When Things Go Wrong

April-May 2005

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.
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by Glen Stedham

The group’s boats at Cape Scott prior to
Glen separating from the others. © Glen Stedham photo

They say an adventure starts when something goes wrong. My adventure started when I capsized on the 5th day of a 120-kilometer paddling trip around the northern tip of Vancouver Island.

That was to have been my last day. My companions had opted to extend the trip by visiting some offshore islands, so I was going to finish the last 33 kilometers alone.

I left camp at 6 a.m. and at first was pleased to have the wind and waves coming from behind. But the waves grew in size all morning. In my eagerness to end the trip I pressed on. I could handle the waves but had not counted on the wash from passing boats. The first erratic wave overpowered me, lifting my stern up and sideways. I broached on the next wave, failed to brace, and ended upside down with my legs trapped in the kayak, groping to release myself from the sprayskirt that imprisoned me. This skirt had started to come apart days before and had become tricky to release.

I held my breath, riding up and down in my watery, upside-down world. To this point I had a feeling of detachment. It felt rather dream-like. Then my logical mind clicked in and the words “This is serious” came to me. Finally, spurred to action, I grabbed the fabric of the skirt and yanked—putting a big rip in the skirt but freeing myself, letting me swim out of the kayak and breathe.

The seas were too high for self-rescue. I held onto the kayak and kicked my way Glen Stedham When Things Go Wrong to shore, arriving in a cleft between two cliffs. After putting on some dry clothes and eating, I began to assess my situation. It was not good. I could see that the wind and waves were now even higher. I was watching fish boats heading into the waves, their bows diving into the troughs, slamming into oncoming waves, with spray erupting into the air and blowing back over their wheelhouses. Clearly I was not going anywhere. With a damaged skirt, the paddling portion of this trip was over unless the seas became almost flat—something that had not happened since the start of the trip.

And then there was the incoming tide to consider. This was a last minute trip for me and I had not brought tide tables. Looking at the rocks behind me, it was evident that my small, rocky sanctuary was often flooded at high tide. Never had I watched a tide change with more interest than that evening. I studied it as it advanced towards me, little by little, hoping for a small space between the cliff-face and a log to partially pitch my tent. When the tide finally turned it was a mere hand-width from the spot I had claimed for my tent. Twelve hours later, in the morning, I knew there would be another high tide. How high would that tide be?

Glen about to set off on a solo paddle.

The next morning the weather was no better—perhaps worse. Paddling to safety was not an option that day either—maybe not for many days. Staying put was also not a good option. I had lost most of my water in the capsize, as well as my rain gear. It rains frequently on this part of the BC Coast and becoming wet would mean hypothermia: a life-threatening situation.

Confident of my bush skills, I opted to hike out. I tied the kayak behind some rocks, as high as possible, and left at 8 a.m. to hike to Port Hardy. My map was a 1:250,000 topo and showed only a single contour line. How difficult could it be? By heading directly overland and away from the coast I figured I could make Port Hardy in two hours, possibly three. What I did not understand and what a more detailed topo would have shown me was that this was the most difficult terrain I had ever experienced: perhaps one of the most difficult terrains on earth. On my southeast compass bearing I had to cross a series of seemingly endless north-south, steep drainage's. The vegetation was so thick that at times I could walk to within a body-length of a cliff without seeing it. Then there were the descents, lowering myself by holding onto roots and branches before struggling back up on the other side. In places where I could see ahead of me, there was the disheartening sight of yet another ridge to cross.

Five hours later at 1 p.m., I managed to get a GPS reading and was shocked to see how little distance I had covered. Not only was I nowhere near Port Hardy, I was making little progress. It was rare for me to place my feet on the ground twice in succession. Usually I would be standing above the ground on roots or branches shrouded in foliage and unable to see far in any direction. What I began to fear was hurting myself. I was falling frequently. Sometimes when I fell, the vegetation would so encase my feet that I risked twisting or spraining an ankle. Unless I could walk out of what was becoming my forest prison, I would never be found. Even from the air I would not be seen

Although not ‘lost’ in the strict sense, I began to feel a rising panic. I made regular notations in my journal—mostly to focus my mind. The urge to keep pushing through the bush was strong but I knew I had to stop from time to time to quiet my emotions and think more clearly. I would stop and stare at the watch, watching the hands and counting off five minutes. The weather was unseasonably hot and I was sweating profusely. Whenever I came to water I would try to stop long enough to take fifty gulps. Sometime during the day, green and red blotches floated across my field of vision. Was this a symptom of dehydration or heat stroke? The scummy, standing water I was drinking may very well have made me sick, but I reasoned that I would be out of the forest before developing symptoms.

Late in the day I began to realize there was a good possibility that I would not make it to Port Hardy in one day and I abandoned my southeasterly bearing. Tidewater and the chance of rescue lay due east. In the early evening I encountered an easterly sloping drainage which I knew would inevitably lead to the shore. I could not see the water but I knew that if I descended long enough I would hit it. The foliage, if anything, got even thicker and the terrain impossible. I was pulling aside branches and pushing through, my feet unseen below me probing for a log or branch, anything solid to stand on.

Even when I fell I would not hit the ground—just more vegetation. I was pushing my body beyond anything I had ever done before. How far I had pushed myself I would not realize till much later. It was pointless to rest. Resting, I might never pull myself up again. So thick was the vegetation that not once on my descent did I see the inlet before me. Only my map and my compass told me it was there. Down and down I went, not knowing how far the water lay below me. At times I could dimly hear boat traffic. When I finally broke free of the bush I could see the ocean just beyond through a sliver of trees. And just at that moment, like saviors, I could see two men in an open boat. Then they veered off, out of my line of vision behind trees. I made a move for my flares but knew there was not time to get them. Seconds later they veered back in front of me and cut their engine. “Help, Help,” I screamed and waved my hands.

But cuts and bruises heal quickly. They had to. I was looking forward to a short three day backpacking trip in Manning Park four days later. That is another, far happier story. A story but not an adventure.

© Glen Stedham is a canoe and kayak guide and instructor with over 35 years paddling experience. He has done numerous paddling trips from the Arctic to Mexico and is the author of ‘The Vancouver Paddler: Canoeing and Kayaking in Southwestern British Columbia’ and ‘Bush Basics’, a hiking and survival text. He also has an extensive hiking and backpacking background and was for many years a Search and Rescue volunteer. For the past 12 years Glen has been a member of the Dogwood Canoe and Kayak Club.