some control with the help of a rifle.

Millie skirted the edges of the Broughton’s for days.  Now the exploration can begin - so many islands where the blending of native history, fishing, and logging is seamless.  The appearance of several run-about vessels milling around the inlets of the Plumper Islands gives Rich the idea this may be a good place to fish.  Hoochie out – nothing.  Hoochie in.  Spoon out – wait.  Troll – wait.  Did the tip of the rod just flick?  There again.  Pull the rod – reel in the line.  Repeat.  Rich has done it before with nothing there but wait – there is something on the line.  Not believing this is possible, not really believing, the net is still stored in the engine room.  “Alayne!  Get the net.  Quick!”  The fish is now along side.  The net isn’t.  A moment to study this beauty, this first fish of the trip: a sockeye about 24-inches.  It spits out the hook just as the net arrives on scene.  Millie is the slow boat traveling with friends now.  They are far ahead so no time to try again.  “Next time, little fish friend, you are mine.”

The ritual of rotating boats for a happy-hour pot-luck begins at the Goat Islet anchorage.  The two couples, John – Roxie and Rod – Susan, have a friendship dating back decades.  It is wonderful listening as they tell their story to the new kids.  At sunset, back on Millie, an old plywood skiff, seen earlier tending a retired 30-foot fishing trawler, motors over to visit.  Its occupant, a man in his sixties, tells the 5-minute version of his life. 

He was born and raised near here.  His dad built his trawler and nine others just like her.  He was given the first boat and fished with it for years, but not now.  He anchors here often but not as close to shore as he used to.  One night he and a gal-friend were anchored close to shore, just over there, and a sasquatch didn’t like it – felt they were too close.  The sasquatch came out of the woods and threw a chunk of wood at the boat - broke a door hinge.  He never anchored that close again.  They hadn’t been drinking.  Stories of the sasquatch inhabiting this part of Canada abound.  From another source, a cruising guide recommends anchoring on the west side of God’s Pocket Island because sasquatch live in the cove on the east side.  Whether a bear was mistaken for this creature or not, Millie isn’t sure, but she has never heard of a bear with a Nolan Ryan pitching arm and will not anchor too close to shore.

The abandoned village of Mamaliliculla, site of that last potlatch, is being reclaimed by the forest near Goat Islet.  The dock has large missing sections but enough remains to tie up the dinghy.  A trail through head-high berry bushes affords peaks of old buildings: a school, a couple houses, the three-foot diameter cedar log doorway to the Big House, and farther along the trail, a reposing totem with just enough detail to recognize Komogwa as he decomposes at the shoreline into his sea.

Remains of Big House above

Reclining totem at right

A dozen small marinas are sprinkled throughout the Broughton’s.  Patterned from local float-houses and floating logging camps, most have only the owner’s cabin ashore.  Lagoon Cove has a building on the shore-side of the ramp that houses the evening pot-luck, the book exchange library, and the work shop. 

The display of collectables and the creation of “totems” from old items remind Millie of an Olympia friend, Sandy Sinclair.  Both places have the same sense of honor and glee at displaying things from “the good old days.” 

Lagoon Cove is also known for another attribute; their ability to always fit one more boat onto the dock.  Soon vessels are rafted so tightly it feels like a living jigsaw puzzle.

From the crowd of Lagoon Cove, Millie and company move to the sublime – the small marina at Kwatzi Bay.  Constructed and operated by Max and Anca, the floats are enclosed in a small bay lined with the towering hills of the mainland. 

A cascading waterfall powers the generator for their home’s electricity.  As more people call on their radio asking for moorage, Anca, unlike Lagoon Cove, turns down the overflow boats – encouraging them to try again the next night.

Their business philosophy includes the notion that the main reason boats frequent marinas is for the social hour.  If there are too many people, the dynamic changes and the group splits into sub-units.  Millie likes this business plan and enjoys chatting well into the evening.

Max’s son, Russell, joyously describes his love of Halloween at nearby Echo Bay.  The family travels there by small boat and trick-or-treats at all the float-houses.  This is followed by the community gathering at Bill Proctor’s place for a party climaxed by fireworks.  Bill is a fixture in the Broughton’s having been born here in the 1930’s and remaining his whole life.  Hand-logger and fisherman, he became concerned with the decline of the fish runs as logging practices changed - the use of herbicides and the destruction of stream habitat by logging too close.  Having the perspective acquired from a life of memories in this one area, Bill is not afraid to let his opinions be heard locally, in Victoria, or in Ottawa.

Being a man of action, in addition to words, Bill uses his lifelong observations of fish cycles to aid a local grass-roots organization to reintroduce salmon runs to streams that have been devastated – from 30,000 yearly returns down to 300 and now back to 2,500 and growing.  There are so many streams for such a small group of people.

