Nootka Sound 07/15/ 2004 to 07/25/2004 Myself, Bill Porter, Mike DuPas, Steve Dirgo, Dale Tangeman, Rob Robinson (trip organizer). I met everyone in Nanaimo during mid-afternoon Friday as scheduled. It was first time I'd met Dale. Gear and kayak was transferred to Steve's Ford Explorer. Steve lashed the kayak well down, then I said goodbye's to Yvonne and the two girls. Yvonne told me to "behave." Arrived in Gold River in time for dinner; had curry pasta which antagonized the arrhythmia. I had a good nights rest after checking my gear list, though my shoulder was very sore after a partial week of rushed overhead painting/crown molding renovations. The only outstanding item was liquid soap. Steve leant me some, saying something about self-defense for the group. We headed to Tuta marina in the morning. Road was a bit rough in places. All three drivers drove carefully, using two-way portable radios in lead two vehicles for safety. I was impressed with their prudence. We realized at the marina that Dale had forgotten his fresh food in the fridge at the Riverview Inn, and I'd forgotten my dilapidated old map of Nootka Sound and my detailed reef map of Hesquite Peninsula, despite a our claim of performing a "beach check" back at the inn. We took the northwest route around Bligh Island, crossing Hanna Channel where there were a few logs to jump near San Carlos Point. I practiced some literal nose-to-deck paddling as we passed the Villaverde Islands to the right, working the muscles hard in anticipation of heading out into afternoon gale-force westerlies, solo, later in the week. We pulled into Charlie's Beach - a very nice, fairly sheltered mini-peninsula camping site with lots of space with both a west and east exposure and an outhouse. Nootka Sound wasn't exactly my idea of a multi-day trip destination, but I held out hope for a relaxing trip, if not an interesting one. I'd only ever really just passed through these islands - on the way out or on the way back from - the outside of Vancouver Island on previous outings here. We didn't paddle at a clip I was used to, but what was the rush? Perhaps that was a question with deeper significance for me. I held back to take in a bit of the scenery and let the guys pick their tent spots first. With mostly one-person tents, they were able to camp on the edge of the beach/forest interface. I finally set up off to the side on a rocky out crop, promptly drawing first blood on the trip after sliding down a rock wall while setting up a drying-line. Perhaps it was time to start considering better footwear than the usual Teva's. Bill set about immediately to collecting firewood, scouring the nearby shoreline and islets for driftwood and branches. His kayak returned looking like some kind of weird alien creature with firewood sprung under all his bungee lines, sticking out antenna-like. What a site. He then continued with his other modus operandi for every day to come, cleaning the beach and burning all man-made debris or other unwanted detritus. I got the feeling as the day progressed that relaxing and burning off stressful detritus was what this trip was going to be all about. I'd suffered a nasty baro-trauma in both ears simultaneously in a lake-diving mishap earlier in the week, so was on antibiotic/steroid ear drops for the next few days. The pain ramped-up during the night. Saturday turned out to be a mild-swell, calm-water day. I'd never seen the Sound this calm, at least not later in the day like it turned out. We had an uneventful crossing to Friendly Cove. I pulled ahead of the group in order to seal land ahead on the rocks and get a picture of the guys pulling into the cove. The seal launch turned out to be more fun. Ah, a little excitement finally. We forked out $20.00 each to the Mowachat-descendant caretakers, $10.00 for the landing fee, and another $10.00 each for entrance to the church building which contained a few replica totem poles. The visit was even more disappointing than my last stop-over at Friendly Cove, but I didn't miss the bit of irony with "Whiteman" being held hostage in this place shackled with rich historical underpinnings. The afternoon air was molten hot, especially attired in Farmer Johns atop the helicopter pad on San Rafael Island adjoined to Nootka Island. The last time I was at this spot, here in Yuquot ("a place of many winds"), my paddling jacket was flapping like a Tibetan prayer flag. I could feel my right shoulder starting to throb in the hot sun. On Sunday morning I slept in a bit, awakening to the guys talking about bioluminescence in the night. Another leisurely day was developing with overcast conditions and a few rain drops. Perhaps a nice sou'easter would start cooking and provide a few worthwhile challenges. I tried remaining content with my destination choice, feeling truly grateful that the group had invited me along, covering gas, hotel, and parking charges. That was pretty big-hearted, given the difficult financial year with sickness. I tried not to bug Rob too much about what his plans