Puget Sound Challenge - Day 11

I didn't have to go until the afternoon. Currents were running strong in the wrong direction all morning, so I went to the Y with the boy. A little swimming practice... neither of us seem to be able to get enough of the water.

When I did start out from Titlow Beach, it was almost 1:00 PM. The ebb was still moving, but losing force quickly. I was able to cross to Point Fosdick, where I stopped for a few minutes. As I rounded into the channel between the peninsula and Fox Island, the wind came up and the water, which had been all silk and long undulations, became rowdy. I dropped to a seated position and swapped paddles, ferrying across the last of the ebb until I got to the Fox Island shore. The sky, which had been gray and threatening, had blown clear by the time I finished the crossing.

Working my way along the shore, I passed mansions and shacks, old nethouses and modern boathouses, but not much open space. It's not a wilderness, this Fox Island.Not without its charm and beauty, but a long way from how it used to be. By the time I got to the bridge, the current was strongly in my favor, and I was whisked beneath the roadway with not much effort from me. I pulled in to the shore at the sandspit across from Green Point. I'm sure it was private property but I needed a break. Some food, crackers and cheese, but without the crackers, which I'd apparently forgotten.

The subsequent crossing of Carr Inlet was a dream. The wind had vanished and the current here was dispersed over a wide and deep channel. The surface of the water was like glass, an immense mirror that missed nothing. The distant puffs of cloud, the shape of the land in the southern distance, the curve of McNeil Island, the repetitive motion of my arms and shoulders, the swing of the paddle... all of these, and more, were there in the water.

I haven't measured it yet, but I'll bet the crossing from the tip of Fox Island over to Pitt Island is about 3 NM. I glided that entire distance on what felt like velvet, noiseless and smooth. I stopped briefly on Pitt Island, then rode the current down the passage toward Filucy Bay. Off to the east, Eagle Island was wedged between McNeil and Anderson like a jewel; farther south, the sky was black with clouds.

I rounded the tip of the peninsula just after 7:00 PM and started working on up the shore toward Joemma State Park, and finally arrived at about 8:15 PM. Just as the rain hit. Thunder and lightning, and very large rain drops. I hied myself and my belongings up to the picnic shelter, out of the weather. I was the only person there, as far as I could tell and, as it was growing dark, I decided that I'd forego the tent in favor of sleeping right there, on top of one of the picnic tables.

Turned out to be a good move. As it happened, I didn't get the boost throughout the day that I thought I would from the current, and there were a few times that I was bucking a wind, so I got to the park a little late. I ate my freeze-dried Katmandu Curry in the dark, drank a beer and went to bed. I fell asleep to the drumming of the rain on the roof and the rustle of the madronas.

Details to follow

I finished the Puget Sound Challenge yesterday, pushed in to Allyn by a favorable wind, riding the clean swells under dreamy, azure skies. The rain was mostly confined to the hours of darkness, miles came fairly easy and the whole thing was over almost before I knew it. I'll post a complete account of the last leg in the days ahead, as well as a postmortem that will explore the good, the bad and the ugly about the trip as a whole. Meanwhile, here's a few photos from the last couple of days.

April showers

It's raining again. I'm leaving in a few hours for what I hope will be the last stage of the Puget Sound Challenge, from Titlow Beach to Allyn. I expect I'll be at Joemma State Park this evening, but that's always open to change. I've got a new bag from Ortlieb that I'm going to use for the gear... it's a little larger than I wanted but it should work out.

Perhaps the sun will break through later.

A List

The current National Geographic Adventure magazine has a piece on the "50 Best American Adventures." Transect the Olympic, a trail hike of the Press Party route, came in at number 17. I'm not sure of the ranking process that was employed to arrive at the end results, but with the competition being what it is, number 17 is pretty good. Other examples that made the cut...