Bill also collects found items he calls “junk.”  Several years ago he built a museum out-building which includes many trade beads given by early explorers and fur traders to persuade natives to part with fur pelts and for the temporary use of their women.  The natives gave away the furs and favors but besides getting the trinkets, they wanted metal – anything metal: firearms, cooking kettles, even nails removed from the ships.  Many vessels returned home with a holds full of fur but barely enough fasteners to hold the boats together or pots to piss in.

Names on the local nautical chart sound like a walk through a European cemetery - Vancouver Island, Loughborough Inlet, Hardwicke Island, Phillips Arm.  An anthropologist, Franz Boas, spent a great deal of time cataloging native customs, ceremonies, and names.  Accounts describe him as being totally non-judgmental in his approach.

One of his treatises is named Geographical Names of the Kwakiutl.  In it Boas covered their entire territory and replaced British names with native.  Translated into English and quoting an account, a journey up one channel is, “…I sailed from Rocky Place Not Reached, to Paddled Through On Beach, to Long Face, to Shelter Point, to Round Things On Water In Front Of Beach…”  The native names are “precisely descriptive.”  It would be interesting to see this method adopted along the I-5 corridor: I drove from Place Where Curve In Road Always Causes Backup, to Location Near Where Mini-Coopers Are Sold, to Hill Where Traffic Comes To A Halt On Fridays Before Holiday Weekends Giving Enough Time For Pizza To Be Delivered.  It would be wonderful if this method caught on.

Outside the narrow entrance of Turnbull Cove are two examples of British descriptive naming: Roaringhole Rapids and Overflow Basin.  Roaringhole, the more impressive because its tidal overfall is fed by the five-mile long Nepah Lagoon, is passable at slack water by motorized dinghies, who must make a hasty retreat, or wait six-hours for the next slack, or be prepared for a ride down a class-five rapid.  Overflow Basin, though fed by a much smaller lagoon, is impressive in its short waterfall appearance.

Roaringhole Rapids above

Overflow Basin to right

Both Xanadu and Merlin carry kayaks for paddling around the anchorage.  Since Alayne proved to be a natural, the consensus opinion was that Rich probably would not kill himself - a graceful descent into the seat, a nice long paddle, and finally time for the dismount.

Occasionally the prudent mariner will test emergency equipment and personnel to make sure they function properly.  Carefully studying the timing, Rich did an imitation of a person falling from a kayak.  His automatic-inflating life jacket worked flawlessly.  The crew, unfortunately, did not.  It seems they were laughing too hard to be much help.

Millie and friends relocate to Sullivan Bay on the north side of Broughton Island.  This will be their last evening together and this marina boasts a restaurant, fuel, grocery, liquor store, and post office.  In addition, it provides float space for some upscale float homes, one with a helicopter landing pad on the roof and several with large yachts tied up outside.  Millie is sure this is one reason the restaurant’s food is so good.  It is a fine send-off as each boat continues their personal adventures.

Port McNeill has affordable groceries, good water, laundry facilities, an internet connection, and telephones.  It does not have a helicopter landing pad on the roof but does have one in a parking lot next to where Millie is tied.  She is often greeted by the cheery sound of it hovering - waiting for float planes to tie up to the dock.  It is noisy but the perfect place for Millie to prepare to re-enter the Broughton’s.  Here fishy-fishy.

Belmont County Ohio raised its sons to mine coal.  Their back-in-the-hills tap roots went as deep as the shafts they dug.  As a youngster, Rich visited the original Millie’s parents there and heard stories of folks who had never left the county.  To someone with innate wanderlust, this was unimaginable – an enigma to this boy’s normalcy.  He thought it was the trait of someone who had no imagination.

He heard it again at the marina, “I’m the sixth generation born here.  If my grand-babies had been born here instead of,” the woman’s voice hushed to the whisper used when speaking of syphilis, “Victoria, it would have been seven generations.  My husband’s side have been here seven.”  In town, as soon as the order for ice-cream cones is taken, the very healthy seventeen year old gal volunteers, “My family is one of the original settlers. 

When I finish school, I’ll go see the world, but I’m sure I’ll end up back here.”  It is a similar theme expressed thousands of miles and fifty-years from the coal mines.

Malcom Island was first settled by Europeans in 1909.  A group of Finnish immigrants, fed up with the exploitation of the Vancouver Island logging industry, tried an experiment in communal living.-.not the 1960’s free-love version, but the more pure socialist version.  Like so many attempts, it did not work and dissolved but many of the original families stayed, bought land, and sank their roots. 

Remnants of the grand experiment survived in the form of co-ops.  The first in British Columbia and still in business, the Co-op sells everything a body needs: groceries, fuel, dry goods, hardware, fishing supplies, liquor, and ice-cream.  Walking the streets of the island’s small town, Sointula, feels like being in Washington State’s San Juan Islands before the arrival of expensive, quaint commercialism.

“The best water in the Broughton’s,” Millie has heard.  “Untreated, right from artesian wells, the best water around,” says another.  A bottling company has heard the same and is talking to the community elders about opening a plant here.  The consensus is, “You want to bottle our water and do what you’ve done everywhere else, leave us with no water and an island that’s not fit for us anymore.  No thanks!” 