were for moving out to the more open coast of Burdwood Point. We proceeded for a short days paddle to Resolution Cove, forgoing the rocky landing and customary climb to view the historic plaque. Been there, done that. Backtracking, we skirted around the end of Clerke Peninsula and headed down Ewin Channel. There was just enough swell running to allow some playtime in the delightful surge channels and odd cave, though there weren't any other takers. Ah, a bunch of boat preservationists, I assumed. There was enough water to explore the small lagoon down near the end, and then head over to the west beach at the extreme end for lunch. It looked like excellent Oyster harvesting opportunity, but the closure took care of that idea. I thought there would be a fight out against the wind, but nothing significant materialized. I was left high and dry surging over a reef, as the group paddled on toward the float-lodge of Sun Kissed Charters for free water fill-up. When I caught up, I quickly identified myself as Canadian, which soon became a tradition every time we met up with anyone. An annoying one at that, perhaps. As we headed back to camp, I practiced some backward paddling with support strokes and then fast-forward paddling with forced point-of-capsize drills on my left and right side, just so as to really challenge my shoulder impingement syndrome. Once at camp, I headed back around Bligh to the west, and investigated Utopia, a floating lodge said to attract kayakers wanting a hot shower (for a fee, I assumed). No one was present. A strong wind was now funneling northeast, causing a headwind all the way back, but creating a good run of whitecaps to bounce over. I sang my soul out in the waves, eventually pulling back into Charlie's Beach. Unfortunately, the guys had heard me singing over the isthmus (unfortunate for them!). More paddlers had arrived, a man and his wife, while the group of guys had been bathing, so I attempted to wash up on the opposite side, whereupon an aluminum skiff veered over from Verdia Island just as I lathered-up and the female aboard let out a huge "Woo, hoooo!" How could she see anything from out there? The rest of the gang had heard her too, and were wondering what all the fuss was about. Exactly! Sunday night was interesting with an earthquake at just after 1:00 am. Heather Harbord's book talks about fleeing tsunami-prone Cattela Island if there is an earthquake, which I had mocked upon reading. Suddenly, I was wondering what to do there on Bligh. I went back to bed, my own baked-bean induced rumblings shaking up the tent. The rain grew in intensity until it started dripping from the center crosshair seam where a Velcro tab was sewn through the seam-sealed joins. Additionally, some water trickled through the tie-down tabs on the bathtub floor of the fairly new North Face tent. I wasn 't impressed, though the later was probably my fault for a slack rain fly. On Monday Mike loaned me a packed bivy bag as a back-up, and Steve leant me a small loading tarp to cover the Velcro tab. My mildew-rotted tarp hadn't been replaced this year, and I should have brought a cheap replacement along but, I'd never needed the tarp in prior copious rainfall. The rain continued in waves, and a move Monday to Burdwood was doubtful. Some of the heptawing tarps were giving the guys grief in the wind. With Steve's stakes popping out of the ground and flying through the forest, I pitied any small animals hanging around for the show. Rob moved his tent into the forest, seemingly mildly flappable himself. Dale turned out to be totally unflappable for the entire trip, and a fine deadpan comic, who lifted everyone's occasionally dampened spirits. The sea-state picked up as forecasted, with two-meter swells and gusty winds. Cloud direction and speed eventually gave me a clue that it was time to go paddling. I headed out to the Spanish Pilot Group for some action. The channel between Clotchman and Narvaez Island was picking up, with a nice bold line of breakers and peaking swell defining the distal end of the confine. The entrance shallows quickly, leaving a sharp charge of swell to rush across in places. I shot off a picture, and headed out into the boisterous seas. The Nootka lightstation could be seen in the distance over the splashes of white waves and swell. A large patch of foam bubbles extended to the right of the small island of the end of Clotchman Island, with sudden breaking waves throwing bubbles into the air to be caught by gusts now turned into a stiff headwind. I had a riot vigorously jumping the breakers, trying to pierce the airborne bubbles with my Nordkapp's bow. Although the moderate swell lacked the sheer rambunctiousness I'd accustomed myself to when paddling tight in these lee-shore situations, the jobbly water was a relief to my soul, a salve to the sedate cadence of paddling within the inner confines Nootka Sound thus far. Some of the 30-knot gusts were catching the right paddle blade on the southeast side of the island. Combined with breaking waves broaching