Jackson Narrows to Khutze Inlet

Today's run was a straightforward transit north to one of our favorite anchorages on the British Columbia coast—Khutze Inlet.

Traffic continues to be remarkably light. During the entire trip we encountered only two southbound ocean tugs, each pushing impressive barges. One carried a mixed assortment of cargo containers, vehicles, and a couple of boats. The other appeared to be loaded entirely with refuse making its way south for processing.

As we approached Khutze, we kept an eye on MarineTraffic, curious whether anyone had beaten us to the anchorage. Khutze has become a popular stop in recent years, and our preferred spot near the waterfall is prized. Luck was on our side. The inlet was completely empty when we arrived, save for a sow grizzly and two energetic cubs engaged in what could only be described as an afternoon wrestling match along the shoreline.

With the anchorage all to ourselves, we made directly for our favorite position in front of the falls. The anchor was set in 100 feet of water, and we paid out 375 feet of rode before settling comfortably in approximately 150 feet. Despite the depth, the combination of enough chain and the steady outflow from the waterfall keeps OceanFlyer remarkably stationary. We may rotate with shifts in the breeze, but our position over the ground changes very little.

oceanflyer sits beneath the signature falls of khutze inlet

One of the highlights of any stay in Khutze is exploring the tidal rivers that feed the inlet. Timing is everything. High water here occurs roughly thirty minutes before published high tide at Butedale, and we launched the dinghy about an hour beforehand to ride the last of the flood.

low water scouting flight shows the entrances to the rivers

We began with the northwest river. Having recorded waypoints from previous visits, navigation was straightforward. At a 15-foot tide we never saw less than four feet of water and were able to travel well upstream into the lush estuary.

the shallow rapids ends out jouirney up the northest river

stopping to pose for the camera at the end of the northeast river

looking back down the river from the rocky narrows

khutze inlet from the head of the northeast river

From there we retraced out steps and crossed to the southeast river. While shorter, it is arguably the more scenic of the two. The channel feels more intimate, winding through overhanging vegetation and prime bear habitat. We never found less than five feet of water before natural debris and vegetation eventually brought our exploration to an end.

the southeast river has a very different feel. you can see the bear tracks in the tall grass.

Following our river excursion, we stopped to visit a vessel that immediately caught our attention. Tucked into a small cove about three-tenths of a mile farther up the inlet was a boat unlike any we had previously encountered in the wild. She was a Greenline hybrid cruiser, powered by either twin Volvo diesel engines or twin electric motors, captains choice.

The vessel, appropriately named Pull Chocks—a nod to the captain's airline career—had stern-tied in a cozy spot along the western shore. We spent some time exchanging cruising stories and route ideas. Their plans included continuing north in order to make a Glacier Bay reservation in early July.

After an unusually breezy afternoon, conditions settled as evening approached. The winds faded, the inlet grew calm, and once again the waterfall became the dominant sound in the anchorage. It is a familiar soundtrack for us in Khutze and one of the reasons we continue to return. As darkness settled over the inlet, OceanFlyer rested quietly beneath the granite walls while the falls continued their endless plunge into the sea.

khutze inlet is nothing less than spectacular

Roscoe Inlet to Jackson Narrows

Today was one of those days when the destination mattered less than simply making miles north.

We slipped the anchor early and enjoyed one final run down Roscoe Inlet beneath brilliant blue skies. It was hard to leave. Around every bend, another wall of granite rose from the water, another waterfall spilled from the mountains above, and another reminder appeared of why British Columbia remains one of our favorite cruising grounds.

Some places deserve to be savored rather than hurried through.

The sunshine, however, came with a tradeoff.

A strong offshore high-pressure system had settled over the coast, bringing beautiful weather—and the brisk northwest winds that so often accompany it. The forecast, along with the latest observations from Ivory Island Lighthouse, suggested there was little to gain by taking the outside route around Ivory Island.

Sometimes the best navigation decision is the one that avoids proving a point.

Instead, we chose the protected inside route through Reid Passage.

As we approached the entrance, the conditions confirmed the wisdom of that decision. Three- to four-foot seas met us squarely on the bow. Nothing OceanFlyer couldn't comfortably handle, but enough to remind us that there was no prize for unnecessary pounding.

Within minutes of entering Reid Passage, the transformation was complete.

