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On day eight, my dome tent finally collapses, beaten by those
relentless northwesterly winds. Rocks hold down my flattened tent,
preventing it from becoming a kite. It’s here where I have visions of
Buster Hyder ranching on the island in 1915. He kept chickens on
the island, but several were blown into the Pacific.
I gather my gear and momentarily take cover by the vacant
ranger’s quarters before settling down below on the landing dock,
where I discover two California brown pelicans with the same strategy
as I, only I’m not as successful at sticking my head in my armpit as
they are tucking their heads and beaks beneath their wings.
That night on the landing dock is a cold one, as I burrow to
the darkest depths of my down sleeping bag. I’m not alone though;
several raucous sea lions haul out on the lower level of the dock,
their bellows resonating up through damp rafters to my landing
dock suite.
Early the next morning, I reluctantly gnaw on an energy bar and
gulp down a couple handfuls of trail mix before paddling my kayak
north to Arch Point. It’s calm beneath the wave-battered cliffs, but I’m
leery before peeking around the natural archway where it’s exposed
to the northwest. Once there, I can see a dark wind line looming on
the horizon. It’s going to blow again, but I have nothing but time to
kill, so I paddle quickly between Shag Rock and the ragged northwest
side of the island.
90
winter
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spr ing
FAR
FLUNG
TRAVEL