the boat seaward, it made for an interesting dynamic. Once around, I poked out into the small channel off the end of Narvaez Island, where all hell was breaking loose between it and the small islet out in front. With the wind funneling through the tight gap, I was happily able to keep pointed into the wave action, yet drift backward quickly out of harms way when I needed a break. With a bad run of ectopic beats developing and a heavy squall line moving in, I returned to the camp, which interestingly was experiencing winds whistling over the top in the opposite direction to those further out in the Sound. Later in the afternoon, just as the heavy rains finally subsided, Rhonda and Earl from the WKC pulled into the cove with 7 other paddlers from The Tacoma Mountaineers, leaving 19 paddlers now at Charlie's Beach. 18 Americans and one Canadian. I snapped a picture of all the boats aligned along the shoreline. Rhonda was a scream, pulling out and endless supply of group-leader essentials from her Romany, including a huge oblong cooking pot. There was a double Coleman burner on the rear deck, securely lashed down in a perfectly sized drybag. Introductions were made, and then Rhonda (who does kayak repair work) and Earl had a look over my customized Nordkapp. Heavy, huh? Rhonda said she hear I was a dangerous guy. I thought I was only dangerous when I consumed baked beans. The nine paddlers had been wet-launched by the Uchuck, once Luna had cleared the vessel. Rhonda's digital camera had some good views. The new group proceeded to set up camp in the forested sites, with the camaraderie lasting well into the night. Mike got a cute photo of their bear-lines/gear bags hanging in the forest; cute, because Rob was standing overlooking the bags (!), even after they were pulled as high as they would go. Well, no baby bears would be habituating on people-food that night. I hoped it would be a "go" for Burdwood in the morning. Things were still socked-in at dawn, leaving any gear not in tents very soggy, though not in my tent this time, thanks to a little help from my friends and subtle tent-position shifts. Swift rain clouds continued to sweep over the isthmus saturating the forest canopy overhead. Pregnant drops, each one pausing in the foliage, fell on the tarp with a metric "Drip.drip.drip." Rob had given me a Clive Cussler novel to read the day before. I was soon engaged, turning each page, cocooned in my blue nylon shell while the squalls passed above. In twenty-four years of kayaking the west coast in all kinds of weather, I'd never read a novel before. It was kind of cool to be normal for once, at least for a short reprieve. By mid-afternoon the sun had made a steady appearance through the clouds, meaning it was finally time to break camp "dry" and make the four mile crossing to Burdwood Point. It was also time to break up this little WKC reunion and leave some room for any incoming local yakers - if there were any out there. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, gear started to disappear off the beach, until suddenly it was all gone in one final suction-like down-funneling, with boats neatly awaiting their drivers. I spoke one more time with Barry. He was one of the few paddlers I'd met with a skegless Romany, claiming Chris Duff as his sometimes mentor. Instinct told me he wasn't fully walking the talk yet, but there was a lot of raw enthusiasm expressed from his chiselled face. He was a man who looked like he was surfing the sharp edge of something in life he'd been looking for. I'd muted my testimony about the joys of rough-water paddling while we shared the day before, while Barry had related how he'd taken off from a group in the Broken Islands to have a blast in the whitecaps. I remained polite, hardly in a position to pontificate proper group paddling ethics. Leaving the lovely secluded cove behind, the six of us paddled abreast, appearing like a well-healed formation of comfortable paddlers who knew their place in life, brothers for a slice of time and space seeking the simple rewards that paddling on the water and along the shoreline provide. Mike looked particularly adroit in his blue-on-blue Romany with red deck lines and his blue Chilleaters jacket/skirt combo, stroking through the chop with poise and purposeful movement. I felt compelled to get to know Mike a bit better and find out about some of his experiences in Vietnam. Bill, the quiet but kinetic executive, moved his heavy Romany through the water with a grace and flow rare in an individual relatively new to the sport. We made a B-line for Burdwood on a "one-on-one" sea state (one foot chop, one meter swell). A small channel presented itself, bisecting the island chain of the Pantoja Islands. Water was surging through the north entrance with white-water breakers entering from the south side. Perhaps it would make a good shortcut. Hmmm. I raced ahead to test the route after a short consultation with Rob. A reef in the middle of the way in presented a problem, but I rode the swell over it and