The Inside Passage

Anna is a wanderer at heart. She loves to spend her life in pursuit of new and intriguing experiences and is always quietly planning her next endeavour. While not at her day job or out exploring the world, she enjoys trail running, backpacking, and eating delicious food. To find out more about her Inside Passage trip, check out https://kayaktheinside passage.com Words: Anna Grondin Photos: Anna Grondin and Jeremy Nylander The idea of this expedition, and probably the success of our relationship, started with a seemingly benign question asked late one night while packing for another trip. Jeremy turned to me and asked if I’d ever wanted to kayak the Inside Passage.

Since I had spent two seasons guiding sea kayaking trips off the coast of British Columbia, Canada, I was familiar with the route. While I had never considered it a real possibility, it had always intrigued me. “Sure, of course,” I replied, smiling. It takes a special kind of person to find a 90-day sea kayaking expedition in some of the wettest country around a desirable idea, and we were both thrilled to have found such a person. The Inside Passage is a waterway that stretches 1,200 miles, winding its way through the islands that form the upper west coast of North America. These islands and coastline receive about 200 inches of rain a year and are home to the largest temperate rainforest in the world. The shores are covered with Sitka spruce and hemlock forests where grizzly and black bears, moose, river otters, and other animals make their homes. Thousands of humpback whales reaching 60 feet in length and 40 tons migrate to these waters every summer to feed. A large population of resident and transient orca whales also reside here.

for several months but solidified the next year when we went on a nine-day kayaking trip in British Columbia. During that trip, the dream turned into a goal, and our path was set. We spent the next year preparing and purchasing gear, planning our route, and getting ready to step away from our everyday lives. I asked for a three-month leave of absence from work and Jeremy quit his job. We asked my parents to watch my dog, Rudager, for the summer. I spent hours pouring over maps and researching the water and weather conditions.

The Inside Passage is mostly remote with only a spattering of small towns along the way. For the miles and days between towns, we would be almost completely alone. Our only encounters with humans would be cruise ships, freighters, and the occasional fishing vessel. We planned out 100 days’ worth of meals and shipped packages of shelf-stable food ahead to pick up in the towns. We would supplement these with groceries purchased at local stores. Our intended route started in Bella Coola, British Columbia, Canada and headed 90 miles out to the coastal town of Bella Bella and then travelled north to Juneau, Alaska. From Juneau, we would go west to spend a few days in Glacier Bay National Park and then paddle north again to Skagway – the northern terminus of the Inside Passage. From Skagway, we planned to ferry back to Bella Bella and then paddle south as far as possible before I had to return to work and real life.

I would love to say that we had no fears, but during the weeks that led up to our start date, we were both nervous. Between the two of us, Jeremy and I had several years of cumulative backcountry experience, we both had wilderness first aid training, we were experienced paddlers, and we had thoroughly planned this trip. We were as prepared as we could have been, but we still slept uneasily. It wasn’t until we put our boats into the water and took the first paddle strokes of the trip that we relaxed.

After we pushed offshore that first time, the decisions and worries were over – no more last-minute packing choices, no more explaining to our friends and relatives that we really wouldn’t have cell service, no more wondering if we were strong and skilled enough, we just had to paddle. I felt a rush of relief followed immediately by a sense of profound accomplishment. Most expeditions fail before they even start. When they are just dreams pulling at a person's heart, they dwindle and die, suffocated by routine and normalcy. But we had done it. We were there. Boats in the water, life put on hold, all we had to do was paddle. As we crossed the inlet and paddled along the shores that first day we were overwhelmed with the scenery. Snow-capped mountains rose straight out of the water towering into the sky. The water was clear and blue, the breeze cool, and the sun warm. A pod of porpoises passed us, leaping and jumping out of the water. We arrived at our first campsite, feeling quite pleased with ourselves. This feeling was short-lived, however. Seeking out a flat spot away from the tide to set our tent, we instead ran into a black bear, which is not necessarily a problem, but we also found a bear lure – part of the bear research going on in the area. We are relatively comfortable sharing space with bears, but certainly not interested in camping next to a bear lure. A bit defeated, we paddled on to another pebble beach.

many firsts – our first night falling asleep to the snoring of humpbacks, our first weather day when gale-force winds kept us on land, and Jeremy’s first beachside hot spring to name a few. We paddled through some of the worst weather of our kayaking careers – pouring rain, fierce headwinds, large and confused waters. We were constantly tired and sore as our bodies adjusted to eighthour paddle days and consecutive nights sleeping on the ground. And we were ecstatic. We were free of our jobs, free of the routine of everyday life, and loving every second of it.

