We're spending a laid-back week at home with the West Coast clowns of the sea

BY MARION HARRISON

T. Kitchin and V. Hurst/Firstlight.com

As our kayak knifed through the steel-grey waters of Kyuquot Sound, I set my paddle on the spray skirt and reached for a pair of binoculars. "What's that at two o'clock?" I asked, pointing over the bow at a dark lump bobbing gently on the ocean.

"Probably some kelp," my husband Peter replied as he squinted at the horizon. The magnified view, however, revealed a soggy head with silver whiskers and black triangular nose; two stubby paws pointed skyward.

We were in the middle of a week-long, self-guided wildlife-watching trip through the sheltered and unspoiled inlets along the northwest coast of Vancouver Island. Some people travel around the world to catch a glimpse of an elephant or a lion. We were paddling the Pacific in hopes of a close-up look at sea otters in their home surf. My first glimpse lived up to the sea otter's reputation as the "clown of the sea" — here was a sea otter floating on its back fast asleep.

Three centuries ago, Enhydra lutris frolicked in the Pacific Northwest undisturbed by humankind. Prior to contact between New World and Old World cultures, the sea otter's only enemies were killer whales, grey whales and eagles. During the lucrative 19th-century fur trade, however, most of the world's population of 300,000 sea otters was trapped for their luxurious pelts, leaving only 2,000 by 1910. The sea otter was extirpated from the B.C. coast until a recovery effort in the late 1960s and early 1970s introduced 89 Alaskan specimens to Checleset Bay. Today, the population has grown to nearly 3,200. Some 2,600 occupy a range that spans the northern tip of Vancouver Island to Clayoquot Sound, while another 600 live near Goose Island off Bella Bella.

The sense of discovery when exploring Vancouver Islands outer coast never fades. The isolation and near-tropical feel draw us back almost every year, and we love learning new things about the landscape, wildlife and First Nations culture. The sea-kayaking opportunities are endless, and the grand scenery is among the best in the world.

Photo: David Depledge

The weather forecast promised warm, stable conditions, so we pitched our tents amidst a jumble of immense driftwood, where we could face the endless expanse of the wild blue Pacific. It was a classic beach of Canada's outer West Coast: open, austere and stirring. The base camp was perfectly situated for exploring the Bunsby Islands and the rocky shorelines, islets and offshore reefs that are scattered throughout 34,650 hectares of Checleset Bay Ecological Reserve, a protected area created by the B.C. government in 1981 as prime habitat for the transplanted sea otters. Each morning, we had our pick of heading out across Checleset Bay or weaving back into quiet coves.

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The first day, we set out on calm ocean waters for Acous Peninsula and the site of an historic village of the Kyuquot Nation, where we discovered two weathered totem poles lying in the salal bushes, their features obscured by mosses and ferns. We pushed on to Battle Bay and stopped for a picnic before making our way up the Battle River for an icy dip in the freshwater pools. Sunshine glittered through a canopy of giant red cedars, falling like stars on the water's surface. The rain forest around was as dense as a tropical jungle.

Another afternoon, we ventured out to Checkaklis Island, past the tree-topped pinnacle of Green Head, and drifted into the coves that notch the islands. We saw black bears foraging for snacks under rocks. In one sunny channel, we beached our kayaks for a siesta under delicate Sitka spruce, only to awake to three prehistoric-looking great blue herons swooping overhead. It's equally common to see eagles emerge from the forest canopy and silently soar to the ocean to fish.

But where were the rafts of highly social sea otters we came to see?

Every kelp bulb or seal nose that bobbed above the ocean swell grabbed our attention. On the third day, we were finally rewarded with the sight of several sea otters performing somersaults and spyhopping (rising up out of the water to watch who was invading their space) near a tangle of kelp. Larger than its more common river cousin, the sea otter weighs as much as 45 kilograms and can measure more than 1.5 metres in length. Its amusing antics are actually a strategy for surviving the frigid North Pacific. A wholly aquatic species, the sea otter spends its day floating in the frigid surf or resting on kelp beds, a habitat that places tremendous demands on a warm-blooded creature. The sea otter lacks an insulating layer of blubber to ward off the icy cold and must stoke its metabolism through constant feeding. An adult, for example, consumes at least 25 percent of its body weight, or about 10 kilograms, of high-protein seafood each day. Its coat is its most valuable resource for survival, packing together some 1,000 hairs per square millimetre. No other animal has such dense fur, which the otter meticulously maintains with frequent grooming. The tumbling is a survival strategy as well. As the otter somersaults, it tucks its face into its fur and blows insulating air under its coat.

We were thrilled that our patience paid off. Most people only get up close to sea otters when visiting an aquarium, but we were enjoying the view from front-row seats in the wild Pacific, gently riding the rhythm of the same ocean swell.

The morning of our return journey, we awoke to grey fog shrouding the landscape, but the sea was calm as we paddled six hours to Kyuquot Village, a tiny community steeped in the history and culture of the Nuu-chah-nulth. In the lee of a rocky outcrop, we approached a mass of kelp where a raft of 20 sea otters was diving for food. A sea otter's swimming prowess is matched by its diving skill. It can plunge 25 metres deep in search of molluscs and spiny sea urchins. After bringing the food to the surface, the otter floats on its back, resting the prey on its stomach, then uses its dexterous paws to pry open the shells. An otter will also employ a stone to crack a stubborn shell.

The sea otter's voracious appetite puts it in competition with First Nations people, who depend on food from the ocean. Leo Jacks, a Kyuquot who operates a water taxi in the region, says that the sea otters are lucrative tourist attractions, but they deplete shellfish stocks. "I remember when a fishing boat came, everyone would gather at the docks to feast on sea urchins, clams, abalone and mussels," he says. "Our kids have never tasted sea urchins."

Predator-prey balances are delicate. When the sea otters were absent, sea urchins and molluscs flourished, essentially clear-cutting the kelp forests and, in so doing, eliminating critical habitat and food for many fish and other marine species. With the otters' return, the kelp beds have recovered and the overall health of the ecosystem is improving.

On our final approach to Fair Harbour, we kayaked past a sea otter performing its tumbling ritual while float planes took off and landed around it. Here in the paradise of Kyuquot Sound, natural species are adapting to intrusions of civilization. We only hope that this time around, the civilized world has learned some lessons from nature.

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