#3 Rowing down the Grand Canyon
#8 Surfing the Lost Coast
#13 Kayak the Na Pali Coast
#41 Paddle Santa Cruz Island (photo above)

I've already checked a few of them off, but the "50 Best" is a pretty good checklist for places I'd like to go and things I'd like to do, with a few exceptions. I don't particularly want to take a 4x4 through the Steens Mountain Backcountry Byway (#50), or Ski Scar Face (#19), which is a chute in Colorado that would almost certainly kill or paralyze me (the magazine describes Scar Face as "more a prediction than a description.") Overall, however, I like lists and this one has some good ideas.

I already have the Press Party route on my personal list; it's been there for quite some time.

The adventurous day

Some days are for exploring, for climbing mountains and fording rivers. Some days are a struggle with the elements, keeping a little boat on course or blindly descending a dark, foggy ravine above a wild northern beach. Some days are for adventure, for doing those things that, when you were just a child, you spent hours dreaming of doing.

Other days are for going to the YMCA and practicing our dog paddle and getting used to dunking our heads under the water. For going to the train tracks to squish pennies. For sharing a bowl of strawberry ice cream and running in circles around a bus stop. Adventure is where you find it.

The paradox

On long trips, there comes a point, somewhere near the end, when you are hit with what I call the completion paradox. After paddling (or hiking, whatever), for days, maybe weeks, with the goal of finishing the route foremost in your mind, you'll get to the point where the end is in sight, and you'll find that you suddenly don't want it to be over.

It's because the daily exertion of an expedition brings a sense of purpose that is hard to duplicate back in the world of jobs and cars, clocks and responsibility. The days take on a rhythm of their own, every individual task a step along the way, all activity directed toward the finish. It's comforting really, to have such a sense of purpose.

I remember the day that I completed the paddle around Newfoundland, after three straight months on the water. I had planned for that moment, looked forward to it all summer long, the time when I would finally be done. When I would sleep in something other than a tent, eat something that really tasted good. When I wouldn't doze off at night with thoughts of the miles unrolling in my head. As I paddled into Quidi Vidi harbour, I was overcome with the feeling that I didn't want it to end. I wanted to turn around and do it all over again, even though getting it done had been my daily goal for almost 100 days. It took me a half-hour to paddle the last 300 yards.

I've only got a couple of days left before I finish the Puget Sound Challenge - my hope was to complete it before the end of April and it looks like that's what will happen. I'm planning on leaving Titlow Beach next Tuesday afternoon, paddling to Joemma State Park that day, then finishing at Allyn the next evening. There's about 28 miles to go.

This is the first time I've done a trip like this, split up into segments, rather than doing the whole route at once. I'd prefer to be out there continuously, but the other aspects of life here in the new millenium make that impossible. Doing the route this way is the next best thing, however, and I am not complaining. Still, I can feel the paradox rustling around my subconscious as I near the end, a part of me not wanting it to be over.

Stimulus money

According to an article in the current Peninsula Daily News, federal stimulus money has been alotted to get the removal of the Elwha dams underway this summer. The Elwha and Glines Canyon dams were constructed (in 1913 and 1927, respectively), without fish ladders and effectively killed off the most productive salmon run in the State once they had been put in place. Plans to take them down have been the subject of much chatter over the past 10 years or so, but with the incoming cash from Uncle Sugar, the dream is about to become reality.

According to the News: "The $308 million removal project west of Port Angeles will receive $54 million from the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009 for mitigation projects that will begin this summer. Actual removal of the dams to restore salmon habitat will start in 2011 instead of 2012 -- a date the park service had set earlier -- and will be completed in 2014 as a result of the new funding." Originally set to begin in 2004, the project has undergone a variety of changes and modifications to its timeline, but this is the first time the process has been sped up, rather than being delayed.

The current $308 million budget was established in 2008, and by 2014 could rise to $354 million to cover inflation and potential unanticipated, higher costs. (Why do they call them unanticipated, when they are clearly anticipating that they will occur?) The jobs will be welcome - in March, Clallam County's unemployment rate climbed to 11.3 percent, and Jefferson County's to 9.5 percent - and although the total number of jobs that will be created by the project is hard to predict until the actual removal contract is signed, the expected impact on local pocketbooks is expected to be considerable.

