Arriving at Hesquiat harbour in early April 1915, the Princess Maquinna provided essential supplies to the remote communities of Vancouver Island's west coast. As passengers embarked on this voyage, they were treated to a breathtaking display of nature's beauty along one of Canada's most untamed coastlines.
As the ship's engines ceased their clatter, an eerie tranquility settled over the decks. On the shores of the bay, towering Pacific rainforest trees enclosed the scene, their reflection stretching across the emerald waters. Beyond them, mountains emerged from the midst of swirling clouds, leaving spectators in awe of their majestic presence. A woman, leaning on the rail, couldn't help but sigh at this natural grandeur, while a man wearing a fedora declared it as a testament to the power of mother nature.
Then something unusual happened. A canoe was lowered over the side of the steamer. Crew men loaded it with trunks and sacks. With some difficulty, a trussed cow was winched down and lashed between the gunwales of the canoe, upside down. Finally a young couple with three small children climbed in, and paddled steadily across the bay to the impenetrable shore while the upside-down cow flapped its legs, as if waving to the bemused passengers.
The small, stout woman in the bow of the canoe was to become one of Vancouver Island’s most remarkable pioneers. Almost 70 years later, she would still be living in this remote place, then in her nineties. She would bear eight children here, and carve a magnificent garden out of the wilderness. Known as Cougar Annie, she was famed for having shot dozens of the big cats and, quite possibly, a couple of her more troublesome husbands.
They should build a monument to Cougar Annie. They should put her on postage stamps and name settlements after her. They should erect statues.
With a magnetism that spans the continent, Vancouver Island attracts dreamers, romantics, misfits, odd-balls, draft dodgers, loners, contrarians, free spirits, the wayward and the wandering. Here on the West Coast, these escapists finally find a place big enough, strange enough, and far enough away, to call home.
In Canada, wilderness is always close. Turn up a back road or hike over the next hill and you may find yourself on the shores of a lake that has never heard a motor or in trackless woods where there have been few human footprints since native tribes ghosted through these trees on moccassined soles. On Vancouver Island – almost a quarter the size of England – wilderness is the central fact, the great, dark, wonderful heart of the place.
At the southern tip of the island, in the genteel streets of Victoria, you could be forgiven for thinking you were in Cheltenham. But things get rugged remarkably quickly. An hour’s drive from town and you are in virgin forests riddled with rivers and waterfalls. Three hours’ drive up the coast and you have reached the end of the road in little Tofino. Beyond, for hundreds of miles, there are no roads at all, and people come and go by boat or float plane.
The single route that reaches Tofino is the unofficial last leg of the Trans-Canada Highway. A West Coast community of half a dozen streets with an unlikely mix of fishermen and surfers, First Nations people and retired hippies, this is a place so laidback its inhabitants would make Australians seem stressed. The tsunami warning on Main Street could be the town motto: ‘Grab a beer,’ it says, ‘and run like hell.’
In the early morning down on Chesterman beach, a handful of wet-suited surfers were careering among the breakers – Tofino has some of the best waves on the Pacific. The silhouettes of the cedar and spruce trees of Frank Island were swimming in silver light. They might have marked the edge of the known world.
For many years, Chesterman was home to Henry Nolla, a wood carver with a workshop at the end of the beach. Here was another typical island character: eccentric, warm-hearted and often naked. He liked to work in the nude and, well into his 70s, still had the body of a young surfer.
When the nearby Wickaninnish Inn was being built, some of the investors expressed concerns about Nude Henry, who was visible from the restaurant windows. But the owner, an old friend, stood by him. To complain about a fit nude sculptor on Vancouver Island would be to miss the whole point of the place. And he was right. In 18 years there were only three objections, none of them from women.
A boat arrived to take me beyond the reach of roads. The day was blustery, and the winds brought a sense of excitement and possibilities. As we rode north past Arnet, Beck and Stone islands, the seascapes became labyrinthine, a confusion of forested peninsulas and deep inlets, of passages and bays as convoluted as fjords. Rain swept around a headland, and then a moment later the sun burst across the ocean in swathes of dazzling light.