The condemnation seems to expand beyond the bottling plant to include logging, fishing, and even further to include exploitations around the globe.  Alayne is impressed.  Rich wonders where they keep all the Finnish carpenters.

Bere Point is known for the shoreline used by Orca whales that come onto the rocks to scratch where it itches.  Hoping to see this phenomenon, the crew walks the 4-miles exchanging waves with every passing car.  A custom seen in the open expanses of non-tourist season Alaska, this isn’t the vigorous wave of 3rd-graders on a bus, but the casual one hand raise – acknowledging existence.  The woman at the marina says, “If you get tired, stick out your thumb.  Most folks will give you a ride.”

The name, Sointula, sounds as Kwakiutl as the village Mamaliliculla, but it is Finnish for a place of harmony.  Through the town name, its citizens are given a goal to live up to.  They have a good grasp of the outside world and realize not all parts need to be imported.  For them, staying in the same place is not as important as keeping their island a place worth staying.

Rich took a couple pictures and this story hatched. For his grandchildren, Rich dedicates this to his father who could make up a bedtime story at the drop of a hat.  Millie cracks-up reading it.  She likes the yolks.

Story of Heron and Stone Totem
Or
Great Heron Rocks

To be a good heron, takes a lot of practice - standing still until little fish no longer notice.  To be a great heron, takes the patience few birds have.  To be The Great Heron, takes the skill and determination only one bird in a lifetime achieves.

Ardea had practiced patience since hatching.  While others seemed to stand still, he knew they were thinking of the tune Birdland, and were probably tapping their toes under the water where no one could see - but not Ardea.  He practiced and got better.  He practiced even harder and became good.  He practiced until he was blue in the face and became great, and still he practiced.

In college, Ardea majored in fish, but he never gave up his dream, and he never stopped practicing.  He didn’t even take time to fledge a fraternity.  He wanted nothing more than to challenge The Great Heron.

Feeling at last ready but not knowing where to find him, Ardea decided to wing-it.  He flew and flew until one day he caught a glimpse.  He circled lower and there, on an islet, sat The Great Heron – motionless – like he was stone.

With a whooshing of wings, Ardea landed next to The Heron and straightened himself for the face-off.  He was perfect.  He was motionless.  He had waited his whole life for this.  Minutes turned to hours, hours turned to days, and neither moved.  Winter came with pelting rain and howling wind – neither moved.

Spring brought other herons flying overhead.  They cavorted, flirted, paired-up, and flew off to nest.  Ardea didn’t move but for the first time he felt he was missing something.  As he sat, he thought, and, though he didn’t move an eye, he looked at The Great Heron.  As he looked, he saw a bird at the top of his perch, but rigid and without life.  He thought of his mother and his father and then, for the first time in his life, he thought of the tune Birdland and he allowed his toe to tap.

Ardea did not become The Great Heron, but he was A Great Heron and, later that spring, he became A Very Good Father.  After all, he had learned patience.

The End

Fruition is the time when ripeness peaks.  A strawberry will not taste quite as sweet the day before and its sugars will start to decay the day after.  On that one day, as you put in your mouth, it is perfect.  All cycles share this trait - a point of culmination.  As the earth cycles around the sun, August is generally such a peak.  Days of basking in the summer sun have heated it to perfection.  In most places, respite from the heat is a week or two away - the east coast swelters in 100-degree heat.

Millie lights her first cabin fire on August 12.  A 50-degree morning requires more than another layer of clothes.  Bug screens, typical summer accessories on the deck hatches, are replaced with plastic sheets that act as storm windows keeping the morning condensation from forming and dripping on Rich as he sleeps.  What are the odds of every water drop falling directly into his ear?  Proof – there is a God and he has a sense of humor.

A newborn urge to follow the birds south is reinforced by a string of cool rainy windy days that have pushed the North Pacific High, traditional pressure barrier to bad weather, toward Hawaii.  Ah, Hawaii – a place of balmy breezes, mai tais on the beach, and luaus with a young pig roasting over a fire.  Pierre’s Bay Marina, on Gilford Island, recreates one aspect of this Hawaiian dream.  Each Saturday, a whole pig rides a rotisserie over a charcoal fire until it reaches that same crackling perfection.  The docks are always packed for this feast.  During the high season, a boat must show up on Friday to insure a place at the dock.  The pig is supplied – everything else is potluck.

Pierre looks like what you would expect of all north woods Pierres – tousled brown hair, a long beard, and he speaks with just a hint of the French.  He made his living as a logger, moving from camp to camp, but always returned to his bay.  Then, he thought of a way to make a living from the area’s summer visitors – dock rental, laundry facilities, and a theme dinner each night of the week.  Repeat visitors become friends.  The giant charcoal grill, jokingly named a Weber 8 Million, was a gift of the Des Moines Yacht Club.  It was built by members in Seattle and transported to Pierre by boat.  On this weekend, the Captain of the boat Scoundrel’s Dream celebrates his tenth season visiting.