On the lake floor at the bottom of Lake Mills is a pile of mud. since its construction, the Glines Canyon Dam has trapped the sediment running down from the high country and held 18 million cubic yards of the stuff behind 210 feet of concrete. When the dam is gone, the fine particles will leave with the new-flowing water, while the heavier, stickier gunk will take between 8 and 10 years to wash away. For the salmon return to happen, the river's gravelly course will need to reappear through the muck that has accumulated. The Department of the Interior predicts that the fish will start to come back in force within 20 years, and that up to 400,000 will return within 30 years. The Elwha watershed includes 75 miles of rivers and streams.

It's good news for fish and the people who love them. These dams, like so many others, have had unintended consequences to the point that it has been obvious for a long time that they never should have been built. It's hard to know for sure all of the consequences that removal will bring, but it's got to be better than what we've got now.

Goblin Gates

On March 4, 1890, Charles Barnes, a member of the Press Party, was the first white man to lay eyes on the Goblin Gates. The area, just upstream from Lake Mills, was once looked at as a possible hydroelectric site, but after the land was acquired by the National Park Service, that threat was removed. As Robert Wood describes it in the Olympic Mountains Trail Guide, the river, "flowing alongside a steep cliff, comes to a sudden standstill in a deep basin, where the water whirls furiously, then makes a right angle turn and glides through a break in the rock wall. The strata, consisting of alternate layers of slate and sandstone, are tilted on edge, and the sandstone has eroded faster than the slate, thus leaving the latter projecting from the canyon walls. The broken rocks, resembling faces with various expressions - at least to the imaginative person - line the canyon walls."

Gear

How much gear do you need? Kayaks, sleeping bags, packs, pads, tents, stoves. A GPS, VHF, ELB, and other "necessary" electronic doodads. Layers of clothing, Goretex and fleece, down and wool. And charts, maps, trekking poles, water bottles, dry bags, filters, and blah, blah, blah.

There are too many people whose closets and garages are full of outdoor gear they never use. I am convinced that there is more time spent fondling the toys than actually getting out there, into an environment where they might be used. (I say "might be," because, in so many cases, we'll never know.)

It's inventory day at the shop. I'll be spending the next 9 hours or so counting individual items of outdoor gear. I can't help but think that I'd rather be out in the woods someplace, without any of these things, than indoors, under the fluorescents, tallying them all up.

A Period piece

In 1988, the U.S. Air Force announced the closure of the Makah Air Force Radar Station, a 277-acre site just south of Cape Flattery near Hobuck Beach. The military had been paying the tribe an annual rent of $236,000 for the facility and at its peak, it had been staffed by 81 Air Force personnel and 26 civilian employees. The loss was a sizable one for the tribal community, where unemployment had always been an issue; the closure made it even more of a reality.

The station was one of the many "northern tier" bases that maintained an early warning capability during the cold war. At the time of its closure, it was among the oldest Air Force installations in the country. It became a radar site in 1950 after having served as an artillery spotting post in World War II. We spent those long, cold nights of the 50's and 60's watching the lime-green displays for the telltale blips coming from the Soviet Union (remember the Soviet Union?), the pings on our radar scopes that would herald armageddon. At the same time, all across Siberia, there were Bolsheviks in their bunkers, doing the same thing. It never came to that, thankfully. At least, it hasn't yet.

Responsibilities for the radar were turned over to the FAA - I feel safer already - and the base itself was passed back to the Makah tribe. It is used today as a sort of municipal center, with an automotive shop and offices for tribal representatives. There are even rooms to be rented in one of the old AF dorms, now a native hostel.

I have been on hundreds of military bases since I first joined the Air Force, back in the twilight of the Reagan presidency. They all felt like this one. It's funny, it's been over 20 years since the last time Taps was played here on a regular basis, but I wouldn't be surprised to hear it coming through the loudspeakers again sometime, any time. The gym is still there, the hobby shop and the motor pool. You can still see the outline on the ground at the main gate where the guard shack used to stand. It's like Hahn or Spangdahlem, Panama City or Goose Bay or Olongopo. All over the world, these same buildings still stand, like unintentional monuments to a national pride that, for better or worse, doesn't really exist anymore.