I was with the wonderful Nikki Sanchez, one of the expert guides from Clayoquot Wilderness Resort. She was taking me to meet some of the flora and fauna of this coast. On Meares Island, we followed wooded paths to find monumental cedars that had been saplings when the Roman Empire began to come unstuck. Along the shores of Carter Passage, we spotted black bears, distant cousins of Winnie the Pooh, shuffling and apologeticas they settled down among boulders to lunches of kelp and clams. Near Vargas Island we saw an otter floating on its back like a man sunning himself on a lilo, hands behind his head.
At the mouth of Fife Sound, we came upon a colony of sea lions, bundled together like puppies on a rocky outcrop under the charge of three enormous bulls. Sea-lion life should have been idyllic – basking in the sun, dozing, shagging everyone in turn, dropping into the water for an occasional swim and a feast of fresh fish. But happiness is a question of temperament not circumstances, and sea lions are the Alf Garnetts of the ocean. From the boat, we could hear the endless grumbling, the chorus of annoyances, the petty arguments. I blame the big males, patriarchal bores, bullying, abusive, overweight, ill-tempered, a bit lax about personal hygiene and chronically unfaithful.
Arriving at Ahousat, our boat docked at Hugh's general store, which serves as a hub for sailors, fishermen, backwoodsmen, and the vibrant First Nation communities. Inside, the store is an Aladdin's cave of important supplies for everyday life, including everything from two-inch nails and plumbing solder to corn flakes and baby powder. Hugh, the owner of the store, confidently claims, "If I don't have it, you don't need it," while casually leaning back on his chair against the doorpost.
With the excitement of our pitstop still lingering, we embarked on a mission to witness the awe-inspiring migration of grey whales. As the article mentions, an astonishing 20,000 grey whales make their way past Vancouver Island each year, traveling from Baja California to the Bering Sea, covering a distance of approximately 20,000km. This remarkable journey is considered one of the world's most astounding mammalian migrations.
Magically, a grey whale emerged from the depths of the vast ocean, revealing its massive presence mere meters away from our boat. In that fleeting moment, I caught a glimpse of its eye, a marvelously minuscule feature compared to its colossal body, observing our curious gaze. As the whale exhaled forcefully through its blow-hole, a sudden mix of the acrid scent of decaying fish and the peculiar odor of its stomach's release filled the air, reminding us of the creature's unique existence.
The majestic creature's movements seemed to defy time as it gracefully glided through the water. Its skin, more akin to an ancient artifact, bore the markings of a life lived in the vast Pacific, adorned with scars, encrusted with barnacles, and giving testament to the magnitude of its epic journey.
Then, after a mesmerizing display, the grandeur continued as the colossal tail, spanning four meters across, lingered momentarily in the air, cascading water before finally plunging into the depths below.
Some people come to the wilderness chasing freedom. Some come looking for a challenge to give meaning to their lives. Craig Murray came for adventure. Only the one he found wasn’t the one he was looking for.
A float plane arrived for me, skidding down onto Bedwell Sound. It is from the air that you begin to make sense of this place, that you understand the scale. By turning your head it is possible to take in the vast sweep of the landscape, tipping away into infinities at both horizons. We banked over the summits of Strathcona, skirted thunderheads gathered around the Golden Hinde, then crossed Johnstone Strait to the scattering of islands known as the Broughton archipelago. From the air, the whole coast appeared to have been dropped from the heavens to shatter into a hun-dred pieces.
Murray came west in the 1970s, nurturing a dream of building a boat on Vancouver Island and then sailing around the world. But the beauty of the area took hold of him, and he forgot about the boat and the islands of the South Seas. In 1980, he towed a float house across the Inside Passage to set up a fishing lodge on remote Nimmo Bay. Forty years on, it has evolved into one of the finest places to stay on this coast.