blasted through to the other side, cresting over the next breaker forming in the surging confines. The guys could see it wasn't worth the run through, so continued seaward. I decided to surf back through, this time going with the next swell set; gaining momentum on the wave's slope, I ran full speed into the ragged rock wall by the broach-throwing breaker -- finding manoeuvring room too tight for the paddle. Ouch, that took a little bit off the nose of my yak, as the stern fell into a deep trough leaving the bow hooked upwards. The exit wasn' t exactly graceful either, 500 pounds of boat, paddler, and gear slamming the reef on the way out. As I caught up, I mentioned the route was a bit hard on body, boat, and blade. They had kind of figured that out. It was more than just a utilitarian move setting up camp "dry" in the sunshine in the semi-sheltered bay north of Burdwood Pt.: our spirits were lifted aloft with the hope of warm days yet to unfold. I lathered up for a cold-water swim and bath, whereupon another boat raced shoreward. What was wrong with these fishers? Rob had done some good planning picking this beach, an enchanted location in real-time, marred only by powerboat activity. The majority of tents were erected in a perfect shade-line that lost its protection only in the last stages of the day. This was a fine introduction to base-camp camping. I'd never done anything like this before with such specificity. I'd stopped to smell the roses. I continued to soak in the pages of my novel, relaxing in the filtered sunlight and soft ethos of the easy-kayaker life. That evening, as the sun set and misty clouds slowly held intertwined formations above the mountains on Vancouver Island, a perfect panorama of Nootka Sound captured our exclusive attention until squinting eyes could see no more. Wednesday held the promise of poking out toward Escalante Island. Strong outflow winds didn't subside until gone 9:00 am. The forecast called for moderates seas and westerly wind, growing in intensity in the afternoon - the usual case out here. The tide was low, providing an excellent line of natural breakwaters protecting most of the route out. A bear munching along the night's high-tide line perked my curiosity and I moved in to shoot it with my camera. It was one more furry black-blob to add to my picture collection. Upon reaching Escalante Island, Mike was already blown away by the intrinsic naturalness of the setting, fore-fronted by a gentle swell lapping the sand-rimmed features of Escalante's extensive seascape. Rob landed at an unnamed creek cutting through the extensive low-tide sand, soon followed by everyone else. At some point, he lost his hat. I played out on the outer reefs for a time, trying to get the perfect ride back in over the low reef breaks. The previous two times I'd paddled out here in past years had been replete with 3-meter swell plus boomers exploding everywhere the eye could see, with many a near-miss (accidentally on purpose) all the way around to Estevan Point and beyond on both occasions. This time, I took the time to macro-zoom my camera and capture some pictures of the sea life clinging to the kelp fronds. The rest of the fellows washed-up, using collapsible water carriers and soapy fresh-water suds to clean their clothing. The wind and swell picked up on the way back, growing to maybe 15 knots with whitecaps increasing in intensity the further out one looked. Wind waves averaged 3 feet on a 2 meter swell giving the guys a nice west coast bump, with further rebounding off the reef-strew shoreline. The surging shoreline and nearshore reefs provided a demonstrable jobbliness which was perfect for the more intimate paddling I preferred in amongst the turbulence of rocks and reefs, where I am at home and completely comfortable. I zoomed into that. When the swell picked up, I let out the reins a bit, dropped my deep-draft rudder, and headed around the outside of some of the spume-tossed islets for semi-white-knuckle paddling. The surging seas can make an exact transit difficult while threading fast-paced through these high-energy environs, so a good rudder equalizes the higher risk by allowing my Nordkapp to go where I point it, leaving necessary concentration for muscling the fast-forward propulsion, suddenly-required boomer-bracing, and adjusting for route consequences in the ever-changing three-dimensionality presented. Finally back at camp, Rob had to spend some time in surgery with a kinked skeg cable on his big green Aquilla, the "Classic Vlasik," eventually replacing it with a spare. Unfortunately his off-shore-made instrument wasn' t up to the task, leaving the cable's end-strands rather messy and difficult to rethread. I played out off the rocks for a time, riding the swell over and through tide pools, then practiced hooking my bow on exposed reefs until the trough receded, leaving the kayak at approximate forty-degree angles. I eventually tired of this, and headed back to my novel. Not having a heptawing tarp to retire under, out of the arcing