Boating is the great equalizer – a common ground for starting friendships.  If all the belligerents of the world owned boats and started each summer by scraping old varnish from the wood, sanding off old bottom paint, cleaning algae sludge from the bottom of diesel tanks, and then sitting down together at a potluck, peace would surely follow.  As the pig is un-skewered and carved, Millie meets her table mates – a real estate broker, two nurses, the past head of the British Columbia Film Commission, and a lovely couple on their way south from a summer in Alaska. 

Everyone sits in anticipation including a congregation of fish beneath the grill; they come each evening hoping for drippings and waste scraps.  All too soon, the pig looks like he has played his part in the Discovery Channel’s production of Hyenas of the Savannah.

Millie departs early in the morning hoping to beat the forecast afternoon gale.  However, the weather also gets up early and soon Queen Charlotte Strait is whipped by 40-knot gusts and steep 3-foot seas.  The course is altered, Millie doesn’t do bad weather unless she has to, and within an hour she is anchored safely in the lee of a sheltering island.  With the early change of season, it is especially important to keep radios turned on. 

Millie gathers weather forecasts from many sources using her two radios and, in addition, listens for messages from other boats.  Though there are none more professional and responsive than the Canadian Coast Guard, often private vessels are in the best position to offer early assistance to a boat in trouble.

The initial call is a woman’s voice, “We’re in trouble and need some help.”  A 55-foot steel trawler (pleasure boat) is aground on a rock at the entrance to Cypress Harbor.  The tide is falling.  The boat is listing (tipping sideways) and these two people with three dogs need help.  Calmly, clearly, and professionally, the Coast Guard radio operator gets the location, makes sure the people are in life vests, and finds out if they have a dinghy to abandon into if necessary.  He then checks if there are other vessels in the area that can assist.

Hearing this call, a skiff from a nearby fish farm, a small sailboat, and a small powerboat make there way to the scene.  (Millie is about 15-miles away – a 3-hour trip.)  After the immediate life-saving tasks, the operator begins looking out for the environment, “How much fuel is on board?  Can you safely close the fuel tank valves so they can’t leak?”  One-by-one the items are dealt with.  Behind the scenes, a small Coast Guard boat is dispatched from Telegraph Cove, 50-minutes away, and the cutter Cape Southerland gets under-way from Port Hardy, 1-hour 20-minutes away.

The stricken boat heels 45-degree atop its rock perch.  Though its side-deck is under water, there are no holes and no water gets in yet.  The dogs are taken by the small sailboat.  The two people wait in the fish-farm skiff.  The small powerboat retrieves floating debris.  A large workboat, several miles away, dispatches its helicopter to sling-load a large capacity water pump to the scene in case it is needed.  Everybody who can help makes them self available.

The Coast Guard boats arrive.  One is attached to the listing trawler to stabilize it.  On scene, the decision is made to pull gently to see if the boat will budge; this could be attempted only because the boat is made of steel.  If it had been fiberglass, nothing could be done but wait for high tide to see if the boat would float free.  The ploy works.  The boat is free.  The only damage is some scraping to the hull plate.

Finding yourself on the rocks in these waters has a long tradition.  As the Cape Southerland steamed to this incident, it passed very close to where Captain Vancouver’s ship, Discovery, went aground in 1792.  “…a terrible crash ensued, that brought the ship on her broadside.”  Vancouver writes, “…the ship’s forefoot was in about 3 and a half foot water, whilst her stern was in four fathoms [24 feet].”  At 2:00 am the boat came upright on the flood tide with little damage. 

If Queen Charlotte Strait were drained of water, it might resemble Monument Valley in Arizona – narrow tall pinnacles rising from the valley floor surrounded by great mountains.

With the same calm professionalism, the Coast Guard deals with three other situations.  Another boat is grounded.  This boat is fiberglass and coming apart.  A helicopter is dispatched to rescue the people.  Then, a fisherman falls overboard with his pole.  The Coast Guard monitors until he is safely back aboard.  The fish can’t believe the one that got away. 

Finally, a kayaker goes ashore on an island, falls, and hurts his ankle.  A boat is dispatched to transport him to the hospital and a water taxi sent for his friends.  Listening, Millie fills with pride for these people doing their job with excellence and the private boaters so willing to help in any way they can.

Inevitably winds die down – morning anchorages become mirror flat.  Anthropologists believe aboriginal artworks were inspired by shoreline reflections.  Throughout the summer, Millie has taken photographs of these reflections and, when turned vertically, it is easy to see the reason for this theory.  Images emerge as in clouds or tea leaves in the bottom of a cup.  Frogs, fish, kings, and even the water god, Komogwa, can come to life.

Millie sees animals in these reflections, and has seen many real porpoises and a lot of birds, but she has yet to be in the right spot to see Orcas or bears.  Stopping at a native community, New Vancouver, to fill the water tanks, the dock’s caretaker explains that he’s sorry but a grizzly broke the pipes from the water tank the night before.  “The rest of the community is out looking for him now.” 