Staggering from a lavish breakfast of blueberry pancakes, I set off from Nimmo one morning by helicopter to visit a few of the neighbours. My pilot – Dougal McLean – was yet another west-coast romantic, a lean, weathered adventurer whose most recent outing was to ride a motorbike from Vladivostok to Scotland. But as we tilted over Mackenzie Sound, and sea and islands stretched beneath us, his voice crackled over the headphones, maybe just a little emotional. ‘Most beautiful place on God’s earth,’ he said.
Up at the hamlet of Echo Bay, population 10, we set down in an overgrown meadow to visit Billy Proctor. Now in his 80s, he has spent a lifetime on this coast, first as a fishermen and logger, and latterly as a powerful voice for conservation. But it was the results of his boyhood passion that I had come to see. Billy’s Museum contains eight decades worth of beachcombing and collecting, treasures thrown up by the sea, from his first arrowhead, found aged five, to the latest oriental bottle washed ashore the previous week.
I was examining the strings of beads brought here by Captain Cook to trade with the native tribes when Nikki appeared, a different Nikki from my friend at Clayoquot. An attractive woman in her 40s, she had the milky-grey eyes of a wolf: penetrating, observant, preternaturally calm.
Wilderness was her passion. As a child she dreamt of being marooned on a desert island, and having to fend for herself. As a young woman, she came to this part of the world to spend 18 months surviving with nothing but a rowboat, a knife and a feral cat for company. Sitting in the sun on Billy’s porch overlooking Echo Bay, we chatted about roasting mice and hanging bear meat, about choosing wood to make arrows and the best kind of seaweed to flavour stews, as if it was all the most natural thing in the world. Which, of course, it was.
Back in the chopper we sailed along the shore, swinging in over the inlet of Kingcome to land at the First Nation settlement of Ukwanalis where I found Joe, a hereditary chief among the Kwakwaka’wakw people and another wood carver, mercifully clothed. A small figure, as neatly composed as one of his carvings, he was knee-deep in cedar shavings. He showed me his work: symbolic animals and tiny human masks, delicate and exquisite.
‘I ran away,’ Joe said, speaking of the government residential schools that were still in operation for native children in his day. ‘And lived with my grandfather.’ He ran his hand over the smoothed wood. ‘I was lucky they never found me, so I was able to learn the old ways.’
Up at hesquiat bay these days, the wilderness is trying to reclaim what was taken from it. There are a few rotting totem poles among the trees, an overgrown cemetery and evidence of an abandoned village. Thick forests still command most of the rocky shoreline.
This is where Cougar Annie moved in 1915 to escape the opium dens of Vancouver; her first husband, Willie – charming but dissolute – had a fatal weakness for them. But when he died in 1936, the island had become an escape of a different kind for Annie. She stayed for another 50 years. Three more husbands came and went. In her time, she was post-mistress, shopkeeper and fur trader. But it was as nursery gardener that she became renowned, breeding roses and tulips, dahlias and gladioli, peonies and montbretia.
Annie’s garden is still here, tended by volunteers who struggle to keep nature at bay. Coming up from the beach you pass beneath the rose arch and skirt the unpruned fruit trees to arrive at the house, now leaning so precariously it is too dangerous to enter. The azaleas and rhododendrons flourish, but long grasses and ferns threaten to overcome the dahlias and roses.
The garden is Annie’s ghost. You feel her obstinate determination and fierce independence. This remote place allowed her to live on her own terms, to avoid convention, pretence and obligation. This was the freedom the wilderness gave her.
