A Whale Of A Day

Had great day at sea, gotta share it!

This time of year Sitka is the focal point of a humpback whale migration. Up to 100 humpback will migrate through Sitka sound. They come here to feed up before beginng the long trip to Hawaii to give birth and mate. Though a large pod (50) has been feeding about 7 miles out only recently have the whales come into the protected waters of Silver Bay.

The forecast called for 45 mph winds overnight decreasing to 25mph but the morning. Luckily the winds never showed up (just the rain) so a friend, Bruce,and I jumped in our boats and went a-whaling.

First though we encounted a sea lion. he surfaced in front of my boat with a small halibut in his mouth and began to eat and play. He (?) would take a few bites then sling it across the water skipping it like a stone, then chase after and chew and toss it again! A group of seagulls began to circle above snatching up the leftovers. All at once an eagle joined in the fray and swooped down to steal the fish from the sealion. I didn't think the eagle had much of a chance but the second the sealion saw it he ducked under ands we never saw him again.

Soon in the distance we saw spouts and headed in that general direction. For Bruce this was his first experience with whales. The humpbacks when feeding will surface and spout several times taking in air for the next dive. Then they will hump up their backs and lift their tails high and dive deep. Since there is no way of predicting where they will come up next we paddled to the general area they were in. Much to our surprise they surface just behing us long before we reached where we thought they were. The explosion of their spouts made Bruce about jump out of his seat! We stopped and watched as the three whales , probably females guessing from their size and behavior, as they "caught their breath" about 40 yards from us. Then as we sat there watching they began to move closer to us passing about 20 yards in front of us. What a sight! Probably 40 feet long and 40 tons a piece! They dove down and we saw the back sides of their tails. Each whale has unique marking on the underside of their tails. Of these three, two had striking almost all white tails! Also we quickly got wind of the whale...their breath was ghastly! Krill breath! yuck! do they sell Scope in 55 gallon drums?

They surfaced a few more times in the distance and Bruce and I paddled around to stay warm (temp low 40's and heavy rain at times). Just when we were about to call it quits they surfaced again just ahead and to the left. Again they when to pass right in front of us. However as they did one of the whales stopped and floated at the surface for at least a minute. At this point it was only three boat lengths in front of me. I could hear the music from the Twilight Zone playing as . . . the watcher became the watched!

It was an erie feeling knowing this whale was checking us out!

Then the whale sharply right and began to swim towards us! I had never seen a whale do this before so it was a very uncertain moment. ( the music switched to Jaws!) If a moment can be both exciting and frightening this one certainly was. Call it a Jonah moment if you will. I was ready to do a paddle brace if necessary (or should I say do a whale of a brace?) I knew though that if there was going to be a collision that I was likely to wind up in the water. Thankfully when the whale got about one boat length away it turned away.

I have had whales close before when I happened to be in the direction they were traveling but this is the first time I had one turn directly towards me.

Bruce and I decided we needed to move on before the whales decided to check us out closer. We went our way and the whales went theirs.

It rained heavily as we paddled back but the we didn't care. We both were cherishing the memory of a life time.

P.S. Do you know what the story of Jonah is all about? It shows that you just can't keep a good man down.
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Copyright 2000 by Rev Bob Carter.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 10/20/2000.
Republished here with permission.

Herring Spawn

Today was one of those days which remind me of why I started sea kayaking in the first place.

Here in the waters of Southeast Alaska the herring are beginning to show up by the millions for their annual spawn. With the herring comes all sorts of wild life and for us the beginning of the herring spawn is the sign that the long wet and cold winter is waning and spring is soon to come.

Today under the watchful eye of about a dozen bald eagles I launched my kayak from a place we call Halibut Point. I set out to circumnavigate Middle Island, a trip of about 8-10 miles . Within in 50 yards I encounted a pod of sealions feeding on a school of herring . I guessed there was about 15-20 in this group. A couple lay on the surface with one flipper high in the air. I have seen sealions do this before and I am told they do this to radiate heat from their bodies. As I passed them they bunched up and spy hopped up out of the water to stared at me.

Throughtout the day this gathering of eagles and sealions was common place. At just about any point of land I would see a dozen or two eagles sitting in the trees and find a dozen or so sealions fishing for herring. Sometimes the sealions would get curious and swim close and at other times ignore my presence. A few chose to bark or burp at me but none proved aggressive. I tend to call the big males "Bubba" because their manners sometimes remind me of southern rednecks.

The Eagles would take to flight and circle above the herring waiting for the right moment, then swope down and pluck a herring from the sea with their talons. On Bieli Island, basically a big prominent rock, several memorial crosses have been set up over the years to remembers fishermen from our community who were lost at sea. Two eagle were perched upon the arms of the crosses as if to say even in the midst of loss and sorrow that life continues.

Between two islands I spotted two Harbor Porpoise their dark forms swimming amid the herring and eating their fill. I remembered the story a friend told me about a time when he was a little boy and he and his father became lost in the forest near their Tlingit village of Angoon

The boy was ready to panic as the darkness and cold began to come upon them. But his father raised in the old native ways told his son to be calm and to sit and just listen. It took a while but the boy eventually did as his father bid him to do. As he listened harder than he had ever done before in his life he heard in the distance a distant 'whoosh' sound. He recognized it as the sound of Harbor porpoise surfacing to breathe as they fished the backwater passages. Without a word his father rose and walked through the woods to the waters edge, then followed the shore line home.

As I approached the end of the day I rounded the southern point of Middle Island and headed back to Halibut Point. Now even more Eagles perched in the trees to watch me paddle in. Almost to shore I saw something strange looking in the water. In front of me was swimming a long furry shape with a head of many horns. It took a few moments before I realized what I was seeing. It was a mink swimming with a sea urchin in it's mouth. I had seen mink swim before but from a distance the sea urchin gave it the look of a baby sea monster.

All in all it was one of those days for which I will long remember and be thankful. The weather? The temperature was in the low forties with the clouds hanging gray and low. A light cold rain fell most of the day. Alas on such a day with all there was to see, the weather could not dampen the spirit of the day or the joy of the paddle.

It is days like these for which we paddle amid the wind and waves of the sea.

-- Bob
In Sitka-by-the-sea

Copyright 2001 by Rev Bob Carter.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 3/17/2001.
Republished here with permission.

What's in a name?

Just the other day I was looking at some local nautical charts and saw an unusual name . . . Liar Rock. I wondered why would someone would name a rock such an odd name. I decided to paddle out and see if I could solve this intriging mystery.

After a four mile paddle I saw Liar Rock on the distant horizon. It didn't look any different than other rocks in Sitka Sound. Just a chunk of granite rising out of the sea. (Actually, I am not sure what type of rock it was so I took it for granite.)

Yet as I paddled up to the rock something strange began to happen . . . the seas began to glow an erie green, the world began to swirl and wind began to whistle the music from the Twilight Zone. (dee do dee do) Then . . .

There I was . . . 100 mile an hour winds, and fifty foot seas breaking all around me! The snow was blinding and the hail was as big as basketballs! A Great White Shark swam up from below and chomped down on the stern of my boat! A giant Octopus crawled up on my bow! A Bull SeaLion leapt into my lap and growled in my face and bit my paddle in half!

Not willing to give up without a fight I smacked the Sealion with half my paddle and threw the other half at the Great White Shark! They both screamed in terror and dove into the sea! I reached up and tied the Octopus' arms into a big granny knot and stuffed him beneath my spray skit to save him for dinner.

I started to paddle away with me bare hands when all at once things got worse . . .

From deep down in the brimy deep The Great White Whale, Moby Dick rose up beside me and with a devious grin flipped his tail and I and me boat went a flying through the air! I landed upside down but quickly handrolled back up only to discover the old Sealion sitting on my deck again! I hit him in the nose with my fist and he dove into the sea! I heard a laught and turned around to see ol 'Moby a charging fast! Once again I started paddling like mad with my hands! Ol' Moby was gaining on me when I looked to the open sea and saw a monster Tsunami headed my way! I turned to surf this deadly wall of water. It must have been 100 feet tall carrying with it two fishing boats, a cruise ship full of screaming tourists, a submarine full of sea sick sailors and even old Noah's Ark itself. I caught the wave and rode it for all she was worth.

Ol' Moby wasn't about to let me go. Years ago he got me grandaddy, Captain Ahab and now he wanted me. Ah, but I have been in worse predicaments, so I surfed straight down the wave and buried the nose of me boat deep. What an ender! Must have flipped 20 times in mid air! Moby leapt to catch me but missed by inches! He let go with a roar and slapped his tail upon the water! He knew he had met his match. Worn out by trying to catch me he sank below the seas waiting for another day.

Meanwhile the wind got worse and the wave grew higher and . . .

