Yesterday, I wrote about Deb’s and my adventure of having to share one of our two favorite Vancouver Island campsites with a Canadian man and his stepson who played music and video games at 107 decibels in their tent until well after midnight. This post is about our other favorite campsite, right on the Johnstone Strait.

Unlike three years ago, when we arrived at Vancouver Island after Labor Day, this year we arrived before Labor Day. We waited at a tiny resort until two days of rain stopped, then drove directly to the Johnstone Strait campsite. Getting there required following a confusing network of gravel roads that didn’t show up on our GPS. Deb, however, had a detailed map that she had marked up on our previous visit, making our drive easier.

We arrived to find the Johnstone Strait campground nearly full. We could have selected one of the outlying campsites but instead opted to continue on to the Tsitika River campsite I wrote about yesterday. From there, we would drive further north to Port Hardy for five nights and then try our luck again at the Johnstone Strait campground after Labor Day.

On Friday, September 11, we returned to the Johnstone Strait. Our hearts sank. The campground was less crowded, but the three prime sites right on the ocean were occupied. I parked the truck in an open site to at least hold it while we decided whether to stay or move on. (Remote campgrounds like this one are unmaintained; first-come, first served.)

Deb and I got out of the truck to use the outhouse. Rather than wait for her, I decided to walk a short distance and pee in the woods. That’s when I spotted a faint two-track road, jutting off to the side. The road took me a short distance through the forest and opened up to a single campsite, surrounded by trees. Not only was it unoccupied, but it was also right on the Johnstone Strait!

I ran back toward the truck. When I spotted Deb, I shouted, “Get in the truck! Get in the truck!”

She jumped in, and I drove us as quickly as I could down the two-track road, stopping the truck at the spot where the thick forest opened up. We now had dibs on what was arguably the best and most private campsite on the Johnstone Strait.

Deb raised her hand to give me a high-five for my discovery! We missed as usual.

Later, Deb would laugh at my shouts of “Get in the truck!” Anyone witnessing what had happened would have thought I’d committed a crime or something, and we needed to make a quick getaway.

We set up camp, wearing big smiles, not quite believing that we found such a special spot. We’d stay there for three days and three nights.

But on Vancouver Island, not even the best campsite is perfect. Even though thick forest blocked us off from everyone, it couldn’t stop the noise. Just beyond our wall of trees, a group of approximately fifteen Canadians had gathered. They had tents, campers, and two ATVs. Those ATVs had their exhausts tuned to make the loudest noise possible.

That night at dinner, the music started.

We shook our heads. “Not again!”

Unlike the campsite I wrote about yesterday, this time the music was only at 106 decibels, not 107. I love music, but isn’t the intent of camping to enjoy the sounds of nature? We guessed that some other camper would tell them to quiet the fuck down, and apparently that’s what happened, because the music stopped abruptly at 9:30 p.m.

We got a good night’s sleep and enjoyed the next day. The only downside was having to put up with the occasional roar of the ATVs as they would race away and then race back. Gas on the island was $7.73 per-gallon (Canadian), but apparently that was not a deterrent.

The music started again on Saturday night. As the group partied, I flashed back to keggers at gravel pits when I was in high school. These Canadians had driven all the way out here, ignored nature, and did what they could have done at a gravel pit closer to home (the nearest little town was more than an hour away).

This time, no one shut them up. I considered being the one to do so, but we were Americans in Canada at an unmaintained campground. With all the shit Donald Trump was giving Canada, I didn’t feel it was my place to tell Canadians what to do on their own land.

The music continued until well after midnight. We fell asleep, hoping that the partyers would break camp on Sunday, and we’d have at least one night of solitude.

And that’s exactly what happened. The campground almost totally cleared out, and Sunday night was pure bliss. Instead of listening to a weird 106-decibel-mix of Bad Bunny and George Strait, we listened to owls hooting and waves gently lapping the shore.

Don’t get me wrong. The partyers didn’t ruin our stay. We spent much of our time on our private rocky beach, seldom seeing another person, and enjoying hundreds of sea birds.

And the whales!

On our first morning, both humpback and orca whales passed by our campsite beach. (An amazing experience the hungover partyers missed.) And on our final morning the orcas moved in so close that I had to step back from the edge of the water to get their entire bodies in-frame when I photographed them.

So, just like the Tsitika River campsite, our patience paid off with an amazing final night and day experience.

This photo shows our private campsite and how close we were to the Johnstone Strait (during high tide the water reached within 30 feet of our tent). We set up our tent inside our nylon screenhouse. The screenhouse only adds 15 minutes to our setup time, and it gives us a place to sit if it rains or if the bugs get bad.

We considered staying another night, but we wanted to end on a high note and had more of Vancouver Island to explore.