We made it to Bella Bella, our first coastal town, in high spirits. Our package of food was waiting for us at the post office, we took showers, washed our clothes, called our families, and ate more fish and chips than we would like to admit. We spent two nights in Bella Bella preparing for the next leg of our trip. From Bella Bella, we would paddle a little more than 200 miles to the next town of Prince Rupert. We carried food for 21 days, filling every crevice in our boats, to ensure we were prepared for the weather or emergency delays.

As we left Bella Bella and crossed Seaforth Channel, we paddled through waters that were exposed to the force of the Pacific. Ocean swell came in from Milbank Sound and combined with the waves to create an interesting effect that left Jeremy a bit green. But we crossed safely and in the company of several humpbacks. That evening we paddled in perfectly calm waters through a small archipelago, watching as the sun dipped low on the horizon and painted the water orange. We slept on a tiny island, alone under the stars listening to the waves roll onto the shore. We were 11 days in, we felt strong and capable and were excited for the rest of our summer. We paddled through the next weeks in nearly constant awe of the world around us. An extremely low tide gave us a rare glimpse of the underwater world. Bears and wolves visited us onshore and in our camps. We saw more whales than we could count and routinely slept serenaded by their breathing. Each afternoon we started scouting for a campsite, trying to outdo each other in picking the perfect small island to camp on. We pitched our tent on beaches when we could or in the forest when extreme high tides forced us back. We carried fresh vegetables, good cheese, and lots of butter and enjoyed fine backcountry dining nearly every night.

We also struggled. There were hard weather days, opposing tides, and 11 straight days of rain. Our sleeping pad delaminated and we spent most of the trip sleeping on it deflated, with no padding from the rocks and roots below. As we moved north, the days lengthened, and the rain stopped. Alaska was experiencing one of the driest summers on record, and it became hard to find freshwater for drinking and cooking as the streams dried up. At times we were on high alert, sometimes even scared. When we crossed Portland Inlet, we paddled through the largest waters I hope to ever be on in a kayak. Pacific Ocean swell meets a confluence of flowing tidal water and creates a stretch where even much larger boats take caution. At Holkham Bay, two fjords converge and then pour their waters out through a narrow channel creating dangerous whirlpools and rips. We crossed Holkham at slack tide but still found ourselves in strong currents with waves and whirls. Icebergs and tree limbs were being carried out of the fjords by the water. We dodged them as we raced the current, which was pulling us at an alarming speed towards a massive standing wave set created by the meeting waters. Our limits of exhaustion and stress were reached and passed many times over the summer, but with each experience, we grew as paddlers and as a team.

On day 61, we pulled our boats onshore near the visitor centre of Glacier Bay National Park ready to spend a few days enjoying the pristine place. We would then continue the last bit north to Skagway, AK, take the ferry back to Bella Bella and finish our trip by paddling south. We had completed our journey this far in enough time that with a bit of a push we would be able to paddle back to Jeremy’s childhood home in Shelton, WA, ending our expedition on the beach he played on as a boy. When walking into towns in dry bibs and dry tops, hauling armfuls of drybags, we are easily recognizable as kayakers. It was no different at Glacier Bay, and as we opened the door to the visitors centre, we were greeted with an interesting welcome: “Any chance you are Jeremy?” We nodded, yes. “You’re mom has been calling.” The Alaskan Ferry, a crucial piece of our plan, had been in labour disputes and the workers had gone on strike. Jeremy’s mother was anxiously trying to reach us to let us know the ferries were not running. With the ferry system down, we had no way to return from Skagway to Bella Bella. This news was devastating. It felt like our dream was torn from us in one benign comment from this young national park ranger. We walked back to our boats, discouraged and tried to regroup. Immediately our minds were running with alternative plans. We landed on this – we would spend two weeks in Glacier Bay instead of the four days we had planned. We would not worry about ferries or schedules until we returned to the visitor centre. If the ferry workers were still on strike at that point, we would try to rent a car and drive back, if not we would continue paddling north to Skagway and take the ferry back home. The first few days in Glacier Bay were hard. We felt defeated, and the constant drizzle seemed to agree with our mood. But on day three, the weather broke, and as the clouds retreated the incredible beauty of that place was revealed to us. 7,000-foot peaks jutted straight out of cerulean blue waters. Goats trotted up cliffs and through grassy alpine meadows. Fall was arriving, and the shore plants were changing, their colours turning the reds and oranges of autumn. For the first time on our trip, we were freed from deadlines and schedules. We paddled slowly, taking in the beauty around us. We spent nearly every other day resting, talking about our lives, and dreaming up future trips. Our trip this far had been incredible. It had pushed us to our limits and further. It pushed our relationship, as well. And sitting in that beautiful place, we looked back and saw how we had changed, how we had found new strength in ourselves and each other.