When I came to the music had stopped, the sea had stopped glowing and the world had stopped swirling. I had paddled past Liar Rock and I was no longer in it's shadow. So I paddled home still wondering why in the world they would call this place was called Liar Rock.
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Copyright 2001 by Rev Bob Carter.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 3/18/2001.
Republished here with permission.

The Last Mile Octopus

Before paddling off into the sunset I though I would report the discovery of a very unusual creature found in the wind whipped waters of Southeast Alaska. Now I must tell you that no one has actually seen this mysterious creature but many paddlers in Alaska will swear to its' existence.

The creature lives near popular remote camping sites and popular take outs. It also lives upwind, never down wind. We call it "The Last Mile Octopus"

It behaves in this way. It appears to wait about a mile off shore hiding in the depths of the sea. When it spots a tired paddler (apparently it can tell by the labored paddle strokes, the groans of the paddler and the over reliance on the rudder.) After spotting it's victim it slowly rises up from the depths and gently attaches a single tentacle to the underside of the kayak. Then slowly it spreads out its remaining seven tentacles acting as a giant sea anchor. It then begins to grab at seaweed, kelp, rocks and old anchors. Apparently it possess two extra limbs that are thin and translucent that slowly wrap around the paddle blade and weight it down. Paddlers do not actually see the tentacles around the paddle because prior to grabbing the paddle the Last Mile Octopus send out two other tentacles which splashed up sea spray to blind the paddler. Paddlers wearing glasses are particularly vulnerable to this.

When the weary paddler finally reaches shore the Last Mile Octopus is not through with its tricks. As the weary paddler gets ready to get out of the boat the Last Mile Octopus flicks a tentacle and knocks valuable items into the water> Glasses, GPS units, radios ect. The Last Mile Octopus seems to be attracted especially to items that a.) are not waterproof, b.) cost a heck of a lot and c.) sink fast. Now the paddler weary and frustrated steps out of the kayak only to discover the Octopus has another trick up his many, many sleeves. As the paddler goes to step on land the Octopus reaches out , grabs an ankle and "splat" the paddler falls flat on his or her face. The muddier the shore and the more people watching seem to be factors for when the Last Mile Octopus is most likely to pull this trick.

Now while the paddler sits in the mud with some landlubber standing there asking "did you mean to do that?", the Last Mile Octopus pulls one last trick. It grabs the boat (which the paddler thinks he/she has pulled up far enough on the beach to be safe), pulls it back into the water. Now the paddler has no choice but to wade crotch deep into the Octopus domain to retrieve his or her boat. A few drysuit wearers have reported their pee zippers suddenly coming unzipped at this point. Though some scientists think this to be mating behavior but others think it is just another pain in the butt habit of the Octopus.

As I said at the beginning no one has actually seen this critter but the evidence is overwhelming. Many a day after a long paddle I have noticed that the last mile of the paddle is by far the longest and the most tiring, not to mention the number of times I have fallen on my face getting out of the boat and the many times my boat has slid back into the water.

The Last Mile Octopus has been reported in other area outside Alaska and their maybe a fresh water cousin found on windy lakes frequented by canoes. Beware of this foul creature of the deep and remember it is most likely to strike on a long all day paddle into the wind.

Bob

Sitka -home of the biggest, and most mischievous Last Mile Octopus of them all.

Copyright 2001 by Rev Bob Carter.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 4/10/2001.
Republished here with permission.

Resurrection Bay

One of the reasons I enjoy paddling whether it be a boat on a river or a boat on the sea is the experience of seeing something for the first time. In river canoeing or kayaking the thrill of whitewater is matched by the thrill of turning the river bend and seeing what lays ahead. In sea kayaking even though the turns are sometimes fewer, going around a point of an Island or turning into a Fjord or bay for the first time is a true joy.

Last week I drove down to Seward, Alaska to paddle Resurrection Bay for the first time. It was a trip where almost every time I turned around a point something new and different happened.

Resurrection Bay is located in Kenai Fjords National Park and opens into the waters of the Gulf of Alaska. The weather was perfect with hazy blue skies and only a tract of wind from the Southwest. My goal was to spend three easy days paddling down to Bear Glacier and back.

For the first few miles I paddled amid many Pigeon Gillemonts, and Marbled Mureletts. Several sandy beaches rose out of the water offering a place for hikers and backpackers to enjoy the day. Before the ‘64 earthquake these beaches were larger but most of the land here dropped about 5 feet as a result of the big quake. Across the Bay I could see the Godwin Glacier carving its’ way through the mountain to the sea. Next time I plan to paddle the east side of the bay for a closer look.

After a couple miles I rounded Caines Head point and about five feet in front of my boat a Horned Puffin popped up, looked back at me and swam off. I looked around to see five other Puffins nearby. Usually Puffins are shy birds but these didn’t seem to mind my presence. I was careful to avoid them but as spread out as they were eventually I had to paddle between them. They seemed to take little notice and went about diving for fish.

I was so fascinated by the Puffins I didn’t at first notice the change in scenery. I found that the slopping beaches had quickly given way to towering cliffs. These cliffs revealed the titanic forces of the movement of the earth’s tectonic plates. The strata of rock rather than lying perpendicular to the water rose horizontal as a result of the collision of the tectonic plates forcing them upward. The ocean waves over time had eroded away some of the weaker rock forming deep vertical ridges in the cliffs. The beginnings of a few sea caves had begun but it was high tide so I didn’t try to enter any. Most by the way were only a few feet in length. On the other hand the sea and time had formed one sea arch which I could not resist paddling through. Two fishing boat watched me paddle through and I realize once again the advantage the seakayak offers. The ability to go where so many other type boats cannot.

I camped by a stream on a rocky beach in an unnamed cove. Most of the rock had been pounded into hand sized smooth stones. Someone had taken great pains to clear out the rocks and add some beach sand for a tent site. It must have taken a long time. Thank you whoever you where.

The next morning I was greeted with overcast sky and again very little wind. After a couple miles I saw two sea stacks rising out of the water just off a point of land. Go around? Are you kidding? Of course I went between them, and of course a rough wave caught me in the middle. Not really a big wave but enough the break and make things fun and interesting.

After passing between the sea stacks I noticed the air temperature had dropped considerably and the wind had suddenly picked up. That meant only one thing, Bear Glacier. Bear Glacier is a massive glacier with a 3 mile wide face. A small Moraine in front of the Glacier offers a landing and hiking spot. The problem is the it is a "dump beach" where the waves break just a few feet from the steep beach. I tried at first to enter where the stream from the Glacier melt comes out. I paddled in cautiously only to find myself getting surfed in by a couple waves that in all honesty didn’t look big enough to surf. As I surfed down the surface of the wave the out flowing current quickly grabbed my bow. I committed myself to the broach, braced and rode sideways for a while before pulling off the wave.

I them paddled back out realizing that the combination of wave coming in and the current going out was creating conditions that were more chaotic than I wanted to handle. Later I would hike down and see the current was going out a lot faster than I first realized.

So I elected to go for the dump beach landing. Normally I count waves , figure out their pattern and ride in behind the smaller waves, but this day there was no pattern or rhythm to the waves. Waves just came in different shapes and sizes whenever. I landed O.K. but as I was trying to jump out of the boat a wave surprised me from behind and literally flipped me (not the boat) and I landed head and shoulder first in the sand and surf. I jumped up grabbed the boat and the first words I said were, "gee I am glad no one from Paddlewise saw that!"

I spent the next hour or so hiking the Glacier moraine and watching icebergs float down the stream and into the sea. On group of three icebergs looked remarkably like three humpback whales surfacing to breathe.

I paddled back to the same cove as the night before but chose a different beach to camp on. This one faced the south where the big winter storms bring forth large rolling waves. These storms had taken the rocks and had terraced the beach into several different levels. I camped on the next to the highest level beside a 15 foot waterfall which sang me to sleep. Despite laying on a bed of rocks it really was comfortable. The seas had pounded the rocks so that they were all smooth and rounded off. Not a comfortable as grandma’s feather bed but still very sleepable.

Approaching Caines Head point the next morning I think I discovered the source of the name for Canes Head. The strata of rock in an exposed rock cliff resembled the head of a man sleeping.

Alas all good things must come to an end but not before one last surprise. I rounded Canes Head and discovered the low tide had revealed a sea cave. Not very long at all but still fun to paddle into. Inside I discovered hundreds of sea anemones hanging from the walls, their filaments(?) drawn in waiting the rising tide.

As I paddled into Seward the wind had picked up and for once was pushing me home. A perfect end to a wonderful time at sea.
----

Copyright 2001 by Rev Bob Carter.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 8/11/2001.
Republished here with permission.