The seas settled, the mountains closed in once again, and the scenery reclaimed our attention. Reid Passage is one of those stretches of water that quietly rewards anyone willing to slow down and look around.

Our course eventually brought us to Perceval Narrows, another reminder that successful cruising in British Columbia is often less about distance than timing. Properly planned, the narrows are wide, straightforward, and uneventful. Arrive at the wrong time with opposing currents, and the experience can be considerably different.

A little planning goes a long way.

After transiting Perceval Narrows, we continued past Rescue Bay, a longtime favorite among cruisers, before making our way through Johnston Narrows.

Rather than continue farther, we tucked into the first small bay on the north shore, an anchorage many cruisers affectionately refer to as "Jackson Hole."

“Jackson Hole” looking west down Meyers Passage

It's not a destination in the traditional sense.

Plenty of room in “Jackson Hole” for our overnight stay

It's a staging area—a comfortable place to spend the night while positioning yourself for tomorrow's tides and currents. By making it through Johnston Narrows today, tomorrow's departure becomes our decision instead of the current's.

Cruising has a way of rewarding those who think one day ahead.

Sometimes the most satisfying miles are the ones that quietly set you up for an even better tomorrow.

Boukind Bay to the Head of Roscoe Inlet

One of the greatest joys of cruising the Pacific Northwest is discovering that there is always somewhere new to explore.

After decades of boating these waters, we sometimes catch ourselves saying, "We've been just about everywhere."

Then a place like Roscoe Inlet reminds us how wonderfully wrong we are.

Reaching the head of the inlet is anything but a straight run. Roscoe twists and turns through a maze of towering granite mountains, many rising almost vertically from the water. Around every bend another breathtaking vista comes into view, each one seeming more dramatic than the last. It's the kind of scenery that fills camera memory cards while somehow refusing to be captured by a photograph.

Some places are simply too big for a lens.

The journey reminded us of several of our favorite destinations—Gardner Canal, Alaska's Ford's Terror, and even the magnificent granite walls of Misty Fjords. Waterfalls spilled from hanging valleys, sheer cliffs disappeared into the sky, and despite being only a day's run from civilization, the landscape felt wonderfully untouched.

Curiosity led us on a short detour into Quartcha Bay.

dramatic quartcha Bay

It quickly became apparent that finding a comfortable anchorage there would require more determination than we were prepared to invest, but the scenery alone made the side trip worthwhile. We shut down the engines, drifted in silence for a while, and simply admired the rugged beauty before continuing toward our destination.

The head of Roscoe Inlet proved every bit as rewarding.

Like many fjord anchorages, the water deepens rapidly away from shore, leaving only a narrow shelf suitable for anchoring. We settled OceanFlyer into 80 feet of water near the two creeks entering from the northeast shore, where the anchor dug in securely and the surrounding mountains wrapped around us like a natural amphitheater.

the head of roscoe inlet

As evening settled in, the sound of rushing water replaced the quiet hum of the engines.

Both creeks tumbled from hidden mountain valleys, their voices echoing across the anchorage long before the streams themselves came into view. It was one of those places where silence isn't measured by the absence of sound, but by the absence of people.

roscoe inlet solitude

The following day's 14-foot tide presented an opportunity too good to pass up.

By dinghy, we first explored Roscoe Creek on the north shore, about a mile and a half from the head of the inlet. The high water carried us across an extensive tidal flat that would normally be left high and dry. We eventually reached the mouth of the creek, where a large tangle of driftwood and fallen trees brought our exploration to an end. A kayak might have slipped a little farther upstream, but for us it marked a perfect turnaround point.

On the way back, we explored the smaller creek delta on the south shore, just a short distance from our anchorage. Here, depths ranged from three to nine feet beneath the dinghy, making for an easy and enjoyable excursion before another collection of boulders, logs, and driftwood reminded us who ultimately shapes these landscapes.

Neither side trip covered much distance.

Yet both offered a close-up view of the relentless forces that have been carving these fjords for thousands of years—and continue to do so today.

For a destination that had somehow escaped our cruising log for all these years, Roscoe Inlet left quite an impression.

Sometimes the best discoveries aren't famous anchorages or destinations with a long list of attractions. Sometimes they're simply places that make you slow down, look around, and quietly wonder how you managed to overlook them for so long.

Roscoe Inlet is one of those places.

