Yesterday, we started off around 9:15am on water so smooth that the ripples hardly made it all the way to the edge of the beach. We spent two nights in Cluxewe Campground getting things washed, dried out and organized. We were ready to go again. You could see up ahead, though, that the wind was making it's own art as it made it's way past the point. We enjoyed the blank canvas while we could.
As we rounded the point heading east into an outgoing tide (against the direction we were trying to go), we were headed also into a wind coming from the southeast. Peter and I set into a steady paddle past the loading apparatus for the Cluxewe sand operation. It is the termination of a mile-long covered conveyor belt that brings sand to large cargo ships that deliver sand to Hawaiian and California beaches, as well as other resort communities, I'm sure. At the next point, the wind waves were steady one to two footers being pushed by a 10-15kt wind. When the wind made it closer to the 15kt end of that range, the waves started curling at their tops. When the 20kt gusts hit, the waves got large enough to wash over the tops of the kayaks. We pushed steadily forward. Steady, not very fast.
As we made our way around the point which marked the entrance to the long, narrow bay holding Port McNeill, the waves had a longer stretch in which to let the wind push them. The current was still going out, but it was going at a slightly different direction than the waves pushed by the wind. Our boats were pushed in different directions by the confused forces. We were heading for the breakwater of the marina fighting with every paddle stroke. We made it, wet and tired. Four hours of steady paddling to go the four miles from Cluxewe to Port McNeill. Our reward was a very friendly sea otter paddling on their back uncaringly 10-15 feet from us.
Paddling slowly, we made out way to the back of the marina looking for a suitable place to park the kayaks. A trio of female Coast Guards in a RIB looked officials, so I called out to them as they were trying to put their helmets on. The explained that their port was elsewhere and that they were just stopping in as well. The one at the helm pointed to a sign that we couldn't see yet and said with smile that threw me back many decades, "that sign there says that this dock is for dingys." "Well, then this is the right place for us," I retorted laughing at my own joke. All three returned the appropriate "dad joke" smile and put their helmets on.
Pulling up to the dock and using our leashed paddles to hold the boats to the dock while we did out best to extract ourselves from the cockpits without falling into the marina. I don't think it would've matter as wet as we were already. It was still raining, so we buttoned down the boats with cockpit covers. We were tired enough that it took two of us to get Peter's to cooperate. We gathered our stuff that we were taking with us and headed out to find the marina office. Gratefully finding a bathroom on the way, we would have considered camping out for awhile if it had a heated hand dryer. Still dripping, we stumbled over to the marina office. Our boats were fine for a couple of hours, so the next important questions were food. Gus' Bar & Grill was right out the window. The choice made itself. We ate our fill while our gear continued to make a large puddle on the floor.
By the time we were reassembled and paddling out into the bay, the rain had ceased, the wind died down to nothing, and the current was now going in our direction. The bay was like glass. Paddling past a mix of cabins and houses so large that we figured the building of it was boosting the local economy significantly, we could tell that we were moving along at a good pace. Rounding the next point, the wind had picked up again. Not strong yet, but it seemed to cancel any benefit we were getting from the flooding current. Across the estuary of the Nimpkish River, which flows out of the long and narrow Nimpkish Lake was what we figured to be Alder Creek Resort. We couldn't yet make out the white blobs on the hillside, but figured that they were RVs. At least we hoped so. Whatever that point held, we were going to camp there.
Fighting an increasing wind and the accompanying waves, we paddled hard across the bay of the estuary towards what we hoped was Alder Creek Resort. We weren't sure until we could see the sign in their marina. Behind a significant breakwater made of large steel tubes chained together in an "L" configuration, we found respite again. The fingered docks looked higher than we wanted to climb, so I led us into a small sandy beach at the foot of the terraced camping areas. The office had closed at 6:30pm, so we had just missed them. Tired, we decided to camp and settle in the morning. Looking to the west, the rain clouds urged us along to get camp set up and tarps rigged with no visable means of stringing them.
June 9th
It's finally raining at 8am the rain predicted to show up at 5am. It widely believed to be one of those all-day rains. We are still discussing whether to stay another day and hunker down in the rain or venture out towards Telegraph Cove. Before the sentence was finshed, we had decided to stay.
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