Resurrection Bay

I rolled out of Wasilla in the wee hours of the morning headed south. I passed the silty glacier fed waters of Cook inlet and Turnagain arm headed for the clearer water of Kenai Fjords. I put in at Seward and headed out into Resurrection Bay. Quickly I faced my first decision. I wanted to immediately cross the Resurrection Bay over to the East shore but sometimes this passage can get windy and rough. The weather however, smiled on me, it was windy but not bad. I made the two mile crossing quickly then slowed down to a slower pace in order to enjoy the wave sculptured rocky shore line.

Waterfalls from the melting snow tumbled into the sea and Marbled Murrelets fished for small fish. I watched as one caught a fish that was almost too big. He didn’t want to let it go but seemed in a dilemma as to how he was going to swallow it. Finally after a minute or so of failed attempts he managed to get hold of the head and swallow it down.

I have seen a lot of strange things in Alaska. After all "There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold" wrote Robert Service, but seeing an alligator following a kayak really surprised me. Why someone would be towing a 3 foot long plastic very green alligator in Alaska I don’t know. I started to ask but didn’t. Instead merely said hello in passing as if seeing someone tow a plastic gator was an every day occurrence.

The wind picked up a little so I dug in and paddled a little harder. I saw a group of paddlers coming my way that with a little creative rigging were using a tarp as a sail. There were about 8 people in 6 boats and as they passed me one of the yelled over "we are the lazy bum squad" .

"Whatever ever works" I hollered back.

My destination was Thumb Cove about 8 miles as the Raven flies from Seward. As I rounded the point to the entrance of Thumb Cove I was overwhelmed by the beauty of this Cove. Though not very big cove the sight was stunning. I looked up at hanging glaciers and snow fields that clung to the mountains as they rose up out of the sea. Multiple streams laced down the mountain side shimmering in the afternoon sun. Snow covered the shaded beaches. The snow banks formed walls two feet thick marking the reached of high tide. I camped on a sunny beach where the snows of winter had long retreated and along with a male and female Common Goldeneye enjoyed the peaceful serenity of Thumb Cove.

The next morning I headed farther south to Sunny Cove on Fox Island. I saw my first Puffins of the trip along with Sea Otters, and Pigeon Guillemots.

I also saw the first of many "Sentinels" as I would come to call them. These were rock formations that at the right angle of sun appeared as faces much like the stones of Easter Island. I am not alone in my imaginings, one of the major landmarks of Resurrection Bay is a place called Caines Head. All these mysterious Sentinels were looking out to sea as if waiting for something to appear on the horizon...a ship, the end of the world? Waiting and watching. One in particular Sentinel stopped me in mid stroke. It looked like all the Sunday school pictures of one of the Wiseman from the Bethlehem story. He too was looking to the horizon as if waiting for the star to once again appear to bring hope in this troubled world.

Maybe why we go to sea in our wee boats is to explore such mysteries and in so discover a part of ourselves.

Sunny Cove I found a beach that provided a high camping spot and a snow bank to melt water for cooking. I also found my wife’s birthday present. A dead porcupine! No I am not headed for a divorce I assure you. My wife years ago was taught the art of beading from a Tlingit elder. A prize material for beading is porcupine quills. Once the ends are cut off the hollow quills are easily threaded with needle and threat and is quite attractive in the hands of a good beader like my wife. (She was thrilled when I gave them too her, the first she had to work with for years.)

On day three I woke at 5 am to the sound of a hard wind flapping the tent. I figured I was going to have to change plans and not head farther south like I wanted. I went back to sleep and awoke at 7. Whitecaps in the Bay. I took the morning easy since I wasn’t going anywhere. Then about 9 the winds died down and I took off. The rest of the day it was dead calm. For the next three days it would blow hard in the early morning and be calm in mid day. Opposite of the norm.

I set off for Hive and Ragged Islands. Two Islands that stick out into the Gulf Of Alaska. I love the outer Islands because of their combination of remoteness and ruggedness. These Islands were no exception. Ragged and rugged cliffs rose hundreds of feet out of the sea. Sea birds, Puffins, Murres, Gillimonts, and Cormorants perched on rock ledges. A family of sea otters swam along the edge, the mother watching me warily while her baby on her stomach played with mom’s wiskers.

The sea had begun to carve the beginning of great sea caves into the rock. A few sea arches could be found to scoot through in my kayak. I wish some day I could see someday the swells of a great storm crash through these arches. Alas I know I never will but I can dream of such adventures.

Rounding the southern tips of Ragged Island, Bear Glacier came into view. Almost three miles wide this tide water Glacier is born amidst the Harding Icefield. I had seen it once before up close but now my view from 8 miles away left me in awe of the massive river of ice and snow.

The view of Bear Glacier was so stunning that I. paddled by a small colony of sea lions sunning themselves without noticing. I was about 50 yards past them when I heard the bull grunt. I turned to see the colony piled up on a rock just inside a small cove. While I watched two females got into a loud argument over who got the top spot on the rock. A few roars and some posturing then they settled down once again to enjoy the sun.

I turned North to head back to Sunny Cove. As I approached Hive Island, I noticed another Sentinel, this one more a trick of shadows upon the rock. There was the silhouette of a woman’s face in her widows shaw looking out to sea for her long lost lover. An eerie sight for one such as me solo out upon the high seas. Paddle well I thought to myself less that be my beloved’s face mourning me.

Day four and it was time to head back. In the morning I awoke to the sound of rain upon my tent. This day the mountains were gone, shrouded in the low hanging clouds. I crossed the six miles across the bay to Caines Head without incident, the swells were gentle and the winds were light. With all that was to see shrouded in the mist it was a day of listening to the world about me. Swells crashing onto distant rocks and the crack of a distant Glacier. Three curious sea lions followed for a while surfacing for a look at this strange creature moving on top of the water, giving their presence away with the sound of their exhaling and grunting. Sometimes the silence was so that as an raven flew over I could hear the wind in his wings, othertimes the silence was broken by the screech of a gull or the sound of a distant motor boat.

Always though on this day was the sound of the rain. The rain was steady as it often is in these waters but not hard or blinding. Instead danced in the water about me in a gentle rhythm of life.

I landed on a beach where I had camped last August. What was once an even beach of stones was now a chaotic jumble of stone, drift wood and flotsam. The work of the storms of winter. I cleared a place amid the stone for my tent and spent much of the rest of the day reading and listening to the rain upon the tent walls.

Day 5 would be my last day. though not a long paddle it was an eventful one. First I found a sea arch. I carefully scanned the sea for rouge waves then paddled through in a couple seconds what took the sea millions of years to create. Later I poked my nose into a small sea cave. Much to my surprise several sea birds Murries, shot out. It was low tide so I believe this was a temporary resting place since the cave was mostly under at high tide.

My next surprise came as I paddles close to shore looking up at the cliffs above. There looking down at me was a couple old Mountain Goats. Confident that I was not going to be able to climb after them, they sat serenely munching grasses and watching me paddle past.

Alas I arrived at the take out and back to so called civilization with it’s traffic, noise and troubling headlines. I sat off shore for a little bit before landing. Reflecting on the trip and its scenery, mystery and serenity. It was tempting to turn around and head back out to sea but alas that is for another time and another place.
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Copyright 2002 by Rev Bob Carter.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 5/30/2002.
Republished here with permission.

Prince William Sound, Alaska

Following my trip to Resurrection Bay, I drove up the Whittier to do a five day trip into Blackstone Bay in Prince William Sound. I am taking my 13 year old son and his scout troop there in August, so I wanted to "scout out" the route before hand.

Getting to Whittier is an experience in itself. One has to drive through a couple miles railroad tunnel in order to get "through" the mountains. No worry about trains though, they stop all cars before allowing the train through. Still I occasionally have nightmares of seeing the light at the end of the tunnel coming at me!

Whittier, with it’s back to a high mountain pass, is almost always windy. In fact the weather forecasters give a special forecast just for Whittier and Passage Canal that includes the barometric pressure difference between both sides of the pass.

Passage Canal is 12 miles long , two miles wide and leads into the open waters of PWS. Though I had often explored Passage Canal this would only be my second trip beyond it and the first trip was back in the early 90’s.

As I put in the wind was fierce to my back (yeah!) This was going to be great. I had only planned to go about 8 miles and I could let the wind do the work! Then about a half mile out the wind died down for a moment, gently touched my left cheek, and then womp! It hit me dead on in the face! So for the rest of the day it was straight into the wind. Cat’s paw after cat’s paw danced upon the water signaling another gust. I swear I heard the wind laughing.

So I moved in close to the rocky shore and bounced from wind block to wind block. Along the way several waterfalls plunged into the water. Created from the melting snow pack, many of these falls have but a life span of only the spring and summer. Come fall the snows will return and they will go into an icy hibernation.

