I was in the middle of Washington State’s Lake Roosevelt when the wind and waves built to a crescendo, overpowering my tiny skiff. Although the lake is 133 miles long it’s rarely more than a mile wide, but a 100-lb, 11′ 6″ flatiron skiff has its limits. The lugsail was already reefed down to 45 sq ft and when the gust hit, I let the sheet fly just to keep the boat upright. The “gust” didn’t go away, the wind had risen to about Force 6 with an 8-mile fetch, and the waves were growing to match. I was hove-to, abeam the wind and waves, the sail broad off, the boom dipping into the water now and then as the boat rolled from side to side and surged up and down in the waves.
I was out in the big bay near Hunters Campground. It is my favorite cruising area. From Hunters there are undeveloped shorelines stretching some 50 miles both north and south, with hidden coves, dramatic sand bluffs, clean, fresh water, surprisingly few people, and endless opportunities to beach a small boat and pitch a tent. High summer can be broiling hot, and I prefer the cooler early and late seasons. It was now mid-October, and this would be my last trip of the year. My bigger boats were already in storage, but my little skiff—a Summer Breeze designed by David Beede—is always the first out and last to be put away. It was ready and waiting when the weatherman forecast one last warm, fine weekend of the year.

In the big bay off Hunters Campground, I put in a reef. To the north, peering under the sail, I could see the entrance to the Nez Perce canyon (here in the center distance) and the beach where I would eventually land for the night in the cleft of the bluffs to the left of Nez Perce.
A small sail-and-oar boat is my preference for shoreline exploration and simply messing about, and that was my goal for the weekend. My initial plan had been to head south, maybe all the way to Enterprise, a boat-in campground at the mouth of Oh-Ra-Pac-En creek about 7 miles away. It is an area of white sand beaches and shallow, sun-warmed water, a favorite destination of motorboat campers during the peak season, but at this time of year it would be deserted.
The day had dawned cold and drizzly so I delayed my departure from home until the sun broke through the clouds and it looked like I might have a chance at good weather. When I arrived at Hunters about noon it was partly sunny and warm. Out in the lake, the winds looked light. It didn’t take me long to launch the boat and stow my dry bags of food, spare clothing, and camping gear, but by the time I was done, the wind had picked up from the south and across the bay whitecaps gleamed in the sun. Winds can be fickle on Lake Roosevelt, but often there is a northerly in the morning, a calm at midday, and a strong southerly in the afternoon. I was launching just in time for the strong south wind. I have learned the hard way to keep my little flatiron out of a chop. Just north of Hunters, the lake makes a dogleg to the east, which offers some shelter from the worst of the south wind, so I left the ramp and headed north.

.
The boat swept away from the dock. The water was dark blue, the sky above bright blue with streaming white clouds. Before I knew it, the ramp was a mile behind me. I angled out and across to the western shore where dark green pine-clad hills rose up from the lake, Soon, the wind built behind me and I realized the boat was starting to surf. My skiff carries a 63-sq-ft poly-tarp standing lug with a sprit boom angled to hold the clew down and keep the sail from twisting. Downwind the boat is stable, but we were soon skimming along at an exhilarating but scary speed. In a small boat that’s low to the water it’s hard to judge true speed, but I estimate we were doing 6 knots. David Beede has written that he’s hit a GPS-measured 7.5 knots in his Summer Breeze “quite a few times.” I had always been skeptical; now, not so much.

I landed on the beach that would be my home for the night, with a view down the lake facing south. The wind was still blowing hard, although you wouldn’t know it from my pictures.
I sped a few miles north along the western shore, mostly downwind, sometimes on a broad reach. Water streamed up the leeboard, topping the gunwale; small waves broke around me, and I was getting wet. I was still in control but I’m a conservative sailor, so when I spotted a small beach curving in between rocky shores I shifted my weight aft and ran the boat up onto it at speed. Having a cheap boat and not minding if the bottom gets scratched up a little can be liberating.
To me, beach-bumming is an important part of cruising. While I decided whether to stay or not, I left the boat where it was and inspected the beach for any treasures before settling down, my back against a driftwood log, to eat lunch and consider my options. With the strong south wind, I could probably make it all the way to Gifford, some 20 miles north. There were plenty of spots along the way on the western shore where I could camp and catch the morning sunlight—an important consideration when nights are freezing. It would be an exciting run. The trouble would be getting back south again. If this wind persisted, it might take two days of beating and rowing to windward. I had plenty of food and the following day was forecast fair, but after that there was the threat of snow or cold driving rain, day and night. I didn’t want to be out in that; it would probably be best to stay within easy reach of the launch ramp. Besides, Hunters is an interesting area to explore and at this time of year was practically deserted. Then, as I sat and pondered, the wind eased. Maybe I could work my way south after all.

