Desolation Sound

Marcus cutting across Desolation Sound; Cortes and Kinghorn islands over his bow; Vancouver Island mountains on the far horizon.

The seasons swing. Summer is over, despite the clear blue skies out my window, and autumn - fall - is upon us. Sarah and I, along with a small band of New Zealanders (Marcus, James and Karen), were on the water the last official day of summer. We were kayaking in Desolation Sound, on BC's Sunshine Coast. The sound was charted by both Spanish and English expeditions in 1792 and named by the captain of the English ship, George Vancouver, who noted "there was not a single prospect that was pleasing to the eye." I have to disagree with the man. We had gorgeous kayaking weather: clear sunny skies, glassy waters and little wind. The landscape was beautiful and dramatic. The sound's waters mirrored the line of jagged mountain tops that form the Coast Mountain range on our horizon; the forest-covered humps and rises of the islands of the strait, Cortes, Kinghorn, Mink, East and West Redondas; the arbutus bursting from the rocky cliffs and bluffs of the shorelines we followed.

Marcus and Mink Island.

We put in at Okeover Inlet on a Monday morning, after Sarah and Cuzza had made the run to Lund for eggers and the all important TP. Sarah and I were in a double sea kayak, a Seaward Passat G3, along with James and Karen. Marcus cruised in a Seaward Ascente. (Seaward is a Vancouver Island-based kayak company.) We traced our way through Okeover and Malaspina inlets, coming across a posse of seals sunning on rocks, before gliding into the "Aquarium", a shallow channel containing anemones, urchins, sea cucumbers and a multitude of starfish.

Seals of Malaspina Inlet.

After a lunch that featured freshly plucked and shucked oysters, we left the inlet and entered Desolation Sound. There was a sail in the distance, but barely a breath of wind. We followed the coastline, then crossed the sound to the shores of Mink Island. We kept to the edge of Mink, passing by a beautiful piece of property with a wood-fired hot tub sitting snugly in the rocky cleft of the shoreline. A small fishing vessel overtook us as we approached the Curme Islands, a tiny cluster of treed rocks off the eastern edge of Mink Island.

Curme Islands in the foreground; the hump of East Redonda and the Coast Mountains in the background.

Aerial view of the Curmes at low tide, with Mink Island at the top of the photograph.

The tide was low, but led by Marcus, we negotiated our way through the oyster-laden channels between the islands and beached our kayaks on the island closest to Mink. A couple from Washington State were camping on the island, basing themselves on the Curmes and exploring the region. The man exclaimed over our G3s. We unloaded and set up camp, finding flattish spaces to pitch tents amongst the trees of the island.

The Curmes are a cluster of three main islands, divided by a T-shaped channel, and a scattering of smaller islands and rocky outcrops. The island we camped on was lightly covered in arbutus, fir and pine. There was a long-drop and a no fires sign. We swam in water that was cold, but not frigid. Crabs scurried away from us. A lone driftwood log floated by. After dinner we lit a fire and drank fireball whisky. The stars were a million bright pinpricks in the clear night sky. We Antipodeans struggled with the northern constellations.


We rose to oatmeal and coffee, a quick fresh dip in the ocean, and broke camp. We made the return journey after circling through the Curme channels, following Mink's shore, across the sound and back into the inlets.

Cutting through the Curme channels.

We hit the ebb tide kayaking up Malaspina Inlet and stopped for lunch on a small island bordering the Aquarium channel. We watched a few salmon bypass seals via a small channel in front of our lunch spot. The water was crystal clear. A seal glided through the channel, an aerodynamic bullet with speckled skin and tucked-in flippers. It rose for a breath, saw us gawking humans and disappeared in an explosion of white water. The dumbfounded, bug-eyed expression of surprise on its face had us all laughing.

We continued toward Okeover Inlet, investigating a couple of shellfish farms, all the time aware of the end of our journey, wishing for more time, another night. And then we beached, unloaded, cleaned up and packed our vehicles. The New Zealanders said their farewells and we hit the road.

James and Karen rocking Desolation.