As I approached the end of Passage Canal I had to paddle round a point called Decision Point. (There are a couple of places called Decision Point in Alaska, reminding the Mariner to make a careful decision before continuing.) The winds of the day had made the seas quite "lumpy" and the state ferry had just passed adding it’s wake to the mix. It was fun!

I was weary as I paddled into a small cove called Decision Point State Marine Park, one of several designated points in PWS where the State of Alaska maintains some tent platforms and an outhouse. The outhouse I admitted was a rare treat. Usually I wander down to the beach and dig a hole but here I could comfortably sit like a king upon his throne and enjoy the Sears & Roebuck catalogue.

Two couples paddled in later in the day, also bone weary from the wind. We sat after dinner and talked of being upon the sea. In a funny way this was an unusual experience for me. I usually travel solo, sometimes going two weeks without human conversation. So to be sitting at a campsite talking with someone was different.

At one point one of the women mentioned that the last time she was in Blackstone Bay a boat dropped of two jet skiers and she lamented how annoying they were buzzing around the quiet bay. We also related stories of noisy snow machines zooming past us while cross country skiing. Together we came to the conclusion that there are two types of people in the wilderness; those who seek to conquer it with their machines and those who seek to become one with it through their paddle, skis or feet. Alas for those of us who seek the silence and the solitude to becoming one with creation, those who rev up the machines to conquer too often destroy the very thing we seek. Peace.

Late that evening we noticed another group coming in. It was obvious that some in the group wanted to pull in to the calm bay but their leader ignored them and paddled on. Then they rounded the point and landed on the beach behind us. This beach was a dump beach that offered little protection from the weather. When they walked into our camp spot looking for a tent sight we noticed the leader was wearing shorts and a cotton T-shirt. It was sad to see a leader who was not personally prepared, and was not making good decisions.

The next day the winds had died down so I took off for Blackstone Bay. First I paddled to Tebenkof Glacier. This Glacier has long since retreated, leaving a moraine and a tidal marsh. Many dead trees stood in the tidal marsh. It was an indication of the earthquake of ‘64, which dropped much of the land in PWS down a couple of feet, allowing the salt water to infiltrate into the soil and kill the trees. Dead now decades later, some of these ghostly trees still stand as a reminder of the ever changing earth.

Entering Blackstone Bay I began to see more and more waterfalls. These must be enjoyed at a distance as the occasional big chunk of ice breaks off and crashes into the sea. I don’t remember the exact details but a sea kayaker was killed by falling ice in Blackstone Bay several years ago while trying to fill his canteen from one of these falls.

Also I began to see more and more glaciers. At first I saw hanging glaciers high upon the mountain side. I began to wonder at what point by definition does a pile of snow become a glacier? Then I began to laugh at myself. Glaciers do not abide by our definition, only the ways of snow and ice.

After a while I began to see what I came here for, the tide-water glaciers. In the distance I could see the Beloit and Blackstone Glaciers. It would be tomorrow before I saw them up close but for now the view was splendid.

I camped on a jut of land near the Ripon Glacier. The locals call this 18 mile beach, referring to it’s distance from Whittier. Tonight would be one of the highest tides of the year so I walked up the highest spot looking to find a flat spot for my tent. All at once I heard a shriek and looked up to see an arctic tern flying right at my head. I ducked and retreated realizing that I must be approaching their nesting sight. I chose a lower spot further down, hoping it would be high enough for the nights big tide. It barely was!

I had paddled in with the rising tide, arriving about the time the tide turned. This worked out great as I was treated for the next several hours to a wonderful parade of ice from the calving glaciers flowing by the camp. All shapes and sized rolled by in a rumbling and growling sea of white.

The next day was the day I had been looking forward to since I first dreamed of this trip on a cold winters night in December. On to the Glaciers!

As children we looked at clouds and saw dragons, castles and the faces of giants. Now as adults we see clouds as only the bearers of rain. As I paddled amid the "bitty bergs" ( a nickname a friend of mine came up with several years ago to describe the wondrously wind and wave sculptured bits of glacier ice flowing with the tide), I found my childhood imagination returning. I paddled amidst dragons and strange creatures of the deep sea. Strange castles from another time rose up out of the sea. I even saw a few sea-kayakers; yes wind and wave shaped ice that resembled you and I upon the sea in our long narrow boats.

I listened to the ice as it bumped and ground in the flow. Also there was a popping sound as the air trapped for thousands of years was set free. The ocean literally sizzled about me. I truly was in another time and another place -- physically, mentally and spiritually.

I paddled toward Beloit Glacier. The tide was ebbing, so it allowed me to paddle to about a quarter mile from the face. The rule of thumb is not to paddle up to a glacier when the tide is rising, otherwise the ice flow will trap you in. Likewise since this glacier was actively calving, so I dared not get too close to the face. Anyway a quarter mile back offered a splendid view.

I sat in front of this glacier for probably an hour. Occasionally the glacier would calve a huge chunk of ice into the water. Then for several seconds afterwards a cascade of ice would "waterfall" down the glacier and into the water. As the wave from the calving reached me the "bitty bergs" would collide and start chattering as if too announce the coming wave.

From the Beloit I moved to the Blackstone Glacier. Navigation at this point was intriguing as I maneuvered amid the ice trying to find the least clogged passage. I had a lot of fun with the tight turns and scouting for leads. By the way, glacier ice is quite a bit more denser than your refrigerator ice, so hitting even a small piece of ice can be a jarring experience. Also as many of you know, you have to steer well clear of ice bergs. They have a tendency to roll unannounced and could crush a kayaker without mercy.

Unlike the waters of Glacier Bay, the glaciers here are cleaner, less rock grinding, so the water was surprisingly clear.

To the west of the Blackstone Glacier was the Northland Glacier. This hanging glacier was even more active than the tidewater glaciers. I would hear a roar and look up to see a cascading waterfall of ice slide off the glacier, down the mountainside and explode into the sea. Quite impressive!

After a while the tide started to flood, so I paddled out of the ice and headed towards the west side of Willard Island. This is "the bad lands" of Blackstone Bay. A combination of shoals and tide rips under the right wind conditions, plus little refuge makes this part of the Bay extremely dangerous at times. Thankfully today the winds were light. I will not be taking my son’s scout troop along this route. I spent the night camped on Willard Island.

I awoke the next morning to a day of mist and rain, beautiful in it’s own way actually. It this country you learn to appreciate the beauty and uniqueness a misty rainy day provides. Otherwise the rain gets to you.

I took my compass reading and headed for the West shore about a mile and a half away. Wow what waterfalls! The west shore has higher cliffs so the plunge, splash and sound of these falls was the most impressive of the trip. Due to the mist I often could not see the top of the falls which only added to the mystic experience of the beauty.

To add to the wonders of the day I found a sea arch to paddle through. It was short but sweet.

I had originally planned to camp at another state maintained camp site called. Squirrel point. However the landing and launching beach was exposed to an East winds which could prove nasty in a hard blow. Plus beach offered no tent sites and the tent platforms were far up the hill. So I returned to Decision Point and camped there once again.

I spent the rest of the evening watching the water taxis returns from far bays loaded down with sea-kayaks. Many people use these water taxi services to be able to explore bays that otherwise would take several days to reach and involve long open crossings. Now these weekend warriors were heading home.

The next morning, to my surprise, the winds were calm for Passage Canal. My paddle in was admittedly slow. I was not quite ready to rejoin the world. I poked around in a few little bays and gazed at the scenery. Eventually I picked up the pace. At home I knew my son would be waiting for us to go see the new Star Wars movie. So from the waters of Prince William Sound, it was on to a galaxy long ago and far, far away.

-- Bob

Copyright 2002 by Rev Bob Carter.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 6/3/2002.
Republished here with permission.

Fog

I stand at the boat harbor, surrounded by a fog so thick it seemed to shroud the entire world. I laugh. Today is the first day I will paddle the waters of my new home, Petersburg, Alaska. The first time I will see the waters and the land from my beloved ancient craft. Now surrounded by the fog, I know I will actually see very little of these new waters.

Still the wind is calm, the temperatures are in the 40’s and the tide is rising, perfect for a winter’s days paddle in Alaska. Quietly I settle into my boat and head out.

There are many things I love about paddling The movement of the boat in the water, chance encounters with wildlife, being surrounded by wilderness. Above all one of my favorites experiences is seeing new waters. Beholding for the first time a bay or a stream or even an horizon. Ever since I began paddling the wild waters of my home state of West Virginia years ago, I have been fascinated by seeing what was around the river bend. The sea is different; instead of river bends, there are points of land and islands. Still there comes the moment when I round a point or cut through a pass between islands and experience new waters, breathtaking views, wonderful surprises.

Even today, with the fog hiding the world about me, the excitement is still there. The views would be few and incomplete but still wondrous. These are the waters of my new home, and just the small hint of what lay beyond the layering fog was enough to send my heart soaring.

