We saw no whales on our boat trip this past summer, but some of their smaller cousins put on a surprise performance for us on one very memorable morning.
We were anchored in Tenedos Bay, a popular spot in Desolation Sound—a place we would never have expected to see whales or dolphins. So you can imagine our excitement as we spotted a pod of about 20 Pacific White-sided dolphins entering the bay and heading our way. To our delight, they cruised directly over to the part of the bay where we were moored.
They were obviously ready for a meal, and the bay must have been well-stocked with fish. Chasing their prey back and forth along the shoreline, the hunters darted around each other, leaping, diving, churning up great sprays of foam—each dolphin a veritable speed demon.
For the next ten minutes they delivered an amazing, awe-inspiring show of speed, acrobatics and unfettered energy. Then quite suddenly the frenzy stopped, calm was restored, and the whole pod cruised quietly out of the bay.
“Domain of the Great Bear”: Pooley Island, one of the prints in my new exhibit (click on images to expand).
I captured the photo above as we were cruising along the north side of Pooley Island, after leaving BC’s fabled Fiordland on BC’s North coast, in the heart of the Great Bear Sea.
The deep greens and smooth curves of Pooley’s rainforest slopes and valley were less dramatic than Fiordland’s massive snowy peaks, but no less beautiful to my eye – not to mention soothing on a day with deteriorating weather. After a sunny morning, a brisk wind was now rising and the clouds were moving in, so it was time to find an overnight anchorage.
There are only two viable anchorages on Pooley Island: James Bay on its southeast and Windy Bay on its north. Both locations are close to Fiordland, so we’d stayed at James Bay (photo below) two nights earlier, on our way into Fiordland.
James Bay is pretty and ecologically rich, with a healthy estuary and creek that support diverse wildlife including black, spirit and grizzly bears along with wolves. But it falls short as an anchorage, at least if you value your sleep. It’s wide open to the south, so any winds or chop running up Mathieson Channel reach deep into the bay. We bounced for most of the night.
Coming back out of Fiordland two mornings later, we pulled into Windy Bay on Pooley’s north side. We crossed our fingers that the spot didn’t live up to its name, as by then we really needed a good night’s sleep. We were in luck: despite a considerable chop in the channel, it was calm in the anchorage. Windy Bay was the perfect place for two sleep-deprived seniors to drop their hook. Which might be why I didn’t get around to taking any photos while I was there.
I’m happy to announce the opening of my new exhibit on Gabriola Island, “Images from the Great Bear Sea” – my first solo show in four years. It features 16 new photographs which I’ve printed for the first time, all from our 2022 trip to this vast, remote and largely wilderness area. It also includes 10 prints from our earlier trips to the area. The exhibit is on now, and runs until April 25, downstairs at the Gabriola Medical Centre on Church St. (open Monday to Friday).
Downy woodpecker enjoying the buffet (click on any of the photos to enlarge).
Thanks to the great work of the bees, we’ve had a wealth of sunflower delights in our garden over the past month.
The plants, now about 12 feet high, have been hugely popular with our backyard birds, including the Downy woodpecker above, and an ongoing rapid parade of Chestnut-backed chickadees, like these two:
For the birds, the sunflowers have proved to be food for the body – and for us humans, they’ve been every bit as valuable, as food for the soul.
A morning’s work. Click on the image to enlarge, then zoom in to see the pollen grains sticking to the bees.
Bees have been plentiful and active in our garden all summer, though almost always moving too quickly for me to photograph. But the other day, when I had my camera conveniently in hand, I noticed that high up on the now-very tall sunflowers, bees were moving ever so slowly. I watched through my telephoto lens as they ambled along, seeming to savour the taste and texture of the dense floral carpet, while sticky pollen grains clung to the hairs on their heads, legs and bellies. It was a moment that I could also savour.
Despite its brevity, it’s taken me a few days to complete this post as I’ve been trying to identify what type of bees they are. I know by the absence of pollen sacs on their back legs that they’re not honeybees. Nor are they chubby enough to be bumblebees, though plenty of those can also be found in our garden. My best semi-educated guess is that they’re likely some species of mason bee, one of the many types of non-colonial “solitary bees” that together make up over 90% of North America’s native bee populations. But I’m far from certain, so if any readers of this post can help clear up my confusion, I’d welcome your comments.
Popping up for a quick recce (click on photos to enlarge).
There was no real herring spawn in our area this year, so the hordes of sea lions attracted by that early spring feast were absent.
