Paddling in Solitude

I didn't waste any time this morning deciding on when and where or even if I would be paddling:  I knew from the forecast a snowstorm was to have started around midnight and continue through the day and I knew the conditions on Howe Sound were to be mild, at worst.  I was set on heading out to enjoy a paddle in the snow.  Upon getting up this morning, one of the first things I did was flick on our deck light - I was greeted with the sight of a modest few inches of fresh snow with flakes continuing to drift down.  A quick check of the marine forecast confirmed the conditions were light and would remain light for the next couple of days.  All that was left to do was get the kids ready for breakfast, get the garbage and recycling out, clear at least Larissa's stretch of driveway off so she could drive out easily, and bring the kids to school.  Loading the boat and requisite gear came after these other things had been done and while Keaton and Elena were playing in the new-fallen snow.  At this point, I was already in my drysuit having cleared the driveway wearing my Chacos - worn over my drysuit booties, of course.  I'd pulled on my drysuit figuring it would save some time from having to change out of one set of outerwear to another - I'm not sure Kokatat had shoveling driveways in mind when they designed the suit, but it worked superbly!  It was now just a matter of dropping the kids off at school.

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Facing out into seemingly endless Howe Sound. 

There is something special about paddling in falling snow.  I think there's something special about being out in a snowstorm, in general; perhaps the relative novelty of being able to paddle in one makes it that much more enjoyable.  Falling snow softens, if not entirely mutes sounds.  Even though I was a few hundred meters from the highway, much of the time I couldn't hear traffic noises and when I could, the sounds were muffled and distant.

Being on the water in a snowstorm is putting yourself in an environment where there won't be many, if any, other people, as if the entire environment is solely yours to enjoy.  My companions today were a solitary seal, a solitary eagle, and a small flock of several dozen mergansers - that was it. The seal watched me curiously as I approached, then slowly sank down and disappeared in the cold waters.  I tried to give the mergansers as much leeway as I could so as to not interfere with them, but a group of about a dozen took off as I approached while the rest stayed put.  Typically, when one segment of the flock takes off, the rest do, too.  This fortunately wasn't the case today.  Knowing how hard most animals have to work to get enough food to stay warm in the winter, I was glad most of the ducks didn't feel threatened by me.  I also gave the eagle some leeway on my way out, though I was less concerned since the eagles around here seem quite habituated to humans - at least they don't act threatened.  This guy was watching over the cliff diving area the younger human generation enjoys during the summer months.

The little speck atop the tree furthest right in the very blurry photo is the bald eagle.  Lions Bay Cliff Diving Rocks.

Another aspect of paddling in a snowstorm is your world is reduced, stretching only as far as you can see.  Which often isn't far.  Again, it adds to the intimacy, that this is just about you and the few other critters you might be sharing it with.  All the places familiar to me as I paddle in Howe Sound - Horseshoe Bay with its steady traffic of ferries; Bowen Island with its landmark Mount Gardner; Gambier Island which fills the western horizon on clear days; even Bowyer Island, the close-by destination for many of my adventures - had disappeared in the falling snow.  Today was a new day, a new place to paddle.

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One of the fun things about new ventures is how they bring out memories of similar ones from the past.  Whitewater guiding and paddling in New York State is the first thing that comes to mind when I paddle in cold weather:  the season there would often begin at the end of March when the woods were still covered in many feet of snow.  We began paddling as soon as the waterways were clear of ice, though this wasn't entirely true for some of our kayaking mis-adventures.  A technique to guiding a commercial rafting trip in a heavy snowstorm was to turn the paddlers around in the flatwater so they would be paddling backwards and not have the snow driving in their face.  I don't think the Hudson enjoyed quite the return business that our summer run Maine rivers did.

My initial guide training also took place during April in Maine and there was still lots of snow on the ground and the temperatures were rather cold.  This was on the Kennebec River when the route out of Carry Brook was more of a climbing/scrambling experience and not the stair-walking experience it is today.  The 20 minutes or so in the vehicle back to Harris Station for the start of another run were spent trying to regain feeling in fingers and toes.

Of course, some of the quintessential snow/cold adventures took place with my friend Chris Audet on a favorite little stretch of whitewater, Marsh Stream or The Marsh as we liked to call it.  Fingers and neoprene would be so cold we, OK, I would need help getting my sprayskirt on.  One fateful trip I hadn't been able to find my pogies and was reduced to trying to paddle wearing just neoprene gloves:  I could paddle for about 30 seconds before needing to eddy out and warm my hands by blowing on them.  We slowly made our way downriver - and off the river in time to each get to our respective work places!

A favorite memory, though, was paddling with my dad one afternoon.  I had just finished a day of teaching and we were preparing for the annual St. George River canoe race.  The woods surrounding the St. George were layered in newly-fallen snow and all was quiet, save the purling water.  Other than the regular "Hut!" my dad called out, signalling me to change the side I was paddling on, we didn't talk much.  It's likely that on account of our relative quiet, we were able to surprise a large buck along the river bank.  He quickly sprang up, took several leaps, and disappeared among the trees. The rest of the run was spent recalling this event as we worked in tandem negotiating the St. George's fun rips.  It was a truly special day!

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Photo by Lions Bay resident David Simmons.  Note the superior photo quality.

Unlike many of my paddling ventures, today's adventure was just about poking around.  I wasn't trying to also get a workout in or pay particularly close attention to executing my paddling strokes just right.  I was out to see my little part of the world in a new light.  When I reached the place where I had planned to turn back, I looked up to see the plateau I come down onto when running The Totally Unnecessary Trail.  It, too, was shrouded in the storm and appeared to be a much different place than when I had been on it only yesterday.

The Coast Mountains' lower elevations.

As I made my way back, I was enjoying being immediately along the shoreline - it just seemed like the most interesting place to be as the snow was falling.  A small fir holding precariously to the vertical rock formed a perfect umbrella to paddle under.  Lone Tree Creek cascaded over a rocky course laced with mature evergreens - the hidden creekbed one of the odder things I've seen.  When I passed the dive rocks, I suddenly remembered the eagle.  Looking back over my shoulder confirmed he was still there.  Watching. Waiting.  Seemingly okay with sharing this snowy world.

Another photo by Lions Bay resident David Simmons.