A Clean beach is a happy beach

I went out to Neah Bay on Saturday. It was Earth Day and I'd wrangled the day off from the Port Angeles symposium in order to help out with the beach cleanup organized by the Surfrider Foundation. All along Highway 112, I saw other cars and trucks pulled off to the side, the drivers on the beach with plastic bags in hand (the Lions Club seemed to be especially well represented).

The turnout was impressive. All up and down Hobuck Beach, people were combing the sand, bags filling with trash. I saw one kid pulling what looked like 50 pounds of tangled nylon rope and another with a hollowed-out shell of a water heater. My little bag of trash seemed even smaller compared to their haul.

After noon, when the beach had been picked over pretty well, I decided to find a less busy spot and do some surfing. I'd brought the SUP and I really wanted to feel some waves. The surf at Neah Bay was average size, 3-4 feet, but choppy and blown out. I drove back the way I'd come, looking for a more pleasant experience on the Straits.

I found what I was looking for at Twin Rivers. This roadside spot, about 20 minutes west of Joyce, had perfect little waves that curled around a gravel point at the river mouth, small and squishy but holding their shape on long, smooth breaks. The water outside was flat. The swells were regular, made of velvet.

I stayed for a couple hours, catching little waves and staying on them for 10, 15 even 20 seconds. Long, smooth rides that kept going, and going. It was good to put my board through a surf session after all those miles of flat-water touring, made me appreciate its capabilities all over again.

Jade erratic

The next time you are faced with travel delays, slow service, or when you feel abandoned someplace far from home, consider the erratic.

A jade erratic (or glacial erratic) is a rock that deviates from the size and type of rock native to the area in which it is found. The name is derived from the latin errere, and speaks to the way that the stones are carried by glacial ice, often over long distances. Erratics can range in size from pebbles to large boulders, and they are quite common along the shores of western Washington.

Geologists identify these ancient travelers by studying the rocks in the surrounding area as well as the composition of the erratic itself. Erratics were once considered evidence of a massive flood that took place approximately 10,000 years ago, something on the order of the flood myths described by ancient civilizations throughout the world. Once faith was traded for a more scientific approach, however, these erratics came to be seen as evidence for the end of the last ice age, about 100 centuries back, rather than a flood. The simplest explanation (and therefore, according to Occam's razor, the correct one), is that landslides or rockfalls initially deposited the rocks on top of glacial ice. The glaciers continued their slow, but certain, progress, carrying the hitchhikers with them. When the ice of the glaciers melted, the erratics were left in their present locations.

We have a choice. Unlike the jade erratics, we have the ability to change our course of travel. We are not fated to simply end up where the glacier of life and responsibility carries us. It's helpful, sometimes, to remember this.

Bridge work

The eastern half of the Hood Canal Bridge is nearing the end of its structural service life, according to the engineering gurus at WSDOT. Just repairing the structure would not significantly extend the life of the bridge, so rebuilding has been selected as the more cost-effective solution. When it's completed, the bridge will have a new, wider east-half floating section, and new approach sections and transition trusses on the east and west ends.

It's going to be safer for cars and bicycles, and the hope is that the wider lanes and safety shoulders will help keep the 15,000-20,000 vehicles that cross the bridge daily moving smoothly. The project is expected to be completed by December of 2010.

Floating bridges, as a rule, are designed for use in calmer waters than are typically found at the entrance to salt-water fjords like Hood Canal. Currents are strong here and the wind - not to mention the 18-foot tidal exchanges - can agitate the waters to the point that the bolts and joints that hold the bridge together can become damaged. These repairs and reconstructions are intended to fix the 7,869 ft. structure and last well into the coming decades.

The real story, in the short term anyway, is that the bridge will be closed to all traffic beginning just after midnight on May 1st. What this means is that, if you're heading to the peninsula from Tacoma or Seattle, you're going to need to drive around. Through Olympia and up the west side of Hood Canal. The closure is expected to last for 6 weeks, which means it will be the middle of June before you'll be able to drive across again.

Of course, if you need to get to the other side, you can always use a kayak.

