So much about kayaking is timing – and I could write several posts about that topic alone. You time the tides, the currents, the traffic, the weather, the time of day, the day of the week, where you go and when – but the two big ones are weather and tides. Getting those right can make a huge difference in your experience.
And so – when we got an absolutely gorgeous day on a Saturday with a predicted fall in the barometer for Sunday – and we’re about mid-way through the lunar cycle – nothing too extreme – we wanted to try a paddle somewhere where we hadn’t been in awhile and decided on the Shine Tidelands by the Hood Canal Bridge.
It can get choppy around the bridge, depending on what the tide is doing. We timed it at the end of the ebb. We were coming from the west side. There are launch sites on both the north and south ends, but on the southwest side (toward Shine) is a small launch site and parking lot that is the least used.
The water here is very shallow, and although not a minus tide, the gulls, herons, sanderlings, and an assortment of ducks – merganzers, scoters, cormorants, and others – are obviously enjoying the sunshine and easy pickings on the beach. The mountains are out: we can see a string of the Olympics and try to identify some of the peaks.
As an aside, I am in the middle of reading “One Square Inch of Silence: One Man’s Search for Natural Silence in a Noisy World” by Gordon Hempton and John Grossmann, and it has made me more keenly aware of the intrusion of man-made noise wherever you go. This is no more blatantly in-your-face as paddling beneath the Hood Canal Bridge. I have no idea what the decibles are, but it is a roar of clanking, clattering, and traffic thunder.
The new bridge is an amazing structure, built to change height with the changing tide. It is the longest bridge across saltwater; some 20,000 vehicles cross it every day. Environmental studies were conducted to ensure eelgrass and salmonids would not be deleteriously affected by its construction. It is state-of-the-art: lightweight but strong; it allows light to filter through its grates to minimize impacts. Ironically, extensive studies were also conducted to make sure the sound of driving pilings during construction would not impact the environment. They were considered minimal and temporary. True enough. But sit in a boat beneath the bridge on an average post-construction day: the sound is deafening, literally.
We do not linger under the bridge. There is much to see. On the northern side, people are competing with seagulls for littleneck and butter clams and oysters; dogs race along the beach; scoters chatter loudly while scooting across the water, madly thumping their wings to try to get the momentum to lift off. There is a small piece of land that would be an island if not for a thin strip that connects it to the mainland. The eastern side is rocky; I see several starfish in the water. Particularly striking are the sunflower stars, aka Pycnopodia helianthoides, which, contrary to their benign beauty, are voracious predators.
We find a quiet sunny spot on the opposite side and have a picnic lunch while watching the bridge open for a passing sailboat. There is not much of a breeze, and the boat takes a long time. Traffic is backing up undoubtedly for miles, people are probably getting out of their cars to see what the hold up is, others are likely to be fuming and missing their ferry schedules. There is a noticeable lull in the traffic noise.
We are unphased by the stress overhead, but it is afternoon and time to head back. The tide is changing and is calm on both sides of the bridge. A skittish heron doesn’t take chances when we approach; a cormorant stands on a rock and airs out his wings; a large community of sanderlings peck away together at the soft shore sand; a curious seal follows us home.
My paddling partner does a couple of kayak rolls, just for practice. We take a moment to watch the sparkles on the water and just feel the warmth of the sun on our faces. It is a perfect day. Perfect timing.