sun, I sought shade elsewhere, eventually breaking out the instant chemical ice packs for my painful shoulders. The meteorological high continued building, though it never got really windy in the afternoon nearshore with the 30- to 40-knot gales I'd anticipated and so looked forward to remaining well offshore. Sleep was difficult despite my in-boat drugstore. The outflow winds that kicked in every night seemed particularly strong in the wee hours against our little lee-shore haven as I hit a second round of sleeping pills. Nevertheless, the winds diminished, dying-off on queue at 9:00am. A lone paddler, who pulled ashore, wearing shorts and T-shirt, interrupted my groggy sleep-in Thursday morning. Gary was a college professor from Colorado, originally Canadian. At one point mid-morn', he had to swim chest-deep to retrieve his kayak when the incoming tide had floated his boat out. I offered to help him carry the boat to his tent site a bit later, but he was busy with other tasks after pulling it up a few meters. Rob and I gave him the gears about his paddling apparel. He asked us if we knew anything about the kayakers that died off Nootka last spring. I said I was investigating the incident for a possible article. I told Gary that by all accounts, they died of exposure, and yes, the two men were wearing.ta da, shorts and T-shirts. We went on to speak privately for hours about various subjects, including men's issues within the faith community, and about group decision-making strategies and aspects like emotional intelligence. I was glad to meet someone who actually understood and taught such theory. In the meantime, Bill, Steve, Dale, and Rob headed out, paddling up the Sound to Burdwood Bay where they found a waterfall back in the woods. As the day progressed, I engrossed myself in another Clive Cussler novel, this one actually written by Steve's brother, Craig Dirgo. The day (and the week) was working toward record high temperatures with little wind to cool down the coast's summer fever. Upon launching to return, Rob had jammed his skeg box with sand whereupon attempts by his companions to free it pulled the cable right out of the skeg blade cable housing, meaning more frustration upon his return to camp, until he had finally swapped the original cable end-for-end and re-installed it. Rob and Bill were staying another week, desiring to camp further toward Estavan Point with its higher wind exposure. Rob was a little concerned as he felt he was out of options for skeg repairs if needed again. Another shout later in the day, this time from Mike, required Gary to take another cold swim -- this time using full breaststrokes to retrieve his rental kayak. I ran down and we carried his boat to high ground, no arguments. I told him we were getting a little concerned. He didn't get my drift, taking me literally. Despite this drifting-boat intransigence, he was a great guy, having paddled BC's waters for many years, though no full open-coast experience. I advised him to think twice about moving camp further out toward Escalante Point, as the relatively calm conditions presently enjoyed were deceiving. Feeling somewhat better by late afternoon, I headed out to cross the 2 miles to Friendly Cove. I spotted a vapour spout offshore, but failed to see any whales. Whale sighting are more common along the Escalante headland. There was a nice 1- to 2-foot chop on a 1-meter swell, allowing exploration around Maquinna Point and the caves. 400 meters from San Rafael Island, either a large seine boat or a trawler (I couldn't tell) was headed for open sea. I raced to cross his bow for a good five minutes flat out, giving him enough room to not have to adjust his course as I passed in front of the vessel. I did an immediate stern sweep, and fell over into the sculling position, head in the water, on purpose. The first bow wave charged over me, the second one broke/bent my sunglass clip-ons. I moved into a full roll-recovery position rather than perpetuating a deep water scull, in an effort to right myself and retain what I thought were my expensive glasses coming off. I waved them off, but had to land on the outside beach of Friendly Cove to calm my extreme arrhythmia. I decided to leave exploring Maquinna Point for another year and crossed back, truly enjoying the combination of swell, wind, and the sweetness of the open Sound; and vowing to mellow-out for the rest of the trip. Time slowed down mid-crossing, even if my heart didn't. If these serene moments can live in one's memory forever, the crossing was an eternity. Back at camp, I was treated to some left over carrots and potatoes -- a much needed change from the previous two days of hot chili. I used up the last of my chemical-pack ice and Advil. A fun evening of frivolity around the fire, fending off mosquitoes, more $20.00 jokes (still upset over the landing fees) and American-bashing ensued. I was lucky the guys were good natured, big-hearted Americans. Early Friday morning before light the wind was blowing strongly again, snapping the