But happily, on one of the few days that we managed to get to Drumbeg Park for a walk, we were treated to a brief sighting of a trio of Stellar sea lions.
The first two motored right on by, too fast for me to get much of a look at, let alone photograph. But the third one stopped just long enough for the briefest of meet-ups…
…and then it was time to be off again. Spring seems to find everyone on the move.
Shoreline in the Kittyhawk Group (click on any of the photos to enlarge)
Two days after we left Philip Inlet last June, we reached our second “new-to-us” anchorage – a secluded little hurricane hole in the Kittyhawk Group of islands in the Hakai Recreation Area.
The spot we’d chosen was guarded by an even narrower entrance than at Philip. Luckily it was low tide when we entered, so the rocks and reefs were at least partially visible. This was helpful, since the maze of islets and narrow passages leading in and out of the anchorage was confusing for first-timers who’d yet to get their bearings.
We dropped the hook – carefully – in a small pool, surrounded by rugged little islets, rocks and reefs.
When we’re underway or anchoring for the night, we keep a keen and constant eye on our chart, always trying to keep well away from boat-eating rocks like this – the kind that often lurk just below the surface at higher tides.
But once we’re safely moored and it’s time to launch the kayaks, those same rocks and reefs turn into compelling destinations.
Interesting how our perspective changes, once we’re down at water level in our little paddle-powered vessels: the rocks and reefs seem even bigger close-up, but they’re no longer worrisome – instead they are utterly fascinating, and exactly where we want to be.
Rain made it tricky to see the narrow entrance to Philip Inlet
Northward on our ten-week Great Bear Sea trip last summer, the first “new-to-us” stopover was Philip Inlet, a small notch on the east shore of Fitz Hugh Sound just south of Addenbroke Island. As you can see from the photo above, it was raining steadily when we arrived, making it challenging to spot the narrow entry and any drift logs that might be blocking it.
Our plan that morning had been to head up Rivers Inlet and fill our water tanks at Dawson’s Landing, a floating supply point we’d visited years before. But with calm sea conditions it made more sense to push on past Rivers and make tracks up Fitz Hugh. I worried a bit about our water supply, but as it turned out there was no cause for concern.
Philip Inlet is a beautiful, remote and quiet anchorage – although entering is a bit of a nail-biter thanks to a couple of narrow spots and a mid-channel submerged rock (thankfully all well charted).
Once we had anchored at the head of the inlet and shut down the engine, we heard the rush of multiple streams. The first two weeks of our trip had been rainy, so plenty of freshwater was on offer all around us. We loaded empty plastic jugs into a kayak and soon we had enough for a week’s worth of daily showering and dish washing – lessening the demand on our potable water supply in our main tanks.
By late afternoon the rain had stopped and the sky had brightened a bit. With utter calm inside the inlet, totemic shoreline reflections were all around us. (Click to enlarge and see details on this or other photos.)
And by golden hour that evening, the forest seemed to come alive.
By the time we left the next morning the weather had changed. Funny how that narrow entry looked less intimidating under a sunny sky!
Warm and cozy, I bet. (Click on images to enlarge.)
With another Arctic front heading our way, I find myself thinking about sea otters – specifically, how well suited (literally) they are for winter.
Their incredibly thick, waterproof coats must be cozy even on unseasonably chilly days. Sea otters have the densest fur of any animal on earth, which is why they were hunted almost to extinction by the early 20th century.
Their smaller cousins, river otters, are common throughout our region and I see them often, both on land and in the sea. But it’s only been in the last few years, and further north, that I’ve had the privilege of seeing sea otters – thankfully returning from the brink to repopulate some of the inside waters along the BC coast.
These impossibly cute members of the weasel family live their whole lives in the sea, almost never venturing onto land. We’ve encountered small families and groups far from shore when we’ve been cruising up Queen Charlotte Strait, in water over 1000 feet deep.
Once a sea otter (left) delighted us by popping up repeatedly to have a close look when we were kayaking close to shore. Luckily it was one of those rare days that I had my dSLR with its zoom lens along with me in the kayak.
Last summer another one popped up unexpectedly when we were in just 16 feet of water – hardly a usual haunt for these deep divemasters! He/she stuck around for a few minutes, chowing down on lunch. Having only my phone that day, I wasn’t able to get a photo worth sharing. No matter: the memory of the experience still brings me a warm smile, even on a cold winter’s day.
Eye on Environment 