From the Rainforest: A Cozy Winter Retreat

A few winters back I ran into my friend Mark Hobson in town. I was getting into watercolor painting, and had enjoyed a few of his incredible painting workshops. “You should come up the inlet and paint with me this week,” he said. “I just need to get a diver to check the flotation under my floathouse, and I’m heading back tomorrow.”

The next day I decided to drop everything and head on up. Mark rarely invites people up to paint. The only problem was that we were in the middle of a huge, mid-February storm. I waited all day for the storm to abate, but the 4 pm weather forecast continued to call for storm force winds.

But I was all ready to go and it wasn’t far. Mark’s retreat is tucked in a protected cove up an inlet which is usually flat calm, even when the winds are howling everywhere else. The only tricky part would be getting to the mouth of the inlet. I had an hour of daylight left.

Sure enough, it was a tough slog as I pounded straight into the wind. But I made it, and turned the corner. Suddenly it felt as if the wind speed picked up significantly, an observation later confirmed by Bonny, who was sitting at home by the woodstove.

Huge swaths of white came at me—squalls coming down off the mountain slopes as the southeast winds blasted over the ridge top. They looked scary. As the first one approached, I braced myself, leaning into the anticipated force. The wind hit me square on the beam, and I had a definite sense that I could easily be knocked over. I buried my paddle in the water on the upwind side of the boat, shuffling my grip on the shaft to give me a four foot wide low brace, with not much left downwind for the wind to grab. The rain pelted down—I was glad to be warm and dry under my trusty sou’wester hat.

It was time to get to the east side of the inlet, fast—I didn’t want to endure many more gusts like that. I paddled hard, bracing whenever I saw another squall coming, hunkering down as it passed, screaming impromptu prayers to any gods who were listening.

I eventually made it across the inlet, where the winds were being channeled north by the steep mountain slopes. The wind whipped up three foot waves in no time. I caught each one, getting fantastic rides. Many times had I guided total beginners through mill pond conditions in these waters, never dreaming I would one day be surfing here!

I pushed on, reflecting on how nice it would be to arrive at Mark’s and not have to go through the chores of opening up, lighting the fire and waiting for the place to heat up. It occurred to me that he would be glad to see me, as no-one would want to spend a night alone on a floathouse in such a tempest.

A s I finally rounded the point into his cove, there was a definite lack of light from the windows. As I approached, I confirmed a similar absence of smoke from the chimney, and realized that his motorboat, which should have been tied up alongside, wasn’t there.

My timing had been a little tight, and I certainly hadn’t planned for this contingency. There was no way I was going to paddle further into that storm, in the dark, not even back to his nearest neighbor’s. No way—I was here, gods be thanked, and it was here I would be spending the night.

I lit the lamps and started a fire. We were experiencing a bit of a cold snap, and there was rare snow on the roof, so it took longer than usual to warm the place up. I tried his cell phone, but could not get out to let Bonny know I was okay.

The floathouse also seemed to be on a bit of a tilt, and I began to wonder if that was why Mark wasn’t there. Perhaps he had failed to get a diver up to inspect the floats, and didn’t want to endure a long, dark night on a sinking floathouse in a storm?

There was nothing I could do. After supper I immersed myself in Mark’s collection of natural history books. The only work I did on paintings was to run about picking up his unfinished masterpieces as they toppled over periodically with a dramatic crash.

I read late into the night, and slept fitfully to the cacophony of squalls hitting the house broadside, punctuated by falling paintings, with a background of rattling rigging on the sailboat tied up alongside. It was tied on the side that was sinking—I wasn’t sure if it was the cause of the house’s tilt, or if in fact it was the only thing keeping me afloat.

By morning, the storm had abated. The house had warmed up, and it was hard to tear myself away from his cozy retreat. Besides, I was deeply immersed in a book about the beaks of Darwin’s finches. And Mark would be back today, surely.

By afternoon, the weather began to change, and I could tell a storm was building fast. I sure didn’t want to paddle south into a building storm, so I sat tight. By 4 pm it became obvious that Mark was not coming, and that I would be reliving the last night’s ordeal if I didn’t get moving.

Reluctantly, I put my wetsuit back on. The storm wasn’t quite as furious this time—I pounded home in a couple of hours, exhausted, and happy to arrive at the warm cabin where Bonny had just cooked supper in case I was silly enough to paddle home!

EPILOG: I ran into Mark a few days later. He explained that the diver had been unable to get up in the storm. Mark returned the day after I left. The snow had melted, and the house’s tilt had vanished with it!

© Dan Lewis and Bonny Glambeck operate Rainforest Kayak Adventures in Clayoquot Sound 1-877-422-WILD

Email: mail@rainforestkayak.com Web: www.rainforestkayak.co