Over the mountains: My journey to Canada.: Ch 27: Hot Spring Cove Surprise

In 1897 a group of Danish settlers came to Cape Scott to establish religious, utopian commune. They were attracted by its seclusion, fertile meadows and good fishing grounds. The Provincial Government promised to build a road to Cape Scott and for couple of years the settlement prospered. But the road was never build, (probably an election promise) vicious winter storms washed away dikes and after ten years only a handful of the hardiest survived. Tranquility was interrupted in 1942 when the Canadian army built a radar station after a Japanese submarine shelled the Estevan Point Lighthouse on Vancouver Island. The radar station was closed down in 1946 and only the Cape Scott Lighthouse indicated any sign of human existence. Three decades later this rugged coastal wilderness with spectacular remote beaches became a Provincial Park.

The only access to the park was what used to be a wagon road built by settlers. Looking at the small map of the park I figured out it would be easy five hour hike. First section of the trail was rocky but other parts turned muddy, in places ankle deep muck. I tried to keep my boots dry but gave up because it made my progress too slow. Eight hours later I was still on the trail, and not knowing where I was, decided to bivouac. The night was cold and in the morning my sleeping back was covered with hoar frost. The bag of food forgotten in Alex’s car forced me to recalculate my supplies. I divided my five day rations into seven packages. Then I thought, what if Alex doesn’t show up? I switched into a survival mode, divided them into eight packages and skipped the breakfast.

Rusting tools and implements, few dilapidated buildings, broken dikes and fences were all that remained from the Danish settlement. I didn’t bother to stop and continued hiking. I found sheltered spot close to the shore and pitched my tent near a big bone of whale. The beach was great for beachcombing and I noticed that rocks in tidal pools were covered with blue mussels. They were edible! Couple of months ago they made big headlines because the East side of Vancouver Island was contaminated with red tide and mussels there became toxic. Some people eating them were violently sick. Are these mussels toxic? I took half a dozen back to my camp and threw them on the fire.

They hissed, sizzled and opened up. The white muscle inside tasted good, I would discover in the morning if they were poisonous. I woke up feeling great, my worries about going hungry were over. I went back beachcombing, to get more mussels and to look for Japanese glass floats, beachcomber’s treasure. Stuck in the sand was a barnacle encrusted bottle. The label said Suntori Whiskey and inside was still some liquid. I unscrewed the cap and tasted it. WOW, it was real whiskey! I remembered that old winos used to collect empty alcohol bottles from pubs and sweat them to squeeze more alcohol out. It was time to see if it works. I put the bottle close to the fire so that one side got hot and sure enough on the other side few drops of whiskey formed and rolled down. I could sweat out almost half of a tea spoon from the bottle, on top of what was already inside. I collected more than a dozen bottles and Japanese fishermen were not stingy, sometimes leaving almost teaspoon of whiskey inside.

In the evening sitting by the fire I sweated out almost half of a cup of well aged Japanese whiskey. Having mussels to supplement my fo od I continued to explore the coast. I came across a worn out plank road, half buried in sand and followed it. It took me to concrete foundations, probably remains of the radar station, and not very far away was a well preserved cabin, painted in faded khaki colour. I opened door and felt like stepping into a treasure house. Inside were bunk beds, table, wood stove, and amazingly, boxes of food, rice, packages of soup and more, left behind by hikers. It was backpacker’s shelter that was not marked on the map and I didn’t find it too soon, the weather turned wet.

I spent the rest of my time in cozy, warm cabin, venturing out when the rain stopped. At meal times I mulled over whether it would be gourmet Craft Dinner, Hamburger Helper or Ravioli, all fortified with mussels. In the evening I would sip Suntori Whiskey and read by the candle books left behind by hikers. Time went by fast and return trip was very wet and muddy. I could see why hikers discarded their boots at the trail end. I have not seen anybody for seven days and was glad that Alex was waiting for me as he promised.

It was time to say good bye to Port Alice. Our truck and furniture were safely stored in Nanaimo and the new challenge was to sail my boat singlehanded around the West coast of Vancouver Island to Nanaimo in the Straight of Georgia, about 600 km voyage. The coast was exposed to pacific storms and there were not many sheltered bays to anchor overnight. Navigation was done by compass and by taking bearings on landmarks and such trip was considered a real adventure.

Mooring buoys in Winter Harbour, my first stop, were occupied by commercial fishermen so I dropped the anchor, made supper and spent quiet night. When I tried to hoist the anchor in the morning, it was caught on something. I could hoist it ten feet and then it became heavy and the higher it went, the heavier it was. I wrapped the anchor line around the winch and was slowly cranking it up. Finally I could see what happened. I was lifting heavy chain the mooring buoys were attached to and one fluke of the anchor was hooked into it. I kept cranking till it was only ten feet under water. The boat was heeling over under the weight of chain, the anchor line was taut and wouldn’t go any higher, so with heavy heart I cut the line. It was my favourite stainless steel anchor, made in Alcan maintenance shop as “government job”and I was sorry to see it go.

I was sailing all day along the coast in blustery weather with heavy swell, one moment on top of the wave, wind blowing hard, the sail taut, seeing the horizon in the distance, next moment in deep valley, sail flapping, out of wind. Late in the afternoon I sailed into a cove I found on the chart. The waves were crashing into rocks at the entrance, pitching the boat, making it hard to steer and suddenly I was inside the sheltered cove, not a ripple in the water. On the shore I noticed two people. They waved at me and I waved back. I looking at them with binoculars I saw a man with a boy. They disappeared into the bush and few minutes came out and waved again. It was strange, there wasn’t boat in sight, how did they get there? I dropped the dinghy into water and went to the shore to meet them. They were father and his son looking for wreckage of a bomber that crashed in that area on a training mission in 1944. The father was writing a book about airplane crashes on Vancouver Island.

Friendly Cove, the next anchorage, had history going back two hundred years. The cove in Nootka Sound was first visited by Captain James Cook in 1778 and the natives were so nice to him, he named this anchorage Friendly Cove. Ten years later Spanish claimed the land and built here settlement Fort San Miguel. Sovereignty and fur trade disputes over this sliver of land almost led Spain and Britain to war. However Captain George Vancouver and Commandante Quadra negotiated the Nootka Convention that provided peaceful solution. The two negotiators got along very well and decided to name the island upon which Nootka stood after themselves and 19^th century maps refers to this land “Vancouver’s and Quadra’s Island”, later shortened by the British to Vancouver Island.

The Indian village in Friendly Cove was abandoned and vandalized except for a picturesque church with descriptive plaques about this historic event. The church was unlocked and inside I admired beautiful stained window, gift of the Spanish government, commemorating signing of the Nootka Convention by Vancouver and Quadra.

The weather so far was cold and my daily wash was limited to occasional salt water sprayed into my face. This was going to change soon because my next stop was the Hot Spring Cove. My chart book mentioned ” hot water from a small waterfall flows into a large, natural, rocky pool”. I dropped the anchor in the cove,paddled my dinghy to the shore and followed muddy, well used trail through the bush. The trail led to a stony shore. Coming around a big rock I saw steam coming from the hot waterfall and behind was the rocky pool and a view that stunned me.

In the pool sat five girls and two guys. They were all naked…..