The wind has let up some but is still out there. No change in the weather yet. The wind continues all night, and in the morning the fog bank is thundering over the trees like some massive avalanche, hissing as it tears through the tree tops and branches. The wind drives great white plumes of fog out over the beach where, as soon as they rip clear of the giant spruce trees, they hit the heated updraught coming off the sand and evaporate almost immediately. Greater drama than daytime TV, by far.
Eagles call from the tops of the spruces.
And there are voices here, in the forest. Voices of the ancients, chanting words from a different time, old mutterings that reassure with their presence. The wind buffets the walls of my tent through a second night. Wind still northerly in Hecate Strait. I have a flood tide to ride north on, but won't know how much it will help me until I exit the bay and round Ballard Point.