They have never seen a grizzly on their island before.  “It must have swum from the mainland - too many tourists looking at them over there.  They don’t like that.  Neither do the whales.  They get tired of being looked at.”  Even though he asks us back to use their facilities in the future, the sense is that they too are tired of all the tourists.  Like most places, visitors are a curse as-well-as a blessing.

Farther south, Millie escapes the early autumn in Campbell River.  The marina there is native owned also.  The manager, who kindly drives Rich the 3-miles to fill one of Millie’s propane tanks, proudly lists the accomplishments of his Campbell River Band:  they operate the busiest marina on Vancouver Island, they own the uplands with the large shopping center, and they are in negotiations with Wal-Mart and Home Depot for other building sites. 

The Band built a cruise ship docking facility for the city and is talking to all the major lines inviting them to stop on their way to Alaska.  A totally different view point from New Vancouver or is it just a matter of location – a feeling of inevitability.

The weather in Desolation Sound so depressed Captain Vancouver in 1792 that he bestowed a name in total contradiction to what hundreds of boaters believe.  It is as if Millie escaped back into summer - warmth and sunshine abound.  Late enough in the season, most of the vacationers have gone home so their children can start school.  This leaves quiet anchorages to the lucky few who remain.  Once again, it is a wonderful time of year. 

Happy Birthday, Jessica
Happy Birthday, Amelia
Happy Birthday Peg.

And, a special Happy Birthday to Alayne, a woman who has aged only when she looks into the mirror but, to me, will always look like -

The hand drawn map doesn’t make the walk seem far.  Three miles to the far end of the lake is just a little more than the daily round-trip walk to the grocery in Olympia.  The second three-miles will be a little tougher - the cruising guide advises, “…intermediate to advanced…wear proper shoes…unrelenting climb.”  Then it is all down hill and a level walk back around the lake which will keep the leg muscles from tightening too much.

Now everyone is expecting a tale of tongue dragging, blisters, and total exhaustion.

Millie comes to Pender Harbour on the recommendation of a friend saying it is one of his favorite places.  With a shape reminiscent of an amoeba, the harbor is comprised of several bays and islets and is indeed one of the lovelier spots in a region of lovely spots.  About fifty crow-flying miles northwest of Vancouver, it is spared the crowding of a bedroom community by the winding road and a required ferry boat ride. 

Many summer homes line the shore, each with its own dock and boat. The harbor has no large downtown area leaving each bay to establish a marina, perhaps a pub, or possibly a general store.  A many mile drive around to the different bays can be shortened to a quarter-mile row in Millie’s dinghy.  [We thought of naming Millie J’s dinghy Minnie J but now are wondering if Horse would be better – as in, the Horse we rowed in on.]

Arrival in the harbor is timed perfectly – a day early for the end of summer Pender Harbour Jazz Festival.  Unknown before but already in love with the location, Millie decides to stay the weekend and, since Mount Daniel is so close and the crew needs exercised, Rich and Alayne are sent for their hike.  Around the lake and up the hill – six miles with 1350-feet of elevation gain in the last three-miles – the up the hill part is truly, as described, unrelenting.

Mountain climbing friend Willi says it is a matter of adjusting to a slower pace, step-pause-breath – step-pause-breath, eat  a little apple to keep the energy level up, drink plenty of water, don’t quit, and the summit will happen. 

Along the way, Rich meets Mr. Snake while Alayne meets Mrs. Squirrel.  They both think she’s nuts but they don’t tell her.

Then, at the same moment they run out of hill to climb, the duo reaches the top.  What a view!  The whole harbor spread out below.  There’s Millie – anchored and waiting.  Granola bars are shared and a sit-down rest enjoyed.  This is a life is good moment.

Coming down from such a high has the advantage of gravity but at the same time different muscles are used and joints are jostled.  Alayne’s knee and hip get a little out of adjustment but she preservers around the lake, survives the twelve-miles and is rewarded – no, she demands – onion rings and a cold beer at the Garden Bay Pub. 

Even though our duo smell like polecats, Joyce serves them; although she’s probably glad they sit outside on the patio far away from the other customers.  (Polecat can only smell good much later in the evening after too many beers.)  Satisfied their grease level isn’t a quart low, it is back to Millie for a shower and a night’s sleep experienced deeper only by the dead.

Jazz can wake the dead and for three days Pender Harbour is anything but asleep.  Instead of the typical one venue concert, locations throughout the harbor host three-hour sessions – most with no entry fee.  In front of John Henry’s General Store, a small crowd congregates around the trio set up on the grass. 

In the pub, a crowd gathers early to hear another group perform late into the evening.  Tables are shared with strangers who quickly become friends.  Al and his wife, Jerri, are members of Schooner Cove Yacht Club – a group of unpretentious fun lovers Millie has crossed paths with often.  The sound system placates the audience that cannot fit inside and spills onto the outside deck.  This also provides music to this end of the harbor as the music carries over the water.