Beaumont Island Cove to Boukind Bay

The weather finally changed.

Since leaving Bellingham, we'd been enjoying an almost unbelievable stretch of sunshine. For several days my GPS weather model had been predicting that the pattern was about to break, and right on cue, a light rain began around 5:00 p.m. yesterday and continued through the night. It was the first meaningful rainfall of the cruise—a remarkable run of dry weather for the Pacific Northwest.

Morning brought another first.

Fog.

While there's no denying that fog lends a certain mystery to the coast, Roscoe Channel is a place best appreciated under blue skies, where every bend reveals another towering granite wall and another breathtaking vista. Rather than hurry through one of our favorite stretches of coastline, we decided to make only a short hop to Boukind Bay and wait for tomorrow's forecast of clear skies before continuing on.

Sometimes the best cruising decision is simply knowing when not to rush.

Traffic remained surprisingly light. Aside from a couple of small tour boats making their way through the channel, we once again had the coast largely to ourselves. It never ceases to amaze us how quickly the crowds disappear once you venture beyond the more popular cruising destinations.

Boukind Bay is one of those anchorages that quietly earns a place on your list of reliable overnight stops. It offers good protection from nearly every direction, although a strong northerly would certainly make its presence known.

boukind bay safe harbour

The real personality of the bay comes from the currents.

With several channels converging nearby, the current often has more influence than the wind. During our stay, OceanFlyer spent the entire night lying nearly ninety degrees to the anchor rode, held there by the flow of water rather than the breeze. Fortunately, the conditions remained calm, and the only reminder was the gentle slap of small wavelets against the hull.

Anchoring here is refreshingly uncomplicated. The bay gradually shoals toward its head, where a broad shelf of about twenty feet provides excellent holding and plenty of swinging room—a welcome change from the steep-sided anchorages that characterize so much of the British Columbia coast.

mist fills te air in boukind bay

 Tomorrow's low tide should expose long stretches of shoreline, and with them comes the possibility of wildlife. We'll be keeping a watchful eye for bears, although experience has taught us never to expect them.

oceanflyer on alert in hopes of spoting another bear

That's part of what keeps this coast so special.

Around the next bend—or perhaps around the next low tide—there's always the possibility that nature will decide to put on a show.

Shearwater to Beaumont Island Cove

With Karen safely back aboard OceanFlyer after her week in Bellingham for dental treatment, it finally felt as though our cruise had resumed.

While the unexpected interruption had worked out better than we could have hoped, there is something about slipping the lines together that simply feels right. OceanFlyer was once again heading north with her full crew aboard.

Our destination was Beaumont Island Cove, a small indentation in the shoreline where Johnson Channel, Return Channel, and Roscoe Inlet come together. It's not a place that attracts much attention in the cruising guides, but that's part of its appeal.

Nestled between Cunningham Island and Beaumont Island, the cove provides excellent protection from all but northerly winds. More importantly, it offers a front-row seat to the spectacular mountain scenery that defines this stretch of British Columbia's central coast. Wherever you look, granite peaks rise from the sea, their snow-covered summits disappearing into the clouds—or, on a day like today, into an endless blue sky.

Getting there is half the fun.

Our route carried us through Troup Passage and Troup Narrows, one of the most scenic passages along this part of the coast. Despite its name, Troup Narrows presents little challenge. Maximum currents are only about two knots, and with excellent charting throughout, it can be transited comfortably at virtually any stage of the tide. We happened to arrive near low water, which made it easy to identify the various rocks and reefs that define the channel while appreciating just how forgiving the route really is.

As we rounded the final bend toward Beaumont Island Cove, nature reminded us once again why schedules are merely suggestions along the Inside Passage.

A single blow caught my eye.

Moments later, three whales surfaced together.

One was clearly a calf, staying close to its mother as the adults demonstrated bubble-net feeding along the shoreline. It's a behavior we're always thrilled to witness and one that seems especially common in these quiet, protected coves, where calmer water provides an ideal classroom for the next generation.

It was a fitting way to end the day.

After a week apart, OceanFlyer was whole again, our journey had resumed, and we had been welcomed back by one of the coast's most remarkable reminders that these waters are, above all else, a place where life continues exactly as it has for generations.

its easy to see why you can get lost in this landscape, beaumont island cove looking south into johnson channel.