As soon as I clear the boat harbor, I take a compass reading. The map indicates I needed to run a course of 270 degrees West to reach my goal of the mouth of Petersburg Creek, across the open water a mile away. Now I make some careful calculations. The magnetic declination here is 25 degrees West. Many have become lost in these waters, and on land, for failing to account for the declination. When I taught wilderness survival at Sheldon Jackson College, I impressed this on my students by saying the difference in ‘true North’ and ‘magnetic North’ in Alaska is the difference between getting a little lost and really lost! Today I am not so much worried about getting lost as I am of missing the entrance to the creek and having to paddle back and forth to find it.

Getting lost is not the only hazard in the fog; getting run over is another. Petersburg sits at the mouth of the Wrangell Narrows. The Narrows is a 24-mile channel, which serves as a shortcut between Wrangell and Petersburg. Fishing boats, ferries, tugs and small cruise ships save almost two hundred miles by running the Narrows. The powerful tides of southeast Alaska run fast through the Narrows, and so do the boats racing throughout. Often boats go aground because of low tide.

I begin the one-mile open crossing listening intently. Usually I listen closely for the sound of birds and whales, but today I listen for the whine of the outboard or the thump of a diesel engine. I stare at my deck compass, running a corrected course of 245 degrees WSW

I peer into the fog, looking for land. I glance at the map and try to guess my drift with the tide. Finally, out of the whiteness, a dark shape begins to emerge. The bow of a ship? Thankfully not, but a cabin sitting on a point.. I am safely across.

Out from the cabin floats a dock and at the edge of the dock sits a large white goose decoy. I have seen plenty of decoys in the water, but this is the first time I have seen one nailed to a dock. I laugh and start to paddle on by.

"Honk!" Yikes, this bird was alive! The bird now really put up a ruckus "Honk, Honk!" I have heard of guard dogs, but not guard geese.

I paddle on; eventually, after I disappeared into the fog, the goose grows quiet.

I enter Petersburg Creek with the incoming tide. The creek is over a half mile wide at this point, so I can see neither shore in the fog. I discover myself in a world of floating ducks. Not only are they floating on the water, but they also seem to be floating on air. The whiteness of the fog joins with the placidness of the water to create a wonderful illusion. Water and sky became one, erasing the horizon line. The ducks float, as if flying without wings.

One of the first ducks I see is a raft of oldsquaw. It has been a couple of years since I last saw one and it is like seeing an old friend. The males are beautiful, with a white cap of feathers covering their heads and rolling down their backs like a cape. The characteristic tail of the male is long, pointed and curved upward. The females are somewhat drab in comparison (sorry ladies), without the long tail feathers. Oldsquaws are noisy ducks and these begin a worried chattering the moment they see me.

They are skittish, as would be all the birds I encounter this day. Perhaps it is because I emerged unexpectedly out of the fog. Maybe because fog hides predators as well the prey, the birds are nervous about anything coming out of the fog.

Next I come upon a large flock of surf scoters. I do not want to disturb them, so I try to pass by quietly. Suddenly they all begin to flap their wings and dance across the water. The wind whistles a shrill tone in their wings as they fly away from me.

I love paddling in the fog. I paddle to leave behind the world of machines, schedules and creature comforts. Out here the fog masks away the encumbrances of the world and I become a part of the wilderness. I am alone with the tides and the sea. I am at one with the sound of birds. I feel the fog as it touches my face and welcomes me here.

I love the fog because with the loss of sight, sound becomes the most important sense. Paul Simon wrote a song about the ‘Sounds of Silence’, listening to hear what others will not. I close my eyes and listen to the wind in the wings of the scoters. I hear them, I feel them within. I listen to the waters of the tides as they cross a shallow ripple. I listen to the sound of my own paddle moving through the water. I hearken for the voice of the wilderness and her Creator.

I roll on with the tide and emerge into a hole in the fog. It is as if I have paddled out of a narrow tunnel and into a great cavern . Above me I see for the first time the blue sky. Somewhere up there the sun is shining. Alas, such blessings of blue sky would be fleeting today. The creek begins to narrow and my blue sky disappears. Once again I am embraced by the fog.

I pass over another shallows and suddenly the world about me begins to turn a golden glow. Through the fog I see a cliff face shining bright as the sun reflects off the wet rocks. The reflection turns the fog a wonderful golden hue. I stop paddling, wishing the moment would not end. As I slowly drift with the tide, I see an eagle emerge out of the fog. Black elegant wings against a sky of gold. Such is the land of dreams.

The golden glow fades away as the fog once again thickens. Once more all I know is the whiteness of the fog. What lies ahead? What adventures great and small await?

When my son was a child, I read to him from The Chronicles of Narnia, by C.S. Lewis. Here I am reminded of the passage as the gallant crew of "The Dawn Treader" set out to explore the wonders of the last sea. When they come to the waters at the edge of the known world, they dare not take the Dawn Treader any farther. Yet one brave soul, Reepicheep, a brave and fearless mouse, dares to go on. He jumps into his little boat and paddles onward, seeking what lies beyond the end of the world. It is the greatest adventure of all.

The creek begins to narrow and trees emerge from the fog. The high banks reveal that much of the tide is yet to come. This day however I must paddle ahead of the tide. The short Alaskan winter days will not allow me to wait. With the Alaskan winter sun setting just past 3 PM, I want to start my crossing of the foggy Narrows no later than 2:30.

The bottom of the creek begins to rise to meet me. Its’ course through the forest begins to twist and turn. I encounter shallows and wish I had brought an old beaten up fiberglass paddle, rather than one of my cherished wooden ones. As the current begins to run stronger, paddling up the shallows becomes more challenging and entertaining. I come to a long rapid and, like playing a game of chess, begin to work out my moves several plays in advance. I hop from eddy to eddy, side to side up the rapid. At last I hit deeper water and ease up on my stroke rate.

I come to a small sand bar and decide to break for lunch. As I step out of my boat, I see the tracks of a river otter in the wet sand. The tracks tell a story. He had been walking along the edge of the sandbar when his nose told him there was a tasty morsel buried below. What he found I do not know, as all that remained was the hole he had scratched out in the sand.

I sit on the sandbar, sipping on a welcome cup of hot tea. The mountain and the fog have combined to steal the warmth of the sun and, now that I have stopped paddling, I begin to feel a chill. Then from the deep forest I hear the call of a raven. I close my eyes and listen deeply. The raven has many voices. Some are crude, some melodious and others mysterious. Yet each voice is an expression, each call speaks of life in the deep forest. The Tlingit people of this land once believed that the raven had a spirit, a spirit so powerful that it set the sun and moon in the sky and filled the waters of the sea . Now such myth exists only in stories of the culture, but the voice of the raven remains.

I have often listened to the voice of the raven and each time feel a kinship to the dark feathered creature. Years ago I was adopted into the Raven Clan by the Tlingit people. Now the raven is my brother.

The raven continues to call. Is he seeking his mate, or calling for others of his flock to join him? Maybe he is watching wolves finish a meal, hoping to feast on what remains. Perhaps he too feels the mystery of the fog and calls out to it.

I remember the story of old Noah in the ark. Before he sends out the dove, to see if the waters of the earth have receded, he sends out a raven. The raven flies to and fro over the waters of the earth, but never returns to the ark. Where did the raven go? To lands afar? To this land of rain, fog and deep woods? Such are the mysteries of the world best explored in the deep wilderness.

I finish lunch and it is time to head back. The water upstream grows too shallow and the short Alaskan day is beginning to fade.

Soon I paddle back into a whole different world . The rising tide has turned a narrow creek into a broad stream. What a difference a tide makes.

The high banks I had looked up to on the way up are now below eye level, revealing the land beyond. Plateaus of grass and forest spread beyond the creek. This is the home of deer, bear and wolf. This day I see no creatures of the forest, but I wonder what eyes are watching me as I pass.

Soon all is once again swallowed by the fog, so I paddle over the left bank to have a point of reference in the haze.

Finally I come to the cabin that marks the mouth of the creek. The goose is still there, standing motionless in the fog. Again he waits till I am almost next to him before he erupts into honking. On an island that boasts both wolves and bears, this bird stands fearless against all.

I move along the shore, until I reach the spot where I want to cross the Narrows. I sit and listen. In the distance I hear the thump of a diesel engine. The crab fishery is ending and a weary fisherman is heading home with his catch. I wait until he has past, then set a 90 degree East course into the fog.

Once again I listen intensely as I paddle. Soon I pick up the sounds of the city ahead. Then, out of the fog, I see the float-plane dock with the fog-bound planes tied up neatly in a row. I see the entrance to South Harbor and head on in. For a moment I drift a couple of feet from the ramp. I don’t want this day to end. Somewhere deep in the forest, I know the raven still calls. Calling me back to the waters of fog and rolling tides. One day soon I will answer this call. I will return.
----

Copyright 2002 by Rev Bob Carter.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 7/11/2002.
Republished here with permission.