Every day that we paddled further into Glacier Bay, the scenery became larger, the waters colder and our excitement increased. Glacier Bay has 11 tidewater glaciers - glaciers that reach the water, terminating in magnificent 200ft cliffs of jagged ice. Their towers slowly being eroded as the glaciers push downward and the tide melts their base. Eventually, the great towers of ice calve off and crash into the water with waves that can be felt miles away. We started to encounter iceberg bits floating in the water as we approached the first of these glaciers. The water became so cold that sitting in our boats with just the thin layer of fibreglass below was almost unbearable. We heated water and put hot water bottles near our feet. I wore every piece of clothing I had and still was not warm. To capsize in those cold waters would be extremely dangerous. We found a flat spot to camp at the base of Johns Hopkins Glacier- the prize of Glacier Bay. We slept at the bottom of a massive waterfall; its milky grey waters crashed down behind our tent. All night we listened to the thunder of glaciers calving, the shockwaves reverberating in our chests. In the morning, I drank coffee in the sun as an icy breeze blew down from the glacier. This was possibly the northernmost point of our trip, and we couldn't have asked for a better end. We stayed there for two days, the longest our permit would allow, and reluctantly packed our boats for the return to the ranger station and news of the ferry strike. We arrived at the ranger station to find an agreement had been made, and the ferries were running again. We continued north for another five wonderful days. A storm chased us up Lynn Canal, and we made a great time, averaging nearly 25 miles a day. Landing in Skagway Harbor, we pulled our boats out of the water for the last time. All too abruptly, our trip was over. We transitioned from expedition kayakers to tourists with just a shower and a change of clothes. It seemed surreal.

We hadn't completed the trip as we planned, but what we experienced was more incredible than anything we could have imagined. The 82 days we spent kayaking through the Inside Passage changed us, making us stronger as individuals and together. We were pushed to our limits and beyond. We saw the beauty that brought tears to our eyes, we co-existed with bears and whales, slept under old-growth forests, and paddled at the base of massive calving glaciers. We had hours upon hours to think over our lives, our decisions, our goals. We redefined what we desired in life and talked about how to achieve it.

People often ask how the trip was, but how can we explain thousands of incredible moments in a short conversation? Nearly every day, something amazing happened – some days it was wolves, or glaciers, or stormy seas. Some days it was eating a great meal with my best friend on a tiny island with no one around for miles. Thousands of incredible moments that string together to make up an incredible summer, a life-changing journey.

The Spey descent idea was born on a paddle on the Thames from Cricklade to Lechlade in April 2019, long before the Covid Pandemic. Following this lovely, but very lowland paddle, some of us fancied a highland adventure. There were nine of us, ranging in age from 20-70, including my family of five, my friend Robin Buxton, Robin’s friend Hanne, and Alana and Trevor from our canoe club. By Sarah Webster

At first, we debated whether we should go for the Spey descent or the Great Glen. The crucial deciding factor was that there are no portages involved in the Spey descent. Robin, who had polio when he was 18 months old and is now 70, has reduced mobility (50m walking). He is also the most stoical person I know. As a former marathon kayaker, with experience of paddling a wide variety of boats in many places including dug-out canoes in Pongo Songo (Cameroon) to his own big wooden Canadian on the Thames, he told me he was unconcerned about the distances we would need to paddle, but much more concerned about the distances we might need to walk. A paddling friend put me in touch with a wonderful organisation, Equal Adventure, coincidentally based in Grantown-on-Spey, on our route. Suresh Paul, their Director and Principal Advocate, advised that Robin would be fine, provided he was prepared to ‘cuff it’. Suresh made an extra-strong, high viz bag for Robin’s wheelchair, so we could take it in a canoe without it becoming an entrapment hazard, as well as new knee-pads for Robin.