Blast from the past

I've often wondered how long an untended website will stick around. If no one visits, if it never gets updated, will it stay online forever anyway, a sort of cyber-time capsule? Is there a purge system of some kind, that flushes away the dead sites, or do they stay on, not really alive but not really gone? The undead of the internet, if you will.

On a whim, I punched in the coordinates for the web site I maintained when I did my trip around Newfoundland, almost 9 years ago. It's still there, still taking up band width. If you find yourself in need of a diversion, you can see for yourself.

http://www.aroundtherock.8m.com/

Fu-Sang

What would you think if I told you that, although Robert Gray sailed across the Columbia River bar in 1792, he wasn't the first explorer to do so? Or if I mentioned that Juan de Fuca wasn't the first outsider who traveled on the straits that bear his name? What if you were to find that Bodega y Quadra and Meares, Vancouver and the Hudson Bay Company, all of those intrepid souls, were late to the game? Real late.

Allow me to introduce Hwui Shan. Brother Hwui, if you will. In the year 458, this Chinese monk, accompanied by four other monks, sailed north to Japan. From there, they continued on up the Kamchatka Peninsula, then east to the Aleutian Islands. On down the coast of Alaska, and then south along the Pacific coast, all the way to Baja California.

Brother Hwui gave the name Fu-Sang to the entire region, and he recorded the appearances and customs of the indiginous peoples that he came across as he traveled. These descriptions are richly detailed and appear to be accurate, according to what is now known about the area at the time. The 41-year odyssey is recorded in the court records of the Sung dynasty for the year 499, which is when the small band of rovering monks returned to China. According to one web source, "They apparently reached Fu-Sang at about the time of the fall of the Western Roman Empire, 476 AD, stayed for a period of years and then returned to China."

I don't know if it happened or not, this voyage of Brother Hwui. I don't know if the Chinese were capable of ocean travel of this sort at such an early date, if they could cross raging seas and explore the wilds of the earth hundreds of years before my ancestors learned to bathe. It's possible, maybe plausible even, but it's strange I haven't heard more about it. No matter. That's not the point.

I have often thought that there are ghosts among us. Past and future wrapping around what we so innocently call the present. You can see for yourself, if you like. The next time you are out on the Washington coast on a cold morning, where wisps of fog slip in and out of the trees and the dark clouds hang low, think about those who have come before you. As the first drops of rain begin to fall and the wind carves the face of the water, think about the ones who have yet to arrive. If the light is perfect and the fog clears at the right moment, you may just hear the creaking of the rigging, the snap of the sails and the muffled shouts of the crew out past the breakers somewhere, calling in a language you can't make out, from twelve centuries away.

Puget Sound Challenge - Day 10

In two decades of sea kayaking, I have paddled the waters between Tacoma's Titlow Beach and Point Defiance more than anywhere else. For six glorious years, I was fortunate enough to live at Salmon Beach, a community of homes stuck between the sandy cliffs and the Tacoma Narrows, and I was able to get out on the water almost every day. It is a beautiful and powerful place, and home to some of the trickiest currents and most difficult paddling conditions south of Deception Pass.

We got lucky again with the weather though. No rough stuff today. It was something of an afterthought to get out on the water, but the stars aligned and our job schedules made sense to give it a shot. The weather had been threatening earlier, but by 2:00 PM, the water was glass and all breezes had disappeared. We - Jackie, Chris and myself - put in at Owen Beach, after doing the shuttle, and headed for the point.

The current was building and before long, we were working our way through the rip that was starting to develop at the north end of the Narrows. Flood currents form a rip at Point Defiance that can stretch halfway to Gig Harbor sometimes and although we were still an hour or so before maximum flow, the water was confused and lumpy already. A strong eddy had begun to form that recirculated water back into the rip, so we had to take a wide turn around the point to escape the pull of the hydraulics.

Soon, we were abeam Salmon Beach. We went ashore next to our old house and I walked up to Emily's place at #39. (Emily is our old next door neighbor.) She was just getting ready to head to work but she invited us out onto her deck to enjoy the view. The bridges shimmered in the distance across the silky water and the clouds began to break up, giving us our first glimpse of blue sky all day. It is hard for me to accept sometimes that we no longer live at the beach; I miss it everyday.

