Photo Essay: Princess Louisa Inlet

Moments from a sister trip to the northernmost point of our journey

Note: this post might get cut off by Gmail, you can see the whole thing in browser at the link in the upper right! If you want to buy a print of these or any other photos from our adventure, check out the new print store.

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This month Maddie’s younger sister Amelia joined us for a week-long journey to a destination we’ve been dreaming about since leaving SF: a remote fjord ringed by waterfalls, only accessible by boat or sea plane. Getting there required two 8-hour days of sailing. From Nanaimo, BC we crossed the Strait of Georgia, then traveled up the winding Jervis Inlet, timing our arrival to traverse the infamous Malibu Rapids at slack tide.

These are some photos and journal entries from our trip to Princess Louisa Inlet.

Nobody wants to go to bed, so we gab late into the night, the space growing rosy and silly with our shared investment of warm attention. We sit triangulated out on each corner of the cabin, occasionally looking off into space as the conversation pauses and we wait comfortably for the next thought to bubble up out of the silence. I feel cozy and at ease, the spirit of the Zug Kitchen Hang starting to feel like a second home for me wherever it happens. Somewhere behind the conversation floats a glowing joy at seeing Maddie and Amelia’s relationship grow and strengthen, fringed by a giddiness at my blooming comfort with her as friend and family. At some point she gigglingly quips “well I guess I should just move in forever” and my heart sings to realize she’s enjoying being here as much as we’re enjoying having her.

Whitecaps span the vast corridor, endless echelons of racing ripples alongside us as we run down Jervis inlet, doing 6 knots on a reefed main alone. The towering mountainsides shoot straight up from the water, so steep that we can be a boat-length from shore and have hundreds of feet under the keel. The trees on the ridge-lines seem to parade past steadily, sometimes frantically as the wind pushes 30 knots. The boat rolls over the waves passing under us, whitewater cresting and burbling next to the cockpit as they surf us subtly forward. I count my blessings that I got my drone pictures before the wind picked up, catching it off the side of the boat now would be nearly impossible.

Maddie and I are operating smooth and clean, enjoying the tight focus and no-nonsense competence that the conditions demand. It is satisfying to sail hard after these mellow months, stoked by the flattering thrill of imagining our honed skills through the Amelia’s eyes. I take in all the angles at the helm, feel the restless boat beneath me, scan across stations: the approaching shoreline, the shifting wind, the quivering telltales, the wind vane threatening to pass the dreaded middle and throw us into a crash jibe. The forward view framed by the Bimini; magisterial mountains in matte blue layers of wildfire haze. The wind snakes through the lightening-bolt inlet, rounding each curve as we do and propelling us stiffly onward for almost 8 hours. The thrill of sailing starts to give way to windburned fatigue. We make our final jibe and the tiny cluster of buildings around Malibu rapids appears glinting in a distant notch.

I steer the final turn out of the narrow rapids and drink in the sudden calm of the inlet- the howling windchill replaced with languid summer, the distant hazy blues turned emerald and gold. People are waterskiing in the calm water, incongruous luxury in this rugged backcountry. We pass paddle boarders along the shore dwarfed by towering walls that shoot up so high you have to crane your neck to see the top, where barren snowfields drift in and out of view among the clouds.

Our bow cuts through mirror-calm water as we motor down the final five miles, a Yosemite of granite on either side made double in the reflection below. I stand on the foredeck swinging my camera in a tense staccato arc to take dozen-photo panoramas, hoping a 180 stitch can start to capture the epic scale and luxurious composition, the miracle of having our home moving through this majesty.

We drop anchor, cringing as our windlass groans against 150 feet of chain dangling almost vertically into the abyss a couple dozen feet from shore. I pile our old halyard in the dinghy and row over to the cliff face, tie it to my ankle to free my hands as I climb up to the steel loop hammered in above the high waterline. Once the rope is secure, Maddie starts winching the boat in, pulling against the tenuously hooked anchor far below to create some semblance of security. When the rope hangs taught and dripping over the water and the anchor seems to be holding, we finally relax. It’s time to swim!

The girls sit tranquil in the shade, dipping their watercolor brushes coolly in the syrupy summer afternoon. And I descend into battle with the swarming ants in my pants. My body itches restless and unmoored in the vacuum left by arrival; nothing left to strain against or make myself useful by doing. I am driven to madness swatting against the internal cloud of directionless clamoring: think! go! do! adjust! prepare! produce! Goaded up with itching insistence that I must not sit still— I am desperate not to waste this moment, which will guarantee that I do.

I try to listen with my whole body for the silent message of this place as we walk through the startling promethean density of the old growth forest. Near infinite complexity arising from the ancient piles of life upon life; fallen trees still perched on the nurse logs that raised them, already being subsumed into mosses and fungi, bridging the blurry line between life and death. Infinite palaces of biological niches arising from eternal cycling of life. I feel awe and love and terror and bewilderment that anyone could bear to destroy these places.

As we sit around the table playing our third round of dominion I remember briefly that this moment is the whole point, this lovely space and time and company we have gifted ourselves and each other is what this chapter is for.

We jet back to Tardigrade as the fjord fills with the haze of rainfall. We pull up shivering to find Amelia looking cozy and dry, watching the waterfalls that have started multiplying across the cliff faces like spindly roots creeping down three thousand feet, thickening slowly as the storm grows.

We set to work cooking dinner as lightning flashes fill the windows and booming thunder follows close behind. We are thrilled by the storm and delighted to be cozy, even as the vague threat of a lightning strike on the mast whispers in the back of our minds. Periodically we pause in our tasks to pull back the companionway hatch and stick our heads up into the cool air, report back excitedly about a new falls that has emerged or an old one that has doubled in size and ferocity. This morning’s trickles are now taking on entirely new character, sprouting new branches and dramatic rooster tails where the accelerating flow hits a lip and launches into the air. Periodically we all gather in the cockpit, dodging the drips soaking through the bimini and sharing in the spectacle of nature showing off. When the drips drive us inward we re-immerse in the glowing warmth of the cabin, the wafting smell of roasting veggies and soft Noah Kahan now all the more lovely by contrast.

The cliff sides are steaming in the morning sun as we pull into the long line of boats that have been waiting out the weather, now dashing out to catch slack tide at the entrance. As we motor we can already feel the dregs of wind howling up the inlet, pushing back against the bow now, encouraging us to stay.

Thanks for following along!

Until next time,

Jeremy and Maddie (and Tardigrade)

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