With the Covid pandemic came all sorts of uncertainties: would we be able to travel freely from England to Scotland? Would a group of our size be allowed to meet outdoors? Would Hanne be able to travel from Denmark to Scotland and back without quarantine? What if one or more of the group contracted Covid? I accepted that Covid and its associated restrictions might stop us from going, I was determined that uncertainty itself must not deter us from preparing in every other way. So we read the excellent guides by Nancy Chambers and David Craig, and arranged boat hire. We practised paddling for relevant distances on moving water, experimented with packing our boats, checked the tides, and asked friends who had made the trip about the best campsites to aim for. We devised separate ‘cooking clans’ or households so that we were not sharing utensils and crockery. And we lived in hope. As it turned out, at the time of our trip, up to 15 people from five households were allowed to meet outdoors. Hanne was able to fly from Denmark via Manchester, and I was able to book accommodation for the night before the trip. We hired our boats from Active Outdoor Pursuits, in Newtonmore, a mixture of Silverbirch open canoes and Dagger Stratos touring kayaks. Finally, the day arrived, and we started our descent at Loch Insh, putting on near Kincraig Church. We had opted to start the trip on the last day of August when the days are still long, and air temperatures are warm. On the other hand, river levels were low, and we were still in the main fishing season. On this first day, we started in the afternoon and paddled for a couple of hours, stopping when we found a wild camping spot just below Aviemore. As we paddled through the majestic scenery of the Cairngorms, we were lucky enough to see both red squirrels and Osprey – first one bird, and then a pair –still here before embarking on their long flight to Africa for the winter. We successfully negotiated the sharp dog-leg in the river that we had been warned about, where the river flows relatively fast past fallen trees. The camping spot we found was in an area of long grass under alder trees. In Scotland, you are allowed to camp on most unenclosed land, provided that you are well away from roads and habitation and leave no trace. Definitive guidance on this can be found @ www.canoescotland.org/coaching-andleadership/guide-modules.

In the morning, we awoke to sunlight streaming through the trees and saw a pair of roe deer moving through the vegetation along the nearby railway line. Robin pointed out the absence of stinging nettles, indicating the lack of extraneous nutrient levels in the soil. We continued on our journey, seeing herons, dippers and a flock of fieldfares making their characteristic calls. It was a windier day, but as the river flows north-east, the south-westerly winds blew us along. We were treated to a surreal experience of paddling through a snowstorm of thistledown. Small globes being bowled along the water surface by the wind, without being swamped, like tumbleweed. We stopped for lunch in a field full of the violet-blue flower-heads of devils-bit scabious, a plant rarely seen in such profusion in southern Britain. We went aground quite a bit in this section, but eventually reached the beautiful 15-span timber Broomhill Bridge, which was built in 1894. Two miles further on, we reached the commercial but basic campsite at Boat of Balliefurth, run by Ronnie and Adelaide Macpherson. We had booked in advance, and Adelaide met us and showed us around.

There were a tap and a loo and piles of brushwood that Trevor used to build us a lovely campfire. A group of canoeists soon joined us on a guided trip with Wilderness Scotland. The next morning we awoke to a different sort of day – cloudy and drizzly. We established that on balance, we were going slightly faster than the Wilderness Scotland group, so we overtook them, although we were to see them several more times during the trip as both groups stopped for breaks. They warned us, however, that there was a Covid cluster in Grantown-on- Spey, so we paddled on to Cromdale Church seeing red-kites and oystercatcher and a lot of salmon leaping close in front of us.

At this point, the river is starting to pick up the pace, and we donned our helmets; unlike many other rivers, the Spey gets faster as it is joined by tributaries that drain the surrounding hills, while it keeps to a relatively narrow channel. On this day we somehow managed to break two paddles (one canoe and one kayak paddle) –a salutary reminder of the need to take spare paddles! The next feature which the guides warn about was Advie Bridge. Here, at low water levels, the main flow is to the left of the island immediately before the bridge, yet the left-hand gap is to be avoided, as there are submerged bridge pillars from an earlier bridge. It was helpful to be forewarned about this, and we successfully steered to the right. We then arrived at the 'Washing machine', a big, bouncy wavetrain, which Jamie and Alana inspected before leading us all safely down it. Immediately afterwards, we arrived at Blacksboat Bridge and started looking for a campsite. We phoned the estate before leaving our boats under the bridge and found sufficient flattened grass to pitch our tents among some recently planted saplings. At this point, it was getting distinctly windy, although we were treated to a beautiful evening sky. We were now in the prime fishing beats of the river. The Spey is a premier salmon fishing river, and anglers spend considerable sums of money to be able to fish a given