I climbed to the top of the bluff above my campsite. The deer trail was so steep that at times I was climbing on all fours. The waves that had seemed so large when I was out in the middle of the bay looked like mere ripples from my high vantage point.
I stowed my gear, reefed the sail, and set off beating southward. The water was surprisingly smooth, and the wind soon died to a gentle breeze. After making little headway for 10 or 15 minutes, I decided to shake out the reef. I headed the boat into the wind, caught the boom, and unclipped the sheet from its end. Then I scooted forward, sat on the rowing box facing the mast, let the snotter go, and set the boom down in the bottom of the boat. Now came the tricky part: releasing the downhaul while holding the end in my teeth to keep the sail tamed, then lowering the halyard and bundling the sail into the boat as the yard came down. I’ve been doing this for eight years now and only once have I smacked my head with the yard. With the sail safely in the boat I set about untying the reefpoints and the downhaul, but the downhaul knot wouldn’t budge. It had jammed tight. I worried at the knot for a minute or two, resisting the urge to use my teeth or a knife and wondering all the while why I couldn’t bring myself to buy a clip for this connection. At last, I had it; I raised the sail and lifted my head to survey my surroundings: in the time it had taken me to reset the sail, I had lost all ground and was once more just off my lunch beach.

From the top of the bluff Lake Roosevelt opened up before me and I could see all the way down to Enterprise where the lake turns to the west. The knee-deep grass that covered the summit was tinder dry.
With full sail and a moderate wind, I made good speed, but it still took me an hour and a half to tack back to the ramp—three times as long as the trip down. I continued on, beyond the ramp, following the eastern shore, and tried to round a point south of the campground but the wind was too strong, so I fell back into its lee. From the relative calm, I scanned the water out in the middle of the lake. There were no whitecaps so I figured the true wind couldn’t be that strong, it was merely being funneled around the point. I would put in a reef, sneak around the headland, and gunkhole my way south along the more sheltered eastern shore. I dropped the sail into the boat once more and tied in the reef. Under reduced sail, the skiff isn’t quite as weatherly, so I bore off a couple of degrees to keep her moving well, and made longer tacks away from shore and out into the bay. Which is how I came to be out in the middle of the lake when the fickle wind really picked up again.
I sat hove-to, waiting for the wind to steady and figuring out what to do. Perhaps, if I were careful, I could sail in this. I hauled in the sheet, the boat sprang ahead, a wave slapped the side, and a good 5 gallons sloshed in over the gunwale. I released the sheet. In the bottom of the boat, the water soaked into my pants and, not for the first time, I envied people with seats in their boats. I bailed most of the water, then half-heartedly sponged at the rest—there’d be more, maybe much more, real soon. At least it was a warm day. Even the water felt warm, although it was supposedly only about 62° at that time of year. I wondered what would happen if I capsized. Would the boat turn turtle or lay on her side and be easy to right? I had plenty of flotation and a bailer strapped in, but I knew she’d come up completely swamped. Would I have to get the sail down before she’d right? I regretted that I’d never practiced a capsize recovery in this boat.

On the small rock-strewn beach, I was lucky to find a flat spot above the driftwood pile where I could pitch my tent. With no tides to contend with, I could just pull the boat up out of the water and know it would be safe.
I was being blown downwind toward some cliffs with no beach at their base. I needed to angle west to line up for a cleft in the bluffs where I knew there was a little pebble beach. I tweaked in the sheet just a little and pulled the tiller over to windward, then let the sheet all the way out. The sail blew out over the bow and the boat turned downwind. I knelt facing the stern and watched the marching waves; I had one hand on the tiller, the other on the sheet. The sail, flying ahead, kept the boat pointed downwind. Behind us, the waves rolled right up the 12″-high transom, but not one broke in on us and hardly any water came aboard. When there was a break in the waves, I pulled the sheet in just a little and angled the boat westward.
Twenty minutes later I’d made it to shore. It wasn’t much of a beach, a 50′-long crescent, more pebble than sand, filled with driftwood 10’ above the water’s edge. Behind the beach, a narrow brush-choked gorge led up into the forested hills. The wind blew right up the cleft, but there was a partially sheltered flat spot among the jumble of driftwood where I could pitch my tent. It would even catch the morning sunlight. All in all, it was not a bad place to be cast away.

