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We scramble down the cliff, grasping at bushes, roots and rope. On a wedge of beach below, our seven kayaks sit on logs, well above the high-water mark of Johnstone Strait. The last 20 feet of our dash includes a hand-burning slide down a nylon rope followed by the final climb down a rock face. Out in the Strait - somewhere - reports say a lone killer whale bull is headed our way.Perched high on a cliff of West Cracroft Island, a group of young people man a monitoring station. From June to November they scan the Strait for killer whales. Each sighting is recorded and the whale identified through dorsal fin and body markings. Two days ago, 45 orcas played in the water far below. Since then, nothing. When we started our trip, we had been cautioned there was a chance whales might not be seen. While the Strait, and particularly Robson Bight, is a frequent summer home for orcas, their travel and feeding habits can't be predicted. As one member of the monitoring team gives us a quick history of the whales, the sighting report comes over their radio from researchers further up the Strait. The whale is six kilometers away. Like thousands do each summer, we launched our kayaks at the quaint village of Telegraph Cove. The place is packed with kayakers loading or unloading their vessels, juggling for space with recreational fishers. The small store and cafe is the hub of activity; its single washroom can't keep up. Forgotten in the hubbub are the beautifully restored homes and workshops of the World War II telegraph station. Our day started hours earlier with a gathering at Foreshore Park in Campbell River. Our group of seven, six from Campbell River, one from Vancouver, planned four days on the Strait, a three-hour drive north. Broken clouds, which later keep their promise of rain, greeted our arrival in Telegraph Cove. Like the village, the weather was forgotten in the preparation for an encounter with whales.
Paul Judson Stobbe, a photographer and veteran kayaker, gives us a quick reminder about safety as we leave the protection of Telegraph Cove and head for open water. The paddles cut smoothly into the water and our group quickly splits into smaller ones. Against the throbbing hum of the passing fishing fleet, we head east. The ships' noise fades leaving only the drip of water off our paddles to break the solitude. For two of our party, myself included, that drip is often onto our heads. There is, it seems, an art to paddling a kayak and staying dry. I will be wet for the next four days. For five hours we glide past tree-covered mountains, our distance from shore continually changing by whatever happens to draw our interest. The shoreline, mainly rock cliff, appears forbidding. Periodically, small stony beaches guarded by long narrow beds of kelp, break the rock face. Eight kilometers and many drips later we pull ashore, setting up camp on an abandoned logging road. A two-inch thick steel cable, once used to haul logs off the mountainside, lies partially buried along the water-edge of the campsite. The cable attracts big toes like the Strait attracts whales.
Paddle, drip. Paddle, drip. Paddle, drip. With still no sign of the whale, we continue our push west. Heads snap up with a cry of 'There it is!' Far ahead, a thin black line bisects the horizon. The mixture of trepidation and excitement grows in proportion to the closing gap between us and it. The popularity of Johnstone Strait is evident in that campsites are basically stripped clean of firewood. What is there is damp and rotted. A few hundred yards from our tents, Kaikash Creek dribbles a miserly amount of fresh water into the Strait. The reason becomes clear during a hike upstream. Giant boulders, some the size of small houses, have joined with toppled trees to jam the narrow canyon with a 40-foot high blockage. The creek appears and disappears as it seeks its way through the blockage. Trees on the canyon rim admit a stingy bit of sunlight into the gorge. Climbing the blockage is a game of jamming toes and fingers into narrow cracks, grasping jutting points on slimy rocks and logs. Above the blockage, the creek disappears under a bed of gravel. It is a damp and spooky place, with further advance halted except for the most agile rock climber.
The mouth of Kaikash Creek proves to be a favorite spot for passing whales. Taking time from their foraging, a few perform a ballet off the mouth. The huge black and white bodies slipped up out of the ocean, then, with barely a ripple, slid back into the depths. The soundless beauty of the performance leaves us in silent awe. For thousands of years, orcas have spent the summer in the Strait. Researchers have identified four distinct groupings: northern residents, southern residents, transient and offshore. It is the northern residents that frequent Johnstone Strait, feeding on the millions of migrating salmon. Their forage area includes the Strait and nearby Blackfish Sound. (orcas are also called blackfish.) But it is where the Tsitika River enters the Strait that the most intriguing whale behavior is observed. There, in the Robson Bight-Michael Bigg Ecological Reserve, the whales rub themselves on the beaches. Why they do this is not yet fully understood and is the subject of intense study by researchers. The ecological reserve stretches about a third of the way across the Strait and eight kilometers, west to east. For 12 hours each day, monitors aboard Zodiacs guard the boundaries, every once in a while scooting after boats that cross the invisible line. It is not illegal to enter the area - in fact, commercial fishing takes place within it - but the monitors do ask whale watchers to respect the boundaries. Very few, they say, refuse such requests. A pod of whales chases the setting sun, the mist from their blowholes glinting in the golden rays. Thirty feet offshore, a bull's dorsal fin trails streamers of kelp as it breaks the surface. The fin dwarfs a nearby paddler, who later exults in the close encounter and the hugeness of the whale's eye. The bull is followed by other members of the pod, including a small juvenile who sticks close to shore. Intent on feeding, the orcas come close to the kayaks, teasing us in the whale version of tag. Whale watching boats out of Telegraph Cove, their decks packed with tourists, bob in the distance. Much later, in the dark, we again hear the pistol-shot breaths. We awaken to a grey and dismal day. The clouds hang low over the water obscuring the mountains. Rain falls in a steady drizzle. We dump our dismay as we hear the unmistakable breathing. For such huge animals, the noise is a haunting, sweet melody that entices you onto the water. The kayaks seem flimsy and vulnerable next to the giants. Emotionally, you are the ball in a ping pong game of fear and exhilaration. Just a few decades ago, the whales were considered a "blood-thirsty menace", indiscriminately destroyed whenever possible. We know better now. To see the highly social whales in the wild makes you want to weep for those that know nothing but the concrete walls of an aquarium. The whales swim off into the mist and our day is spent exploring the logging trails and creek canyon. Like the whales, the rain comes and goes as it pleases. Late in the afternoon the orcas return. For being unpredictable, they have made some fairly predictable appearances. The water is rough. A southeast wind whips up two to three foot waves. The kayaks are packed and we prepare to leave a place that has left us with a profound respect for nature. No one mentions their reserve at spending the next few hours upon the grey and choppy sea. Consumed with our thoughts, we almost miss the three fins that rise magically off the bow of one kayak. Like a mother's hug, it is a soothing, comforting goodbye.
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© Paul Judson Stobbe |
The kayaks are slid down the
beach and we cram ourselves into the cockpits. In our excitement, our entry, tough under
the best conditions, is graceless. The paddles cut in hard as we head northwest. Five
kilometers across the water, we can see the white stakes that mark the boundaries of
Robson Bight (Michael Big) Ecological Reserve. The whale, we are sure, is headed there.
Halfway across the Strait a huge freighter cuts across our bows, its rust-streaked steel
sides loom over our tiny boats. We continue to paddle, hard. Very hard.
The campsite, a narrow bench of land
fronting a grey, boulder-strewn beach, is colored with kayaks. To the back, the land
gradually rises, ending in 4,100-foot peaks. Rusty logging equipment shares the hillside
with blowdowns, brush and slugs.
Suddenly, the huge
dorsal fin is right there, the towering mass framed by two kayaks. The whale, intent on
entering the Bight, ignores the seven little gnats floating alongside. The encounter is
brief.
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