From Salmon Beach, we rode the powerful currents south under the bridges and into Titlow Beach, just north of Day Island. Gliding toward the shore, slipping effortlessly through the flat water, I wanted to do it all over again.

Other stories

The Puget Sound Challenge occupies much of my time and energy at the moment. The idea of paddling this 150 NM course on a SUP was (and still is), a notion that appeals to me on a very basic level: no one's done it before. First is better than best, and you never know what is possible until it's been done. It's exciting, doing anything for the first time.

But there are other things on my list as well. Other trips, other destinations, other perspectives that I still need to experience: a hike to the Tubal Cain mine, trout fishing with my son, trekking to the headwaters of the Wynoochie, a canoe trip down the Hoh, a return to the top of Mount Olympus, paddling the Gray's Harbor bar... these just scratch the surface. Right now, I'm focused on the PSC, on finishing strong, and on enjoying every mile that remains. But there are other acts waiting in the wings, and I know that their time is coming soon. It's exciting.

I need to live to be at least 300 years old.

First day back

When you're on the water, paddling into a pocket cove on a sunny afternoon, and you wave to the people on shore, they almost always wave back using all their fingers. When you get back home again, back to work, back to the city, you'll notice that people often use only one. We're just so busy, I guess.

The first day back can be tough. Reassimilating into a world that moves so fast, with no apparent purpose. If you are not moving, you'll be run over. When you call customer service, you will talk to a machine - and spend a long time waiting for the privilege. There are chores to be done that pile up faster than any hope of accomplishing them. You'll prioritize, miss meals, lose your keys, guess wrong, wait in line, get pulled over, prioritize again, all with one eye on the skittering economy and the other gazing wistfully at the distant, snow-covered peaks.

If you're anything like me, it doesn't take long after getting back before you're planning the next escape.

A Progress report

After another superb weekend on the water, I thought it might be time to review the progress thus far, as well as look ahead to the remaining portion of the Puget Sound Challenge. Since I started back in February, I've paddled a total of 110.5NM.

Feb 27 Belfair State Park - Menard's Landing 12NM
Feb 28 Menard's Landing - Dewatto Bay 6NM
March 18 Dewatto Bay - Dosewallips 16NM
March 19 Dosewallips - Toandos Peninsula 3NM
March 20 Toandos Peninsula - Shorewood 17.5NM
March 21 Shorewood - Kingston 16NM
March 22 Kingston - Suquamish 7NM
April 4 Suquamish - Manchester 15NM
April 5 Manchester - Point Defiance 18NM

I've had the opportunity to paddle in a range of conditions, from dead calm to gale force winds and I have learned a great deal. In terms of packing a SUP for an extended tour, there is still a lot of fine-tuning to be done. My equipment list has gone through several incarnations and it's likely to go through a few more before I'm finished. I expect that, by the end of the PSC, I'll be able to post a comprehensive list of what I needed and how I packed it (because I'll probably forget a few things before the next big trip and I can always use a reminder.)

Looking ahead, I think I'll do a day trip next week to get me through the Tacoma Narrows, then a 2-day sprint near the end of the month that should get me all the way to Allyn. I haven't checked the currents yet - they'll be more of a factor in the south Sound than they have been to this point - but I am fairly confident that I can have the route completed by the end of April. As of now, I'm guessing that the whole thing will end up taking me 12 days total.

As to the equipment I've used, I've got good and bad reviews to dispense. I plan to give details and name names when it's all done in the hope that I can stimulate some discussion about SUP touring, which is, by any measure, in its infancy. Meanwhile, I still have much to learn.

Puget Sound Challenge - Day 9

The epic days make the best stories. The days when the wind is howling and the seas are big and nasty, when the food and the sleeping bag get soaked and you end up getting washed ashore on some rocky beach just before dark. Big days, when you are forced to question your sanity and your strength... those are the days you'll talk about for years.

This particular day was not like that at all. I awoke at dawn and got the board and gear down to the water before my campmates stirred. After a quick breakfast (and giving Micah a chance to try out the board), I was underway. The day was clear and warming, blue skies and scarcely a breeze.