fly sharply. It died off at 9:00 am on queue. Though never shrill, the life-affirming songs of small birds could be heard every morning. Garry wanted to paddle with us, as he might not have done so on his own. Mike and Dale took the day off as we headed the 5 miles out to the Escalante River. Gary seemed to take forever, later commenting he was futzing around with his tent (while we paced back and forth waiting). I'm sure our sub vocalizations could have qualified as another early morning chorus, perhaps not so joyous. Steve, Rob and Bill landed on the south end of a rather long crescent beach, so I sent Gary off to land there too, suggesting he not leave anything out as there were wolves and other vermin in the area. I landed in the bigger (but still relatively mild) surging-surf at the north end of the beach, close to the deep-water pools of the river. What a glorious soak, so cool, so refreshing and invigorating against the bright-green setting of algae-covered rock at low tide. Seas were really calm on the way back. I lamented the fact that we could have been out on the west coast of Nootka Island in completely favourable, benign conditions not often afforded to the exposed coast paddler. Steve "Big Dude" Dirgo still looked stoked in his gear-hauling Nimbus, despite the repeat route. Winds continued light on the way back, growing very slowly, with a 1-foot chop and maybe a meter and a half swell. Earl intersected us on the way back, along with two other paddlers from Ronda's group. They returned with us for a time. I was a bit despondent with the lack of gale-force wind moving closer to shore that week, but I was sure Rob and Bill would get some of the good stuff later in the week when they moved camp and the rest of us headed home. Once back at camp, I took Mike's Romany out to play in the rebounding surge, wearing his Chilleaters/skirt combo, and trying a hand at using his skegged boat. I didn't like the pounding bow's underbelly when cresting steep breaks and also found the chined hull very different from a round-bilged one with respect to predictability. Overall though, a fine boat design with superb tracking. Mike had neatly outfitted his boat with foam to reduce cockpit volume, and had a super-sano foot pump installation. Landing again, I passed on the opportunity to test Dale's Mariner II. Only a fool couldn't see Dale's easy time with the kayak in a variety of sea conditions. I'd wait for another time to try a Mariner II, perhaps in some really serious seas. One of the men from Ronda's group was wearing a drysuit. It was one of the hottest days of the year, perhaps 95 degrees. Ya man, you better take a dip. I got dehydrated just looking at him. Earl reported Barry was in trouble back at Charlie's Beach for taking off from the group unannounced, pulling along other paddlers with him. I made some dumb comment about leaving him to the sea's naturalistic determinism. By late afternoon, the tide was high enough to allow some cave exploration south of Burdwood Bay, where the swell impacts directly. There was a good wind with swell off the south point, with power boaters everywhere, all after the evening bite. I spent an intense few hours bashing about in caves and running very technical surge channels and tight passageways, some long enough to force confrontation no matter which end I entered first. I'd purposely not brought my surf helmet in order to force a more cognitive reconciliation of risk homeostasis; Still, I was at the edge of my game and lucky to come out with only my boat badly beaten up. The fishermen got a good show, this time with me in full regalia, awash in a lather of foam and surging seas. So much for my vow. Once outflow winds had died down Saturday morning, Dale, Mike, Steve and I packed up and said goodbye to Bill and Rob, wishing Gary the best of luck. Bill and Rob packed up too, headed for Escalante Island. The paddle back to Tuta Marina was hot and humid. I pushed the pace. People had ferries to catch back at Nanaimo. A cold shower at the marina "facilities" was a perfect panacea. Gold River was hot, dang hot. We arrived at Duke Point just in time for the last afternoon ferry, after Steve quickly unloaded me at the small waiting lot. It took a while to locate Yvonne and the kids on the hot tarmac, my heart still wild, but perhaps a little more subdued. Addendum: Bill and Rob spent a windy few days at Escalante Island before heading home. They saw wolves up close, had a time of it in the big seas and the paddle-wrenching winds. Rob found his hat. Ronda emailed us: Barry died in a plane crash the night of Aug. 3. Minutes after lift-off from the William R. Fairchild airport in Port Angeles, the Cessna 182 he was piloting crashed into Hurricane Ridge in Olympic National Park. It was a sheer miracle that his two passengers, both kayaking guides, survived to walk out the next morning with minor injuries. No one knows how the women managed to survive the crash. The plane disintegrated after hitting dense Douglas fir along the ridge at a fast speed.