Couples, warding off the cool night air dressed in wool and fleece, spontaneously arise, apparently ignited by a case of ants-in-the-pants.  They dance in the small voids left between tables.  Others perform outside the pub’s windows, a real local access TV version of American Bandstand.  Dancers on the deck create a rhythm felt all through the building.  Combined with the driving beat of the band, it can be said, “This place rocks,” in a jazzy sort of way.

Rowing across the dark water, Millie is found contentedly rocking as music converges from three venues.  The vibrations cause her wire rigging to hum in sympathy.  At precisely midnight, all falls silent.  The harbor sleeps and has dreams in C-minor, regenerating energy for tomorrow’s repeat - a wonderful festival in a lovely location.

For thirty-years phrases have been heard, “This year we’re going – this year we’ve been – we spent the summer at – you’ve got to see Princess Louisa Inlet.”  Without studying a chart, Millie had always thought is was part of Desolation Sound since people were always combining them in their descriptions.  Yet the two are separated by many miles – forty odd southeast of Desolation along British Columbia’s mainland followed by a left turn up the fifty-mile fjord, Jarvis Inlet.  Just prior to running out of water, a right turn is made into the narrows of Malibu Rapids which open into the bowl of the Princess.

Rising from water depths of five-hundred feet to mountain heights of five-thousand, there are few places to anchor.  A few mooring buoys are attached to the depths and a short dock is located at the head of the inlet just below Chatterbox Waterfalls. 

The steep mountain walls limit the amount of sunlight. As the shadows disappear on one hillside and reappear on another, colors in the rock burst out in reds, browns, and grays.  Several high altitude waterfalls become visible in the sun as glistening silver streaks.  Walking near the outflow of Chatterbox, the trees display the moss grown during long wet winters.  Millie is moored in the land of lush.

The cruising guide that used the word unrelenting in its description of the Mount Daniel trail says the walk to the Trapper’s Cabin “should not be attempted by people with bad knees or vertigo.”  This is all Alayne needs to read to know she’s staying on Millie to paint.  She packs Rich a lunch and sends him on his merry way – alone on this low-hanging cloud day.  Packing the camera, binoculars, handheld radio, granola bars, apples, water bottle, toilet paper, and raincoat, it’s a quick look at the waterfalls and a short double-back to the trail head where, by chance, Rich finds fellow boater, Steve, preparing to start the same walk.

Marked by an occasional orange plastic tape tied to branches, the trail snakes its way over logs and rock and up slopes steep enough that the foot and hand holds created by tree roots seem to create a strange organic ladder.  The forest is dense with undergrowth so the trail, other than what is in close proximity, disappears.  Pathways, created by rainy season streamlets, cross at odd angles to the main trail; only the breadcrumb-like markings of orange show the way.

Steve is a railroad conductor for the Burlington Northern in Minnesota.  His summer passage on a friend’s boat is paid for in trade – coming from a large family, he is a fair cook.  Ever upward, miles pass.  Life stories swapped.  At 1,800-feet the trail levels off as it traverses the hill along the base of a rock wall and comes to a waterfall with the remains of a small log cabin.  Built by brothers in the early 1900’s to work their trap line along the hills, the cabin still contains the remains of two metal frame beds.  Steve cannot imagine carrying furniture up this trail.  Our grandfathers were tough men indeed.

Had it been a sunny day, the view at the waterfall would have been grand – looking out and down at the inlet.  As it is drizzly, the water cascading down a natural rock flume and disappearing into cloud below is a more personal experience.  Steve and Rich trade taking photographs of each other and begin the descent.  Several times the pair must turn around to descend the root structure like the ladders they resembled on the climb.

The luck-of-the-foolish is in place as Rich reaches the dock just as rain begins to fall in earnest.  Inside Millie, another shower waits, much warmer than the one falling outside, and soon the smell of sweaty man transforms into a scent suitable for society.  Another retired Weyerhaeuser pilot, Bruce, is tied to the dock and a visit with him and other friends of Schooner Cove YC draw to a close as night falls and once again our duo have a deep thorough sleep.  Wait, “Rich – what’s that sound?  Is it a bear?  It makes muffled growly noises like a bear.”  In fact, the five-o’clock bear is taking his stroll down the dock – nosing here and there, checking things out, followed by a gentle kur-sploosh into the water for an early morning swim to shore.  The following night is spent attached to a mooring buoy away from the dock.

Millie succumbs to winter – gives up, gives in.  This will be the year with little summer and not much fall.  The leaves know the date and color themselves accordingly, but the wind and rain don’t know their place.  San Juan Island is securely located in the middle of the rain shadow created by the mountains on the Olympic Peninsula so less rain falls here than elsewhere in Puget Sound.  The wind, however, acts like the gales of late November.  Already, unprepared boats in the harbor have torn sails, lost fenders, and have had mooring lines chafe through.

