Grizzlies, Gales and Giant Salmon. Pat Ardley

jackets on which might provide a bit of extra protection, and if we could reach the boat we could grab the paddles. We were almost there when the cougar burst out of the bushes and dove down toward us. We leaped at the boat, pushing it back into the water as we jumped aboard. With my back to the cougar I felt my heart pounding in my chest. As soon as the boat was free of the sand, it started drifting away and down the river. We both seized paddles and paddled as fast as we could away from the beach. When I looked back, the cougar was turning away toward the bushes with a great chunk of fish in its mouth. There is a tiny possibility that the cougar hadn’t even noticed us on the beach—it was so set on steelhead for dinner!

      We finished the end-of-season cleanup at the lodge and let John now that we would be working elsewhere for the summer season. We had both applied for and gotten jobs looking after the sport-fish float for the federal Department of Fisheries for the summer. We would both be issuing permits in an area at the head of Rivers Inlet called the “permit area.” The permit area had a boundary line that kept fishermen from fishing too close to the mouth of the Wannock River, where the trophy chinook were heading to spawn. Fishermen were required to bring their chinook catch back to the float, where we would weigh the fish, take scale samples and record the information under each permit. We made a quick trip to Vancouver to pick up food and supplies since we would be on our own but living in the Fisheries cabin at the head of the inlet from early July until September.

      We stayed with George’s mom and dad at Lake Cowichan and while we were there, I happened to pass the animal shelter. There was a sweet little dog that seemed to be a cross between a border collie and an Australian shepherd. After much wheedling and cajoling, I was finally able to convince George that it would be a good thing for me to have company during the endless hours that I was alone. We brought little Tuki, named after my Icelandic mom’s term of endearment, home to Sunshine Bay with us in our next boat, which George found through the Vancouver Island Buy and Sell newspaper.

      The boat was old, eighteen feet long and had a hardtop over the front seats, a 110-horsepower engine on the back and a flat bottom. It moved over calm water very fast but, because of the flat bottom and George’s propensity for speed, it was the most uncomfortable boat I had ever been in when travelling over choppy water. I felt every wave jangle up my spine and crack and crunch the vertebrae in my neck. Where, oh where was that skyhook when I needed it? We drove the boat up the coast from Nanaimo to Port Hardy, tied up to the government dock and stayed overnight at the Seagate Hotel. We planned to get a super-early start the next morning. I was dreading crossing Queen Charlotte Sound again, but since we had spent just about every dime we had on the boat, if I was going back to the inlet, I was going in a boat.

      We headed out at first light with the boat loaded with supplies, the dog and me. George wanted to get away before the afternoon westerly started to blow. It was now the middle of June and the weather was clear and sunny. I jacked up my deep-breathing, sang songs in my head and held onto Tuki. There was not much swell as we turned out of Goletas Channel and onto the open water, and there was almost no wind. The crossing was quick because George didn’t have to slow down very often, and we were safely back in our cabin in Sunshine Bay in time for a late breakfast. I had survived another crossing of Queen Charlotte Sound.

      We visited Ed and Dottie Searer at the head of the inlet again. Most of the fishing guests that they had with them in the summer were from the Deep South and loved the way Dottie cooked. She fried everything in hot fat and served just about everything with delicious baked beans. Everything she made was delicious. She told us that she packed a lunch for her fishing guests with the leftovers from the previous night’s dinner. If there were baked beans left over … they got baked-bean sandwiches. One guest was moved to tears to be given a wrapped baked-bean sandwich just like his grandmother gave him when he was young.

      The Searers’ cat had several wild kittens, and we were hoping to catch one. Dottie went out behind their cabin and threw a box over the head of a tiny grey one. Then she quickly taped the top of the box closed with air holes in the side so the cat could breathe on the way back to our place. When we got home, I opened the box inside the cabin. The kitten was wild all right. It ran along the perimeter of the wall looking like a rat, ran out the door and hid under the cabin for the next two days. I knelt down near the steps with a dish of milk and called, “Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty.” The name stuck. I don’t think Tuki liked having a kitten around. I happened to look out the window and saw her walking gingerly across the stiff leg to shore, carrying the kitten in her mouth. I think she wanted to get rid of it. We had to go to shore and poke around under logs and roots to find the kitten before the mink, marten, otters, eagles, cougars or grizzlies found her. Kitty was staying very quiet just like her new mom would want her to, but we finally found her stashed in a little hole in the moss at the bottom of a huge cedar.

      I was looking forward to starting work for Fisheries in a few weeks. The sport-fish floats would be tied up at the head of the inlet in the permit area. I knew that I would have more time to explore the area with George since the permit office had hours posted and we would work in shifts. We loved living in the inlet and so in the meantime, we made plans to earn enough money to pay our expenses so we could continue to live in the wilderness.

      There were not many jobs available in the area. George had done his share of logging during his university days and was not about to go back to it, and I would never make a good commercial fisherman given my fear of the open sea. That left the sport-fishing industry, which we had experience with—and working for ourselves made sense to us. Why work sixteen-hour days for someone else when we could work eighteen-hour days for ourselves? We would start our own fishing resort.

      Lady Pamela

      The first thing I heard was “Lady Pamela!” in a loud, anxious British accent. It yanked me out of a deep sleep, and then I heard it again, more strident this time. I had to find out what was going on. It was my turn to sleep in but this could be fun. I leaned over and pulled the curtain back just enough to be able to see to the front of the float where the permit office was. There were several people milling about, including our friend Warren Nygaard, who worked as a fishing guide for the Good Hope Cannery Lodge.

      The fellow calling for Lady Pamela was dressed in a very spiffy sporting outfit—with a vest full of pockets with spots for hooking fishing gear to—as well as an ascot and lovely shiny shoes. Very dashing sort, but possibly a little too dramatic. We were on a floating raft about forty by one hundred feet with two small buildings on it. Lady Pamela could not be too far away, and was even less likely to be lost. Indeed, Lady Pamela had walked to one side of the float and was mesmerized by the towering cedar trees that were draped in Spanish moss. She didn’t answer because she didn’t feel like answering. She didn’t feel like answering because she was Lady Pamela.

      As I headed out the door of the cabin, I could hear the British fellow sweetly asking Her Ladyship if she would please sign the permit. Warren started to explain that she required the permit in order to fish in the area. Lady Pamela turned away from him mid-sentence as if he wasn’t speaking. Apparently she didn’t think she required a special permit. I thought, now I understand the British class system. When one is part of the upper class, one would no more talk to a working-class person than talk to a cow. This was a new concept to me in reality—it was funny in movies, but not so funny in person. George was quite delighted though, and was able to explain with quite sincere remorse that unfortunately, Lady Pamela would not be able to fish for our monster chinook salmon without signing for a permit.

      One of the lodges nearby often sent out several boats carrying guests to fish at the mouth of the inlet. Each boat also had a “guide.” One day, one of the guests hooked into a huge halibut. There is no easy way to pull such a big fish into the boat, and it’s not a good idea to do so anyway. The fish is one huge muscle and can break the seats out of the boat—and possibly fishermen’s legs—if it starts flopping around. We had learned to use a long-handled harpoon to kill the fish, then disconnect the wooden handle from the harpoon head, which is attached to a long rope attached to the boat. This rig works well and you don’t have to try to lift the big fish into the boat; you can tow it home. The commercial fishermen usually shoot the larger fish as it is pulled close to the side of the fishboat. On this day, the guide in the guests’ boat hauled the huge halibut into the little metal skiff, and while the guests