Where to stay on Vancouver Island
The Seahorse Sanctuary: Wickaninnish Inn
Nestled on a rugged ledge at the farthest point of Chesterman beach, a mere five-minute stroll from Tofino's heart, one discovers a sophisticated retreat amidst the laid-back surfer town ambiance - the Wickaninnish Inn. As a recognized member of the Relais & Chateaux collection, the establishment embodies subtle luxury. A significant portion of the inn's breezy wooden interiors are the works of the departed artisan, Henry Nolla, famous for meticulously hand-carving each cedar beam. His crafting shed, now home to a duo of artisans, remains on the beach close to the inn. The vast Pacific ocean sets an ever-present backdrop, its mighty waves creating a mesmerizing spectacle directly below the inn's windows. On clear days, the spectacle of grey whales spouting is commonplace; but even stormy days provide their own charm, with grand, wave-driven ocean sprays battering the inn. The inn's staff, all passionate about their surfing, are ever ready to offer advice on prime surfing locations.
Location: Wickaninnish Inn, 500 Osprey Ln, Tofino, British Columbia, Canada
Contact: +1 250 725 3100
Official Website: wickinn.com
Tariff: Starting at approximately £250 for Double rooms
Clayoquot Wilderness Resort
Something of a legend on this coast, Clayoquot should be a sybarite’s dream. There is a spa, a sauna and hot tubs for starlit nights. There are sedate walks along the shores of the sound. There are open fireplaces and deep chairs for that novel you’ve been meaning to read. But forget all that. There is too much going on here to waste time lounging around. Horse-riding, hiking, rock climbing, fishing, archery, target shooting, nature treks and mountain biking are a few of the options. The safari- style tents, set on platforms in the woods along the Bedwell River, are big, elegant and beautifully done out with Western-colonial furniture, colourful tribal rugs and wood-burning stoves. Finally, there is Cloud Camp. A helicopter whisks you up to this private retreat, set on a peak 1,300 metres above sea level. A private chef creates supper with unforgettable views over the surrounding mountains and down to the Pacific. And then a night of astonishing silence.
Address: Clayoquot Wilderness Resort, 1 Clayoquot, Tofino, British Columbia, Canada
Telephone: +1 250 266 0397
Website: wildretreat.com
Price: Three nights all-inclusive from about £2,880 per person
Nimmo Bay Wilderness Resort
This family getaway has the kind of comfortable, informal vibe that encourages friendships. It helps that it is small and perfectly formed. There are only a handful of cabins, with a maximum of 18 guests, hors d’oeuvres and drinks are served every evening on the deck by the fire-pit, and meals are taken communally in the dining room. The setting is hauntingly beautiful; half the buildings are float houses moored on the shore of a pristine bay, ringed by deep forest. A waterfall cascades into the middle of the property, supplying power and offering a bracing opportunity for a dip in a freshwater pool straight from the sauna. There’s whale-watching, hiking, kayaking, helicopter touring, or just sitting on the dock with your feet up watching the changing moods of the water.
Address: Nimmo Bay Wilderness Resort, Mount Waddington A, British Columbia, Canada
Telephone: +1 250 956 4000
Website: nimmobay.com
Price: from about £1,170 per person per night, including transfers, all meals with house drinks and guided activities
Rosewood Hotel Georgia, Vancouver
Whether it is an overnight stay before the short onward flight to the wilderness or a longer break to explore the city, Vancouver will be part of any itinerary to Vancouver Island. A turn-of-the-century property, the Rosewood has undergone a complete renovation to transform it into the best hotel in town. There is a fabulous speakeasy bar with a range of dangerous absinthes, a buzzy courtyard café, a stunning pool and a five-star spa. Distinguished, clubby and stylishly Edwardian, it feels like an elegant throwback to the wonderful era of grand hotels.
Address: Rosewood Hotel Georgia, 801 W Georgia St, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada
Telephone: +1 604 682 5566
Website: rosewoodhotels.com
Price: Double rooms from about £210
Audley Travel (+44 1993 838 700; audleytravel.com) offers an eight-day trip from £8,120 per person, including flights, transfers, two nights at Rosewood Hotel Georgia and four nights all-inclusive at Nimmo Bay Wilderness Resort. To include Clayoquot Wilderness Resort instead of Nimmo Bay it costs an extra £1,105 per person