A stunning sunset and moonrise at Roche Harbor evade the weary weather forecast.  This small boat Port of Entry is the nations busiest, with U.S. Customs clearing over one-hundred boats each day during the summer.

In early October the harbor has quieted – vacationers gone; it’s possible to tie to the dock and go for a hike.  The town’s centerpiece is the Hotel de Haro, converted from the mansion built by John McMillin in the late 1800’s.  McMillin ran the largest lime company in the western U.S. but the deposits played out shortly after his death.

Down two roads and along a trail is the McMillin family mausoleum set among second growth timber.  Eight columns, one intentionally missing a section representing life broken by death, are joined at the top by a ring, symbolizing eternal life after death.  In the center of the structure are stone chairs surrounding a table. 

Each chair, engraved with the name and vitals of the family member buried beneath, is set in the order used at their dinner table; a space on the table’s west side is left vacant so the whole family could see the sunset.  Alayne enjoys the symbolism and is saddened by the chair for the stillborn baby.  Rich wonders how they grew lime trees this far north.

While Roche Harbor is a delightful place, Millie thinks a few more amenities would be nice on the cold winter days to come.  Friday Harbor, on the other side of San Juan Island, offers more stores, cultural events, and easier access to the mainland – friends and relatives need visiting.  Rich thinks this is the setting for the fictional story Snow Falling on Cedars and he may be right – the town certainly has the same feel.

It is amazing how quickly life on a dock enfolds you.  In a matter of days, it’s as if Millie has always lived here.  On Wednesday nights, a group of local musicians, many who have played professionally in Nashville, Hollywood, etc., gather at a restaurant to play for three hours – on Sundays, a different group plays jazz.  The community theater facility shares its stage with traveling professional groups – last week Millie heard the Irish band Dervish.  This weekend, a visiting granddaughter, Amelia, brightens the weather and Sunday is topped-off by a boater’s potluck - a full social calendar for a small community.

Life moves forward – Millie would like to express condolences to Alayne’s sister, Wendy, who came down with a severe case of grandma as her daughter, Renee, gave birth to Isaac.  Welcome to the club – it’s a disease with no cure.

Short days are spent tour-walking while long chilly nights lend themselves to snuggling up with a book.  Wintering on this island, where humans first stepped on earth, puts Millie in an historical mood.

It happened on the other side of San Juan Island, very near Roche Harbor, a place called Garrison Bay, though the Kale’gamis people probably called it something else like Place Where Swet’an First Stepped.  To populate the earth, it would have been easier to arrive on the mainland instead of a tiny island but Swet’an did choose a beautiful sheltered bay with lots of clams, crabs, and fish.  Village sites have been uncovered from 9,000 years ago and it has been populated ever since with the highest property prices occurring recently.

Prior to the European Tribe moving to the area, the Lummi Tribe inhabited Garrison Bay.  Using nets, woven from cedar bark and attached to poles, they trapped low flying birds.  Similar fixtures were set in the water to reef-fish for salmon.  In the 1850’s a British survey crew found remnants of a long house, 600 feet by 60 feet - able to house 1,000 people.  Textiles, woven by the natives, were so fine that the Hudson Bay Company traded these blankets of goat and dog wool throughout the world.

The greatest stress in the Lummi village was raiding by northern Haida and Kwakiutl tribes who stole the women and young boys.  When Europeans first moved into the neighborhood, the natives were happy in the belief they would help stop the raids.  Years later the Lummi’s discovered the true meaning of the saying, “The devil you know is better than the one you don’t,” as they also lost their land – left only with the ancient knowledge of how to construct a slot-machine.

Spending a great deal of time in the Pacific Northwest, Millie has heard of the “Pig War,” named after the beast that almost caused Britain and the United States to have a third war in the middle 1800’s.  How the demise of a single pig could nearly start a war was a mystery.  The death occurred about 3-miles from Millie’s moorage making this an opportune time to investigate further.

A good pig killing story needs a little historical set-up.  The British may have lost the deed of ownership to much of America after the War of Independence but in the early 1800’s they still claim what is now Canada and, in the unsettled northwest, governance is given to The Hudson Bay Company, now relegated to being a department store referred to in Canada as The Bay. 

At the time, however, they are much more powerful than an average department store.  It is like Macy’s being owned by politicians – they can have a parade any day they want, not just Thanksgiving.  The Bay’s regional manager acts as governor in Victoria.

To the south, an influx of Americans begins arriving in the Washington Territory.  A government is established and representatives legislate to protect their interests.  Back east, in the other Washington, America prepares to go to war in Mexico.  In London, attention is focused on South Africa and those other pesky Indians from…well, India.  American and British peace treaty details, like deciding boundaries from their last two wars, is not a high priority item, but is accomplished in 1846 when the 49th parallel is proposed.  In Victoria, the governor points out the proposal would put him squarely in Washington Territory.  After a backroom wink-wink nudge-nudge, where someone probably points out the good governor had better make application for a Nordstrom credit card, the western boarder is modified to the following, “…to the middle of the channel which separates the continent from Vancouver’s Island…”  Sounds simple – the Americans give away rights to any of Vancouver Island and all of the gulf islands.  Both sides are happy and go about their business – conquering others.