Glacier Bay, Alaska, 1988

In 1879 explorer John Muir traveled to Alaska to study Glaciers. In the village of Wrangel he met a Presbyterian Missionary by the name of S. Hall Young, who told him of a place to the north the Tlingit called "the land of ice castles." He also told Muir of a legend told by the Tlingit of how ages ago they were driven from their home by walls of moving ice and that now the ice was retreating, allowing them to return home.

Intrigued by these stories, John Muir and Rev. Young, along with several Tlingits, including their guide, Sitka Charlie, boarded a war canoe and traveled north to find this land of ice castles. What they found was Glacier Bay.

Several years ago a friend and I ventured forth on our own voyage of discovery and paddled into Glacier Bay.

Our trip started in Tenekee, Alaska, a tiny village known for its' natural hot springs and abundant wildlife, including the brown bears and blacktail deer of the land, and the whales and seals of the sea. We didn't have to wait long to see our first whales. As we were loading gear into our boats, we heard a "whoosh" and looked up to see a couple of humpback whales cruise by the beach. It was a good omen.

Within in minutes of being on the water we saw our first seal, or I should say the seal saw us. I was scanning the horizon when I found myself staring into deep dark eyes. It was a harbor seal. I am not sure how long he had been watching us, but from that point on seals were our constant companions. They are curious and like to follow kayaks. It seemed like everytime we turned around to look behind we would see a big splash of a seal. Later, when we stopped for lunch on a gravel beach, we watched as a dozen or more seals floated by with the tide.

We headed up Tenekee Inlet to a portage that was once a well-kept secret among the Tlingit. The portage is about 50 feet long, over a small spit of land separating Tenekee Inlet from the waters of Port Fredrick. The Tlingit used this portage as an escape route from the Russian trading ships. The Russians, with their faster but bulkier sailing ships, would chase the Tlingit canoes up the inlet hoping to capture them and force them to hunt sea otters. The Tlingits, however, would land their canoes and portage it across the land before the Russians could figure out what happened. Louis L'Amour chronicled this portage in his novel Sitka.

We camped at the portage that night. The next morning we began to portage our own gear. We discovered on the other side lay a muskeg (swamp), which led to a small winding stream, which emptied into the waters of Port Fredrick. We also discovered our first brown bear!

We were meandering our way through the stream. It was so shallow that often we had to drag the boats across sand bars. While looking ahead to see when the creek would get deeper, I noticed a big brown rock beside the stream. Then it moved! Yikes -- this was a big bear! Joe had seen it about the same time that I had, so we quietly began to discuss what to do. The bear was beside the stream, which meant we had to go right past it. We carried no guns, since thankfully they are not allowed in Glacier Bay. This was before bear spray was readily available. We both found trees we could climb if necessary, then did what the Tlingits had long done when encountering a bear. We talked to it. The idea is if you let the bear know you are there, he will seek to avoid you. It worked -- except the bear ambled off into the woods closest to the stream! Without much choice we paddled by talking noisily and hoping the bear would stay in the woods. Thankfully, it did.

Once in the waters of Port Fredrick, we began to encounter groups of humpback whales and the occasional minke. One group of about six humpbacks we first saw about a mile away. However each time they surfaced they were coming straight at us and getting closer fast! I have never heard of a Humpback attacking a kayak, but then I doubt anyone would live to tell the story. Whoosh! About 100 yards in front of us they surfaced, still heading dead on toward us. I pictured any second seeing the sky eclipsed by the tail of a whale swatting me like a fly. Thankfully, they next surfaced some 50 yards behind us and kept on going. We breathed a sigh of relief.

Then it began to rain hard. Looking straight ahead, the rain stung my face. I put my head down to avoid the rain, only to have the rain bounce off my neoprene spray skit and keep my face just as wet!

We camped that night in the high wet grass just above the high tide mark. As I lay wet and shivering in my sleeping bag, I thought of the icy glaciers ahead and wondered what the hell I was getting myself into.

We passed by the village of Hoonah and headed toward Pt. Aldoufus and the dangerous waters of Icy Strait. Seven miles wide, kicking with tidal currents and wind, this could prove to be one of the most dangerous points of the trip. We camped for the night watching the ebb and flood of the tides. Tomorrow would be the day of truth.

We launched under cloudy skies the next morning. The wind was brisk out of the west. Some fishermen warned us to watch the skies closely when the wind came out of the west, especially on an ebb tide. As we left the protected waters of our camp, a gang of five sea lions joined us, burping and belching as they swam behind us. They followed us for a mile or so, then suddenly turned for shore. Not a good sign.

When we were about half way across, I looked to the west and saw that the horizon had turned black! I yelled at Joe and said "we better get moving." We picked up the pace, but the storm overtook us. The wind whipped up the waves, as it battled against the ebb tide for supremacy. Our frail boats were caught in the midst of this age-old cosmic battle. We leaned hard into the side wind to keep it from blowing us over. Each paddle stroke was a battle for a few precious feet closer to shore.

As we neared the shore a coast guard buoy rocked in the storm. Fitted with a bell to alert passing ships of a shoal the bell boomed out its warming. Bits of Hemingway's words came to mind, "Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee."

Finally, wet and exhausted, we reach the shore of Pleasant Island and managed a somewhat unpleasant landing in a cross surf.

We looked back over the storm-tossed Icy Strait and reflected on what we had done. Seakayaking provides (as does mountain climbing) those moments when we look back at the struggle of what it took to get here, and to both revel in what we have done and yet be humble in the face of the forces of nature that allowed us to pass.

It was this humbleness that dictated our next decision. Pt. Gustavus, the entrance to Glacier Bay lay ahead. The tide was a full ebb and the storm was gathering strength. The tidal water of Glacier Bay and Icy Strait collided like two titans. The Titans' wrath stretched far out in the strait. Our only choice was to paddle to the town of Gustavus and yell "Taxi!" That's right, we hitched a ride on the only taxi cab in the town and headed over to park headquarters. After all, discretion is the better part of valor.

At park headquarters the rangers let us know of some beaches that were off limits due to black bear problems, so we sat down with our maps to reconsider our route. The storm cleared the next day so we headed to the West Arm.

The first day out we cruised 14 miles with no difficulty.

The next day however the weather would not be so kind. A big storm had moved in and we faced a hard wind. All day long we crawled into the wind, each paddle stroke a labor to gain a few feet. At the end of 5 hours we had only made 8 miles. We were both tired and cold, so we decided to land and try to find a camping spot. We pulled up to a cliff and found a crack in the rock to use as a wind break. As I sat down at the base of the cliff, I heard a low croak. I looked up to see a raven peering at me over the edge of her nest. She squawked a lot at first, then slowly realized that this tired, wet excuse for a human was no threat. She settled back into her nest, occasionally taking a peek to make sure I was minding my own business.

The next morning was foggy and overcast, but, thank God, the fierce wind was down to a whisper. We paddled north to Blue Mouse Cove through Hugh Miller Inlet and into Scidmore bay. The skies were lifting and we saw our first glaciers. Hugh Miller and Scidmore glaciers are alpine glaciers, clinging to the mountains but never reaching the sea. Born in the snows of the Brady Icefield, the tops of these glaciers blended into the overcast sky revealing only craggy the lower face. Streams poured out from the base and tumbled down the rock face eventually to meet the sea below.

As we approached camp, a baby seal appeared beside our boat. We guessed it to be orphaned, since we never saw the mother. As we camped it swam back and forth in front of the campsite, crying out for its' mother. Nature is sometimes harsh, but we had no choice but to let it play out its' course. The next morning the seal was gone. Neither Joe or I spoke of it again.

The skies were beginning to clear and we rejoiced for we had endured 7 straight days where the rain had won out over the sun. After making the turn around Ibach Point all the days of wind and rain suddenly became worth it, for before us lay Reid Glacier! It was our first tidewater glacier. Like a wall of impenetrable ice, the half-mile wide Reid Glacier rose out of the sea. Large icebergs abounded in the bay and a spit of land jutted out in front of the glacier. We discovered this spit of land was far enough away from the glacier for safe camping. This turned out to be a wonderful choice. As the tide retreated several of the icebergs 'grounded' onto the beach making them safe to approach. These bergs were of fairly clean ice which allowed a chance to see their inner structure. Like globes of ice pressed together, the 'bergs reflected light in various distortions. Joe, an amateur photographer, spent many joyful hours composing pictures.

The next day brought sunny skies and more glaciers. The Lampugh Glacier treated us to a ferocious display of calving ice. The calving revealed the deep blue ice characteristic of many of the glaciers of Glacier Bay. The ice has had much of the air compressed out of it, so it absorbs more of the light. The shade ranges from a light blue to a very dark navy blue.