On the second morning the lake was like glass. The difference from the previous day could not have been more marked. As I rowed toward the western canyon, I was looking over the stern at the big cove at the mouth of the Nez Perce canyon.
After setting up camp, I followed a deer trail up to the top of the eastern bluff. The trail skirted the edge of the ponderosa pine forest and in places was so steep I had to bend double and pull myself up by grasping clumps of the thick, dry, prairie grass. I kept well away from the sheer edge. These cliffs are nothing but sand and are unstable. Several times I’ve seen huge chunks collapse into the lake, like ice calving off a glacier. Such falls are the cause of all the fine beaches, but it’s a foolish person who camps beneath a sand cliff. I puffed my way to the top, a hundred feet or more above the lake, and was amazed by the panoramic view: the whole expanse of the bay lay open to the south, 8 miles to Enterprise where the lake turns west. The summit was covered in thick, knee-deep grass that gave way to open forest—all bone dry; there’d be no campfire tonight. I stood in the wind, watching the tiny ripples marching up the dark lake…in a small boat, those ripples had been anything but “tiny.” I could see no sign of human life in any direction. The night would be dark, with very few lights on the horizon.
Back at my camp on the beach, I sat comfortably against a log with my back to the lake and the wind and wrote in my journal while dinner cooked: Madras lentils, cheese, tomatoes from the garden, biscuits I’d made the day before, and a pot of tea. Before snuffing out the Trangia stove I filled a plastic bottle with hot water and slid it into my down sleeping bag—there’d be no cold feet tonight; I’m getting soft in my old age. As the sun went down, the temperature dropped precipitously but it did stay above freezing that night. By full dark I was snuggled in bed, listening to the wind as it ruffled the tent, and read by candlelight until I drifted off.

Deep in the western canyon (later identified on a map as Ferry Gulch) on the morning of my second day, I turned toward the lake and admired the sheer, unbroken bluff, its ponderosa pines clinging precariously to the edge.
The sun woke me at 7 a.m. but I dozed while I let the day warm up and didn’t leave my cocoon for another hour. The morning was still and warm, the sky the purest topaz blue with a few high, wispy clouds; the lake a sparkling, translucent turquoise mirror without a breath of wind. After breakfast I went for a swim and even the water seemed warmer than it should at that time of year. I took my time breaking camp—I was in no hurry to leave. With no wind, I would have to row. I unshipped the rudder, tied the leeboard up, lashed each oar to its tholepin, and rolled the spars into the sail, setting the bundle to one side sticking over the bow so that it would not interfere with my rowing.
Beyond the bluffs at either end of the beach were fjord-like flooded canyons. I’d spied them on past trips but had never explored them. They were narrow with little room to maneuver; with a following breeze I could sail in but would probably have to row back out. This glassy-calm morning gave me the perfect opportunity to explore them. I set out for the western canyon, less than half a mile away, rowing close to shore. The tall sand cliffs loomed above as I rowed through the clear shallows just off the beach.

As I rowed up Nez Perce canyon, I could see the holes that swallows had carved out of the sand bluffs to make their nests. The layers of sediment—that create the dramatic stripes and ripples in the bluffs—were deposited during the last ice age.
The canyon cut into the bluffs for about half a mile. One side was a sheer, unbroken cliff; the other sloped down to the water more gradually. A tiny creek, not quite dry, trickled into the very end of it. About halfway up the inlet there had been a landslide on the eastern slope and about half an acre of hillside had slumped into the water forming a small, brush-grown island where I landed to explore. The shore was soft, and I sank in, ankle deep, before belatedly removing my shoes. The center of the island rose about 6′ above the lake and was thick with brush and small pine trees. It might be possible to carve out a hidden campsite there, but I didn’t tarry; I was eager to be on my way.
I rowed back out into the lake and turned east, paralleling the shore a few hundred yards off. The day was now so warm that I took off my shirt. The lake was as still as an undisturbed mirror, but it had turned a deep blue, reflecting the sky and forested hillsides. Near the beach I had camped on, I stopped rowing, letting the oars trail in the water as I drifted and took a break, drinking tea from a Thermos. There was not another boat to be seen, no wakes or wind disturbed the lake. I soaked up the warmth and silence, marveling at the difference from the day before.

At the head of the canyon the way was blocked by the narrowing of the stream and some fallen trees. I could hear the roar of falling water, so I decided to explore farther up the creek on foot.
Half a mile farther east, the canyon of the Nez Perce Creek opened up. There is a sheltered cove at its mouth, large enough for a dozen trailerable boats to anchor, with a crescent beach of fine sand shaded by a ring of willows and ponderosa. In peak season, especially on weekends, the beach is often lined with motorboats, and sprouts tents, dogs, people, and even volleyball nets. Today, it was deserted save for two bald eagles standing at the water’s edge, unmoving sentinels. I rowed in along the western side of the fjord, landing occasionally on the muddy shore to get a closer look at the exposed strata in the low cliffs or to gather trash and add it to the growing pile in the bow of the skiff. About a mile in, the canyon narrowed to no more than 40 yards across before opening out into a sheltered bay large enough to anchor several boats in. At the head of the bay was a low promontory with a good campsite—flat, wide, dry, and open to the sun—but sadly it is accessible by a dirt road and was littered with broken furniture, trash, cartridge casings, and liquor bottles.