Assured that the Brits own it, The Bay establishes a sheep farm on San Juan Island in 1853 – and yes, succumbing to the pork industries advertising, they bring a few pigs.  The Washington Legislature, not fully understanding the treaty (a trait that continues today) includes San Juan in a Territorial County.  The tax collector, knowing an opportunity when he sees one, assesses tax on The Bay’s sheep.  The response is a polite Yankee-go-home, followed by snickering.

If there is one thing tax assessors hate, it’s snickering.  He leaves but returns with the sheriff and a posse.  They round up some sheep and the sheriff auctions them to himself and members of the posse.  Amazingly enough, the amounts bid are tremendously deflated but it gives the assessor a chance to chuckle back.  The farm’s manager, not only upset about having his sheep stolen but also really hating chuckling, calls the Victoria Police for help.  The assessor, sheriff, posse, and sheep beat a hasty retreat.  The Bay protests to the U.S. Government and includes a bill for the stolen sheep at tremendously inflated prices – pain and mental cruelty for being separated from the flock.  President Pierce does not chuckle or snicker.  He doesn’t pay the bill but he does tell the Territorial Government to stay off British land.

This edict works for official trespass but not for personal.  Over the next several years a trickle of American settlers passes across the island on their way to and from the Frasier River gold fields.  A few stay and build squatter’s cabins.  The Bay, thinking there is plenty for all and seeing the immigrants more as future customers than squatters, doesn’t throw them off the island.  (In hind sight, it may have been more prudent to require passports, issue visas, and perhaps build a fence to keep the illegal aliens out.)

The story now arrives at the ignition point that nearly throws two countries into a war.  (If the situation had been handled like the Gulf of Tonkin Incident or Weapons of Mass Destruction, school children today would be reading about the Shot Pig Heard Round the World).  In 1859 a squatter, named Cutlar, builds a cabin and plants a potato patch in the middle of The Bay’s farm – right on an animal run. 

In todays performance, standing in for the pig, is Mona the San Juan Island camel.

A greedy British pig raids the patch day after day.  What is Mr. Cutlar to do?  He shoots the pig, but to his benefit, goes to the farm’s manager and offers to pay.  The Bay, perhaps still stinging over the stolen sheep incident, says the pig is worth a-pig-ten-times his size and that Mr. Cutlar cannot use a credit card.

The response is, of course, “In a pig’s eye,” and, as escalations go, The Bay calls the police.  Mr. Cutlar and friends pull out guns.  The police back away, calling for British reinforcements.  Mr. Cutlar calls the Washington Territorial Army Commander for protection.  General Harney, a fine officer from the Southern State of Tennessee, sends another good southern officer, Captain George Pickett of Virginia, currently stationed in Bellingham, and a company of soldiers to protect the good American citizens from the unreasonable demands of the British.  (The fact that the southern U.S. states are on the brink of session and that a war provoked with the British will make it impossible for the U.S. Government to respond to that session, may be on General Harney’s mind.)

Charging up the hill, impersonating General Pickett
is Millie J's own Alayne.

Captain Pickett is a good choice to command the invaders.  He is most diligent in following orders.  Even though British reinforcements outnumber the Americans ten-to-one, George would have attacked.  (This is a trait that will make him infamous a few years later at the battle of Gettysburg as he leads 4,300 men to slaughter in what many consider the turning point of the Civil War.)  Fortunately, Harney’s superior in Washington D.C. hears what is happening and fires the good general.  The damage is done, however, and if its one thing America has trouble doing, it’s withdrawing from a foreign country.  Pickett’s new orders: stay but do nothing to provoke the British and, in addition, make the Americans on the island behave.

British troops land on the north side of the island, also with orders not to start a war.  They change the name of their camp from Place Where Swet’an First Stepped to Garrison Bay.  If they aren’t going to fight, the Brits do the next best thing. 

They make money, using their soldiers to mine limestone in one of the world’s richest deposits, while the officers take turns picnicking, partying, horse racing, and in general have a grand time with the American officers.  During the Civil War years, this is one of the choice U.S. duty assignments – drinking lattés and guarding the northwest border.

In 1872, 13-years after the porcine’s demise, the two countries agree to binding arbitration.  The Kaiser of Germany awards the San Juans to the Americans.  Surely there are no politics in this decision.  It isn’t until the 1960’s when another farm animal plays an important role in U.S. politics.  Bay of Pigs – a coincidence?  Millie thinks not.

The Pig War is a more complicated story than Millie typically likes to think about but with 15-hours and 47-minutes of no sun on this solstice there’s plenty of time for this story and a quick report about the trips Millie’s crew have taken this autumn.

Tomorrow is the first day of winter - it may get colder but at least there will be more daylight than today.

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