We awoke to a rare treat, clear sunny skies! The first of the trip. This was heaven; sunshine in Glacier Bay!

We had chosen the West Arm of Glacier Bay, because of the reputation of spectacular scenery in John Hopkins Inlet. About ten miles long the inlet has several alpine glaciers and ends in the ice wall of John Hopkins Glacier. We were not disappointed. This truly was the land of ice castles! We paddled through a maze of ice from the size of a baseball to the size of a house. Most fascinating were the small ice chunks which were sculptured by the wind, and waves. A wondrous variety of shapes and sizes greeted us. To add to the excitement the big 'bergs were rolling. House-sized ice bergs, seemingly stable, would sudden roll over. We stayed well clear of these death traps.

Our trip was in late May, the time of year when seals have just given birth to their pups. The ice flows contained dozens of seals and their pups. The seals would haul out on the ice to feed their pups and to give the pups a rest from the cold waters. Somehow they seemed to know when a berg was about to roll and left well in time. We tried our best to steer clear, so as not to separate mother from child. Unfortunately the large tourist ships didn't seem to give a damn; they plowed through the ice, sending seals scattering. It was a frustrating and disturbing sight.

The inlet was also noisy. A colony of Kittywakes constantly screeched and squawked, plus the glaciers themselves were roaring. The Johns Hopkins glacier was actively calving, dropping massive chunks of ice into the water. The resulting wave caused a great chattering amid all the floating ice.

We were careful to watch the tide as we paddled in. We paddled in with the outgoing tide which spread the ice out. The flood tide would pack the ice in trapping us. We chose a campsite knowing we could only leave on the out going tide. The high tides had removed the snows of winter from the beach, leaving a three foot wall of snow that our tents and boats had to be lifted on to. The high tides and the waves from the calving glacier made camping on the beach too risky.

Next we paddled over to Tarr Inlet. This was a sight to behold. Two of the largest glaciers of the trip, the Marjorie Glacier and the Grand Pacific Glacier are separated by a small outcropping of rock. The effect is a feeling of being overwhelmed by glaciers. The contract is also striking. The Marjorie Glacier is predominately white while the Grand Pacific Glacier is mostly black from all the rock it is grinding up.

We found a camping spot which afforded a spectacular view of these magnificent glaciers. Unfortunately, sometime after we left, another group of campers was sloppy with their camp and a bear raided it. The park rangers had to close this beach off to camping as a result.

This was a hard camp site to leave, but it was time to head back to park headquarters and home. As we paddled down the bay, we noted how the shrubs of the upper bay gradually turned into bigger and bigger trees. Up next to the glaciers life was just beginning to take hold but here further "down glacier" these trees had gained a firmer foot-hold and were beginning to mature.

Before we left Glacier Bay had one more surprise. We had camped for the night on a gravel bar and were fixing breakfast the next morning. We had stayed bear cautious the whole time, however ,this was one moment, our guard was down. We had chosen this moment to do a quick inventory of what food we had left. We emptied the food bags on to a log. Just as all the food was all out, I looked up to see a young brown bear emerge from the brush about 50 feet away. Rather than spend two days without rations, we chose to defend our food. We yelled and banged pots together. The bear stared at first, then slowly walked into the brush. In a flash we repacked the food, got into the boats and paddled away. We never saw the bear again, but felt certain he was watching us.

We headed for Sandy Cove on the east side of Glacier Bay. As we rolled south, the brush begin to blend into a forest of real trees, eventually evolving into a mature spruce and hemlock forest. As we approached Sandy Cove we were greeted by humpback whales. Summer residents of the bay, these leviathasn spend up to 18 hours a day feeding. Come late fall they will travel south to the Sitka area for one last feed then cruise to Hawaii for the winter to give birth to their calves.

We dined on shore as the whales dined at sea.

Our journey was close to its end when Glacier Bay offered up one last treat. We paddled to a group of off-shore islands called the Marble Islands. As we approached we saw mass movement on the rocks ahead. Sea lions! In fact rather curious Sea Lions. Too curious! We quickly found ourselves surrounded. Out numbered, out weighted and out maneuvered we were at their mercy. One young bull surfaced beside me and grunted. Yuck, his breath was horrible!

"Chuuk!" I yelled (Chuuk is Tlingit for "get outta here". When yelled with a Klingon accent it works on both bears and sea lions.) It worked! The sea lions retreated, satisfied to just follow us for a while.

With our nerves still a little jittery, we paddled onward. Suddenly a bird flew right over my bow. "Puffins," my friend cried out! It seems the Marble Islands have a population of horned puffins. They flew circles around us and the island. This appeared to be their ritual, to circle many times before landing. Once on land they scurried down into their burrows to feed their young. Being a ground burrow nester, the puffins seek islands that land predators, such as fox, cannot reach.

Alas, it was time to go. We headed back to park headquarters and eventually back home and back to work. Yet the memories will linger of whales, winds and glaciers in "the land of the ice castles," Glacier Bay.

-- Bob

Copyright 2002 by Rev Bob Carter.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 8/22/2002.
Republished here with permission.

Kootznaoowoo - Fortress of the Bear

This narrative is about a trip I took many years ago while living among the Tlingit of south east Alaska. By the way the island is pronounced Koots -nah -whoo. -- Bob

A cold morning rain fell gently as I carried load after load of gear across the large tidal flat. Carefully I stepped between an amazing array of sea stars patiently awaiting the incoming tide. Just before carrying my last load, I kissed my wife goodbye. It would be the first time in 5 years of marriage we would be apart for more than a few days.

I settled in my boat, laden with two weeks worth of gear, and began to paddle. Fog shrouded both the land and sea. My destination lay hidden in the midst. The Tlingit call this island Kootznoowoo, meaning "Fortress of the Bear". Kootznoowoo is located in southeast Alaska and holds the largest population of brown bears in the world. An estimated 2500 bears live on the island, far outnumbering the 700 people. Though most maps name the island Admiralty, in respect to the Tlingit people I choose to use their name.

I began from my home in the Tlingit village of Angoon and set out for Juneau, 150 miles away. I was paddling alone. Though I had done a couple of short solo trips before, this would be my first long solo trip. Admittedly the first couple miles I questioned myself: "why solo?"

The simplest answer was that there was no one else to go with me. I owned the only kayak in the village. The Tlingit traditionally traveled by war canoes, carved out of giant cedar trees, not kayaks.

Perhaps though, the real answer lies in answering other questions: "why do we paddle?" and "why we take long journeys in little boats?"

The old gold prospectors talked of a thing called wanderlust. The need to explore, the want to see the world from yonder mountain top. The desire to see what's around the river bend. The driving urgency to see new lands and new waters. The call of the wild drawing us ever forward. Onward I paddled, my heart filled with this strange wanderlust.

The fog began to lift as I headed toward Hood Bay. I had often taken day trips into Hood Bay, and every time had seen bears. I had chosen early June for this trip because it is the time of year when bear graze the beach for goose tongue and beach asparagus.

Today would be no exception. I rounded a small point to see a mother bear munching away, while her twin cubs wrestled and romped close by. I drifted slowly by, quietly watching. Suddenly the sow pointed her nose to the sky. She sniffed back and forth, then let out a grunt and hurried off into the woods with her cubs close behind. She never saw me, but her nose told her I was there.

Later I would see two young bears, twins now for the first time out on their own. A dangerous time for man or beast. Locals called young bears such as these "Hoodlums," due to the fact that they are the ones most likely to raid a camp.

I chose to camp on a small island where Hood Bay forks. Would the waters around protect me from the bears? As I crawled into my sleeping bag, I remembered a friend of mine who came to visit us in Angoon. He had made the mistake of reading the book Bear Attacks In Alaska on the ferry ride up. One evening he nervously asked an elder of the village, "If I camp on an island, am I safe from the bears?" "Kootznoowoo is an island" was the elder's wise reply. I lay in my sleeping bag thinking, "Why did I have to remember that!"

At home in bed I am a sound sleeper, but when camping out I have always awakened at the slightest noise. Tonight was no exception. Some time in the night I heard a growl outside my tent, then another and another. I grabbed my gun and looked out of the tent, expecting to be surrounded by a herd of bear! Instead I came face to face with a bunch of sea lions. It seems I was camped in the middle of their nightly haul-out. They exploded into the water and spent the next several minutes grunting in protest. It was a long time before I got back to sleep.

Why do we paddle? Maybe to become one with the wind, the waves, the sea and the creatures therein. Floating with the rise and fall of the tide. Dancing to the rhythm of the waves. Feeling on your cheek the first breeze of a coming storm. Hearing whales breath deep before a dive. Watching the eagles watch you. Paddling in a fog that covers you in silence like a shroud. Hearing the raven call out to the morning sun. No words of a book, no pictures on a page or screen can create in us the mystical sense of being at sea in a kayak. Only being there will do.