This was the first day I wasn't on my own. Chris, a friend of mine from the shop, met us at Manchester and started out with me from there in a kayak, and we paddled the 4 miles to Southworth together, where we met Tom, the other kayaker I had seen at the end of the second leg a few weeks earlier. Before we got to Southworth, Chris and I stopped for a few minutes on Blake Island, and took a short walk around. It felt like a summer morning, like we had bypassed spring altogether and gone directly to July. There were a half-dozen sailboats tied off to the floats offshore and we paddled through them toward Southworth, where Tom was waiting on the beach.

It was 11:00 am by this point and a wind had picked up out of the north. As soon as we turned the corner into Colvos Passage, the wind assistance was immediately in force. Small but consistant swells pushed us in the direction we wanted and at a few points, I was able to surf them at speeds of over 4 knots. (Tom had a GPS). There was a lunch stop on Vashon Island and another stop further down at Lisabuelah, where I'd stashed a bottle of wine years before. There had been some new landscaping done in the intervening years, however, and that 2001 Merlot had apparently been found by someone else. That's a chance you take, when you leave bottles of wine laying around; I hope they enjoyed it.

As we approached the Narrows, we started to feel more of the effects of the contrary current. The current in Colvos Passage always sets to the north, but it had been fairly weak all day. The wind was more of a factor than the movement of the water, but near the end of the day, the current speed picked up and the wind slacked. Still, crossing from Dalco Point to Owen Beach was not difficult, and soon we were pulling into shore at Owen Beach, where the nice weather had brought hundreds of people out for the day. A celebratory beer was chugged and in a matter of minutes, the three of us had packed up our gear and were gone.

The foul days make better stories but every now and then, a perfect day with good company is better than adding another epic story to your collection. I'm sure there will be plenty more opportunities for suffering.

Puget Sound Challenge - Day 8

When the fog is thick, there are times when it is not enough to stay within sight of shore. Crossings in the fog require some faith and a willingness to deprive the senses, the sense of sight, anyway. If you have a compass, you learn to rely on it to get you to the other side safely; if not, you must literally feel your way across the water, listening for the sounds of the shore, straining to catch a smell that holds the promise of land.

I left Suquamish in conditions like these. I couldn't stay too close to shore, or I'd risk being pulled into Agate Pass, which was not where I wanted to go. As I paddled, though, the fog lifted slightly, and by the time I was halfway through the crossing, I could see both shores through the haze. There's a pretty good life metaphor in here somewhere... something about how, if you advance in the direction that you have chosen, the way will become clearer as you go... I'll give it some more thought.

This had been promised to be a blue sky day, with temperatures in the low 60's. It did not disappoint. I was around the northern tip of Bainbridge Island and working my way south by the time the sky cleared completely, but the difference between this day and the days on the last leg of the trip was obvious from the start. Not a breath of wind, water flat and perfect.

I turned into Eagle Harbor in search of a burger. On the way in, I paddled past all the Washington State ferries that were taken out of service a couple of years back. They are moored here in Winslow, the larger ones bigger than the buildings in this small commuter town. They still look like they should be out there, plying the waters between here and Seattle, between Anacortes and Friday Harbor. Their problems lie below the waterline, where rust has weakened them past the point of seaworthiness. I don't know where they're going from here.

I got my burger at the Dock restaurant and was back on the water in short order. Back outside the harbor, a sailboat race was in full swing, colorful spinnakers blooming large as the boats headed down and around Blakeley Rocks, just south of Wislow. For a few minutes, I paddled in the company of porpoises, sleek, black dorsals rising and falling into the water ahead of me. I tried to get a picture of them but had limited success. As usual.

Around the south side of the island and into Rich Passage. I paddled against a slow current here, dodging the fish farms that acted as sea lion magnets on the northern part of the waterway, thn crossing over to the cove at Manchester State Park. Mary and Micah got there minutes after I did and it wasn't long before we had camp set up, a cold beer in hand and a pot of chicken jambalaya on the stove. A very good day.