We woke up to sunshine streaming through the trees. By Sarah Webster

stretch of river for a day. While there is a right of navigation through the water, it is perhaps inevitable that tensions arise. A tremendous amount of work is being done to build good relationships between the paddling and the angling communities. These depend on mutual respect, and paddlers are advised to alert anglers to their presence using a whistle (although we found a 'whoop, whoop' with the human voice worked better), and then pass on the side that the angler indicates. We found the great majority of the anglers to be friendly and cordial, although on occasion we had a distinct impression that we were being filmed or photographed.

We left Blacksboat in glorious sunshine and soon reached the Knockando Rapids. This was to be our longest day’s paddling (30km), but also our fastest. One of our tandem canoes was tripped up by a rock in a shallow rapid and capsized, but was quickly rescued, and only a water bottle was lost overboard. We saw lots of grey wagtail, heron, and mergansers, but we were also starting to see the invasive plants Japanese Knotweed and Himalayan Balsam. When we stopped at a beach for lunch, we saw both lupins – a naturalised garden escape – and the shells of the Freshwater Pearl Mussel, a threatened species for which Scotland is a stronghold. We paddled on, eventually reaching the beautiful Victoria Bridge (also known as the ‘penny’ bridge, referring to the toll that used to be charged) at Aberlour. We stopped here to visit the renowned deli, the Spey Larder http://speylarder.com and bought all manner of provisions for a feast at the end of our trip. Astonishingly, some fellow canoeists had retrieved the lost water bottle from the river after an angler spotted it, and returned it to us! We were all a little exhausted when we arrived at the campsite just above Boat O’Brig and were easily lulled to sleep by the sound of the river lapping the stones on the shore.

On our final day, we set off especially early, unsure whether we could cover the remaining 20km in a morning’s paddling. We need not have worried; the river sped along, past sandy cliffs with sand martin holes, and the lovely red earth pillars, known as the 'Seven Pillars of Hercules' taking several tight turns that required active paddling to avoid going into trees. Finally, we reached the old railway bridge at Garmouth and knew that we were soon to reach the sea. We arrived at lunchtime, just as a spring high tide was pouring into Spey Bay. Suddenly, the wind was in our face, whipping up waves, as if to rebuke us for our pride. The storm soon passed, however, and we hugged each other in our 'clans' and went to skim pebbles into the Moray Firth.

1. Research the trip before you go – read Nancy Chambers’ excellent River Spey Canoe Guide and David Craig’s River Spey guide which is available online: www.speydescent.com/speyguide.htm 2. Nine people in seven craft/tents represent a maximum reasonable number for a group, as both camping spots and eddies are limited; 3. With no portages, and camping spots in easy reach of the bank, this makes a good trip for paddlers with restricted mobility; although we took Robin’s wheelchair in a canoe, we did not need to use it; 4. You need one or two experienced river leaders and rescuers, as it is not always clear which is the main channel, and the presence of anglers and rocks complicates decisions; 5. There is undoubtedly a trade-off between the longer days and warmer conditions of summer on the one hand, and low water levels and clash with the salmon fishing season on the other; 6. Practise paddling the necessary distances, as well as on moving water, before you go – one of the paddles was 30km (18 miles); 7. Practise packing your boat, especially if you are in a touring kayak. Packing kit in multiple small dry-bags gives you much more flexibility than one or two large ones; 8. A mixture of canoes and kayaks works well, as the canoes offer greater capacity for transporting some of the communal items; 9. Have some back-up camping sites in case the ones you aim for are taken; 10. Take spare paddles!

Carron Bridge by Sarah Webster

Jamie: we have arrived! By Alana Pain We eventually reached the beautiful Broomhill Bridge by Sarah Webster

Resourcing and inspiring, inclusive adventure and active lifestyles since 1995

Equal Adventure designs, manufactures and sells training and equipment to enable inclusive outdoor adventure and active lifestyles with disabled people. It works with disabled people and their families in outdoor adventure and expeditions. With over 500 items of equipment from postural supports and assistive paddling devices to all-terrain wheelchairs, and all the support to facilitate successful experiences, get in touch to discuss your bespoke or off-the-shelf requirements. www.equaladventure.org