It’s easy enough to see why writers constantly seem to describe their entry into the great mountain halls of the world as “entering nature’s cathedral.” Certainly, motoring placidly across the cool green waters of Jervis Inlet as they mirror the great grey and green walls rising vertically into the heavens on either sides reflects the heavenly revery of walking into one the great stone churches of Europe. The wonder and variety of His untrammeled works brings delight and awe at every view (that is, once you get past the desecration of mangy clearcuts at various points along the way).
It’s so natural to make this comparison that I find myself thinking it repeatedly even as I curse myself for falling into cliche during the many hours of motoring up to Princess Louisa Inlet near the head of Jervis.
Princess Louisa is more or less constantly described in terms of its cathedralness: it’s “cathedral-like”(PDF) for Jennifer Hamilton and for scores of other visiting writers; the Douglass’ describe it as “a magnificent granite-walled gorge,” an “azure-blue jewel” decorated with green and gold and copper that together “form a masterpiece of nature.” For Waggoner’s, it’s the “holy grail” for cruisers from around the world. Both texts quote Erle Stanley Gardner’s “Log of a Landlubber” in which he asserts his doubt that any visitor there could possibly remain an athiest… surely, a conversion rate that any of the great European cathedrals would envy.
Despite these superlative recommendations, we had never yet managed to make a visit to that hallowed ground. In terms of northing, Princess Louisa is still relatively close to Seattle. In every other respect, it’s absolutely nowhere near anywhere else you’d probably want to go… the stretch up Jervis Inlet to the entrance is forty miles, miles that you are almost certain to have to motor, miles that you are going to have to cover again on the way out, miles that will not have served to get you one jot closer to any of the other interesting destinations of the Pacific Northwest coast.
On every other trip, we’ve told ourselves that since it was so close to Seattle, and we only had so much time, we’d take a pass in favor of getting further north, and visit it expressly when we had less time at some point in the future.
Only we never did.
This time, we were determined to make the time for it, and everything aligned toward that outcome. The miserable days of rain hunkered down in False Creek only served to charge the falls here, which otherwise begin to diminish in mid-June, with extra volumes of water. The same storms that brought the rain brought constant southeasterlies, which drove us fast and true and without resort to engine all the way from Seattle. And just as we approached Jervis Inlet, the forecast strayed from the unceasing greys of a stalled low and over into several days of high temperatures, light winds, and blue skies under which to spend our visit.
We made up for all that excellent sailing and more during ten long hours motoring up the Inlet, basking in bright, hot sunshine. The dull thrum of the engine crowded out other sensations slowly until it faded into a heartbeat, hours on end.
Finally, we cleared a final point. Ahead, barely visible in the towering walls, a tiny notch: Malibu Rapids. Our calculations for time and distance and current had been exactly correct… we arrived at the mouth of the rapids just as they hit slack, and slithered through the narrow channel without veering in the shifty currents. To port, the summer camp pool, situated on a bold outcropping jutting into the channel, churned with excited campers making the most of the sunny day. Ahead of us, the narrow, green and gray and lacy white finery of Princess Louisa lead inevitably on to the final destination: Chatterbox Falls.
The Falls are impressive but they are no more impressive than many other waterfalls in the region. It’s the setting that makes them special; on every side, finer, wispier falls grace the towering granite cliffs, playing hide and seek behind massive buttresses and the occasional outcropping of evergreens. Take away the waters of the bay, and you would have something very like the Olympic National Park’s Enchanted Valley.
But you wouldn’t want to take away the waters of the bay, deep and cold though they are. This is a place made for sailors. Already nosed into the fan of mud directly beneath the falls were several powerboats, taking advantage of one of the neatest tricks of Princess Louisa anchoring: using the constant outflow as a sort of reverse stern-tie, keeping the bow into the current and the rode firmly stretched.
There were fewer boats than we had imagined there would be and we took a nice, secluded spot with a stern tie near our own, private sub-waterfall. The chattering fall drowned out the usual boat noises and whatever other noises there might have been from the others in the anchorage… generators may have run all night long, wind turbines could have spun up a frenzy, but we were utterly oblivious.
We explored ashore the next morning, which doesn’t take too much time… the accessible part of the park is small and trails are few. A longer, more difficult path to a cabin higher on the slopes was muddy and slick and plastered with dire warning signs, and we weren’t equipped for anything quite so interesting. More rewarding was simply paddling around the inlet. It seemed wrong to use the outboard in that place, and so we rowed back and forth, out in the center, up close to the falls, tight in around the periphery, peering into the cold depths and up the jumbled slopes.
We lit briefly near our “private” waterfall and attempted to ascend along it, back to where a small pool is rumored to live, but it was like moving through a jungle, and we saw no sign of any pool, just more hillside.
Mid-afternoon, two familiar silhouettes rounded into view down the inlet: Pacific Grace and Pacific Swift, the training ships of Victoria’s SALTS program. Several years ago, we’d crossed paths with them one morning off Ucluelet in fog, and were transported back to an earlier time on that coast, where instead of schoolchildren they might have been crowded with hardy fur traders halfway around the world from home, looking for natives to help make their fortunes in that misty bay.
Here, they looked out of scale against the grandeur of the surrounding peaks… more toys then tall ships. They rafted with a shore-tie a hundred meters north of us, quivering with youthful activity and laughter… and shortly, splashes as the more adventurous of the students took the plunge, or were plunged by their compatriots.
It was July 1st, Canada Day, but there were no fireworks, and what celebrations might have happened were dulled by the roar of the waters. The park dock and the anchorage gradually filled up, more cruisers taking advantage of their long weekend and making the trek up into the back-country. A float plane appeared with a party up for the day; it’s a long way to come for a picnic, but there may be no finer place to feast than one of the park tables near the base of the falls. Look up, and tons of water appear to be cascading directly down onto you, crashing into boulders and debris and fanning out into a light mist that makes the forest glisten. Look right, and your companions appear to be the towering evergreens that guard the falls to both sides. Look left, and the still waters of the inlet reflect the granite faces and glittering white traces all back along the valley.
We stayed only two days but it felt like a week.
I don’t know if that qualifies as a religious experience, but it is certainly a brush with the sublime.