In peak season the crescent beach at the mouth of the Nez Perce Canyon is a popular spot. But this weekend, it was deserted—I had it to myself.
The channel continued past the promontory, still deep enough that I could not see the bottom, but now no more than 40′ wide. After a few hundred yards it shoaled and became so narrow between marshy banks that I shipped the oars and stood to pole the boat against an unexpected current. Finally, the creek was blocked by fallen trees, but just beyond I could see it tumbling down from the hills and hear the rush of cascading water. I poled back out and landed on the low, wide, marshy west bank. I bushwhacked my way back to the head of the creek and found falling water pouring down in a series of cataracts, through pools and over ledges long carved into the basalt bedrock. I cupped my hand to catch some as it fell—it was cold and tasted deliciously pure.

From the beach at the mouth of the Nez Perce I could see the shore where I had camped for the night. Shortly after I took this picture the wind picked up and I was forced to row, rather than sail, back to Hunters.
Reluctantly I returned to the boat. The south wind had risen while I’d been exploring the canyon, and it was now funneling in between the high fjord sides. Rowing against it was tough but after half an hour of hard pulling I made it to the cove at the mouth of the canyon and landed for a late lunch. Out on the lake, the wind had freshened but was still less than yesterday’s near gale. The direction was in my favor: all I had to do was raise sail—maybe reefed—tack out around the end of the fjord, and I’d be on a close reach for the ramp a mile or so away.
I lingered in the sun-filled cove, went for one last swim, collected trash, and relaxed.
Suddenly the wind rose to a shriek and slammed like an explosion into the wooded ridge whipping the trees above the cove. I hurried out to the exposed end of the beach and was stung by sand and grit blown off the bluff and swirling down into my face. Within minutes, just as suddenly as it had started, the tempest subsided but the wind held at a steady Force 6. There was no way I could set sail now, I was wind-bound. I considered staying where I was until the wind calmed in the evening or next morning. I still had plenty of food, and it would be a good excuse to extend my trip another day. But I was more or less expected home that night; the fine spell of weather was sure to come to an end and, besides, it was just a little wind…if I couldn’t sail, I’d row.

Back at the ramp, my small boat safely loaded onto my small car, I took one last look across the lake. I was ready to head home but knew I’d be back next season.
I walked down to the boat and unstepped the mast, stowed it with the bundled spars, and made sure everything was shipshape. I put on shoes, a wool shirt, and windbreaker, strapped on my PFD and shoved off. I fought my way out of the mouth of the cove into the lake. Time and again I was brought to a standstill by the wind and waves, the spray whipping up over the bow. Once I was clear of the land and far enough out that I wouldn’t be blown back onto the cliffs, I turned the bow to the east and rowed with determination. The boat plunged and rolled in the chop, but few waves were breaking and little water slopped in. After a few hundred yards, I was in a more sheltered area, somewhat protected by the point to the south of Hunters. I paused to straighten my back, roll out my shoulders, and strip off the PFD and windbreaker. But I couldn’t stop rowing long; I was being blown down-lake. I picked up the oars again and leaned into the work. It took me 45 minutes of almost constant rowing, but I made it to the ramp, more exhilarated than tired.
As evening fell, I drove home slowly with my elbow resting on the open window; I still couldn’t get enough of the crisp fall air. It had been an exciting couple of days. Sailing forces me to slow down and live in the moment…and what a glorious moment it had been.
Bob Van Putten and his wife live off-grid deep in the Washington mountains in a straw-bale cottage they built for themselves more than 20 years ago. He is a self-employed systems integration technician specializing in smaller municipal water and wastewater systems. Small boats and being close to the water provide him with dynamic engagement with the real, natural world and force him to live in the moment and continually renew his interest in life.
Read Bob’s earlier adventure on Lake Roosevelt and his review of David Beede’s Summer Breeze.
If you have an interesting story to tell about your adventures with a small boat, please email us a brief outline and a few photos.
Phil Bolger advocates for a short, quick stroke when rowing against the wind, and I have found this to be good advice. I think the idea is that you keep steady pressure against the boat, rather than trying to muscle your way with big, sweeping strokes. One of the advantages of the double paddle with a kayak is that it is easy to maintain this steady pressure on the boat.