The next day I paddled out of Hood Bay and headed south. Somewhere in the distance I heard the powerful exhale of whales. Eventually I spotted their spouts far away in Chatham Strait. I was surprised how far the sound had traveled. I paddled into Chaik Bay looking for a camping spot. Chaik is Tlingit for eagle. Kootznoowoo also has the largest population of nesting bald eagles in the world. I quite literally paddled the entire trip under their watchful eyes.

I spotted what looked like a promising flat space for a camp. As I paddled toward it, however, a brown bear walked out of the woods. My gosh he was big, by far the biggest bear I had ever seen! So much for camping there! I paddled several miles and found another island and slept with my shotgun loaded and ready. It was a restless sleep.

The next day I paddled past Whitewater Bay. The big storms of winter come from the north and churn the placid waters of the bay into a white-capped froth, hence the name.

I paddled on to a little place called Wilson Cove. I had hoped to camp on the flats at the head of the bay, however, once again, a bear beat me to the best camping spot. I settled for a rocky outcrop, where no matter where I set my tent I lay down with a rock in my back!

Before turning in, I searched the high tide line, curious at what I might find. I was just about to turn around and head back when a bit of green caught my eye. A glass ball! Prized by collectors, glass balls are spheres of blown glass used in olden days as floats for Japanese fishing nets. Although now replaced with foam floats, the occasional glass ball survives the storms at sea and rolls up on a beach in Alaska. In all my years of paddling, it is the only one I have ever found.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of the wind. It had picked up overnight and I would have to paddle into it all day. Why today of all days! This was the day I would paddle around Pt. Gardner, the toughest stretch of water, even without the wind.

Pt. Gardner is the southernmost point of Kootznoowoo. Here the mighty tides of Chatham Strait collide with the waters of Fredrick Sound. Add in the swells from the open sea, and you have one of the most dangerous points in all the Alaskan waters.

(Later that year, on a stormy night in November, I would receive a frantic call from a friend telling me that her husband's boat the Talia had radioed the Coast Guard that they were sinking off Pt. Gardner. Several of us sat with her that night, until word came that the Coast Guard chopper had plucked them from the waves and that they were safe. The boat however was gone forever beneath the waves.)

I approached the Point, trying to round it at slack tide. Just before hitting the Point, I took a wind break behind a small rock outcrop. When I popped out of the wind break, ready to "go for it," the water literally exploded in front of me. "What the hell was that?" was my first thought. Looking back now I can laugh. What had happened was a humpback whale had breached right in front of me. It just took a couple of seconds for my excited brain cells to figure it out.

Now I was really running on adrenaline! I sped toward Pt. Gardner, fighting the wind, riding the big waves, bracing in the weird tidal currents, dodging massive kelp beds and hoping the whale didn't land on me. Are we having fun yet?

Then I made a big mistake. Trying to shorten the distance, I paddled into a patch of kelp. The nose of my boat dove deep into a wave and came up tangled in the kelp. Just like tag team partners in a wrestling match, the kelp held me while the waves pounded me. At the time I did not carry a deck knife, so I had no choice but to attack the kelp by hand. The kelp was tough, but I was scared so I won. Now free from the clutches of the kelp, I turned for the sheltered water of Surprise Cove. To my surprise this cove that did not look promising for a campsite actually had a lot of flat soft ground.

After dinner, as I sipped on a cup of hot tea, I reflected on the day and the question of why do we challenge the sea in our little boats. The answer for me was to learn about myself. I learned this day amid the wind and the waves that I could overcome my fears. That I could hold back the instinct to panic and work my way out of whatever tangle I had gotten myself into. That it is not the size of one's body ( I am rather small in stature), but the size of the heart that matters. When in doubt, paddle hard. Curse not the wind, for it makes you strong.

Can a man's life change in but a few minutes in a kayak at sea? Yes. I look back and can truly say that, after rounding Point Gardner, I have approached life in a different way. In the midst of the wind and waves, I was transformed.

As I crawled into my sleeping bag I set my alarm for 6:30a.m. With the long hours of daylight during the Alaskan summers, my biological clock gets screwed up and I need a watch to tell me when it is morning . This time, though, nature had a different idea.

"Crack!"

I went from sound asleep to bolt awake in a heart beat! I grabbed my gun, chambered a shell and leapt out of the tent. There was no bear or deer to be seen, and the only sound was my beating heart. To this day I have no idea what caused that sound. It remains a mystery. It wasn^Òt even 5AM, but I knew that I now had too much adrenaline in my system to sleep, so I ate breakfast, loaded the boat and headed on my way.

After a while my stomach signaled lunch, but the shore was mostly jagged rock and cliffs. Finally I found a small stream pouring between a break in the cliffs. This would provide fresh water and a small ledge offered a great lunch time view. I had been seeing and hearing distant whale blows all morning, but nothing up close. That was about to change! As I sat eating my traditional lunch of peanut butter on pilot bread, two large humpback whales breached in unison directly in front of me -- not 50 feet from shore! I sat stunned, not believing what I had just seen! Then the whales calmly swam on, leaving me in awe, joy and thankfulness. What a show!

Why do we paddle? Special moments. Unique events. Once in a lifetime encounters with wildlife. Awe-inspiring views of rainbows and sunsets. Times of wonder and mystery, excitement and joy only found deep in the wilderness.

As exciting as my wildlife encounters had been the best was yet to come. Two nights later I was camping in Pybus Bay. I had finished dinner and I was sitting reading "The Spell of the Yukon" by Robert Service.

"Snap!"

I spun around to come face to face with a young bear that had ambled into camp. He was only 25 feet away, and looked as surprised as I must have looked. In truth, if he had wanted to attack, there would be little I could have done. My gun was by the tent. Thankfully, he did not want anything to do with me, so he took off running for the brush. After the adrenaline eventually wore off, I began to remember what the Tlingit elders had tried to teach me about the bears. "The bear is our grandfather, so just talk to him and let him know you are human and he will go his way". After this encounter, where I was at the mercy of a bear and he chose to let me be, I have remained cautious but no longer as afraid of bears. Since then I have 'talked to grandfather' many times and the bears have let me be. Still though, I catch myself looking behind me whenever I read Robert Service.

The next day I paddled past Gambier Bay, one of the biggest bays on the trip. I regretted that I did not have more time to explore this beautiful bay. "If only I had time" was my passing lament.

Why do we paddle? What draws us onto the sea?

Our modern world is so filled with machines and technologies that promise to do everything for us. Our homes protect us from the heat of day and cold of the night. Lights hide the coming of the night and shades darken the fierce noonday sun. At the touch of our fingers the sound of the songbird is shut out by the sound of the evening news. Through windows of glass we feel no wind. All these luxuries come with a price though; with each we separate ourselves from the earth from which we came. Perhaps we paddle out to sea to shake off our dependence on the machines, technology and the luxuries of life and to meet life with just a boat, a paddle and our skills. We paddle to once again become one with the earth and to remember that we are a part of the sea.

A couple of nights later I camped near Pack Creek. Here I explored the old cabin of Stan Price, one of the true characters of Alaska. Stan spent most of his adult life homesteading there at Pack Creek, which has one of the largest concentrations of Brown Bears on the island. Over the years he watched them grow from cubs and knew them each by name. He referred to them as "my bears" and refused to let anyone hunt them. He rarely carried a gun, instead preferring a stout walking stick. If a bear gave him trouble, such as digging up potatoes in his garden, Stan would yell at them by name and whack them on the nose! In all his years there only once did a bear attack. Stan's explanation was simple: "It wasn't one of my bears."

As I walked up a small knoll to check out Pack Creek, I saw a big bear beside the creek. Not knowing its' name, I quickly retreated.

On the tenth day I paddled to the head of Seymour Canal. At the head of the canal, I encountered a massive tidal flat. I stood in the mud, slowly pulling the boat along with the incoming tide. I had a long wait ahead and I was chilled from an earlier rain. I really wanted a cup of hot tea, so I pulled out my stove and set it up on my minicell foam paddle float strapped to the back of the deck. As the boat floated on the tide I managed to boil a cup of water to make a wonderful cup of tea. Ah, life doesn't get any better than this.

Why do we paddle? What is missing in life that we seek it on the sea? For some the answer is spiritual, to seek a closer presence with our Creator. Why here in the wilderness? As someone once said: Though the wilderness is not the only place God chooses to speak, it is here in the intense silence that we are more inclined to listen.

To get to Juneau, I had to either paddle 85 miles around the Glass Peninsula or portage one mile over land to Oliver Inlet. Thankfully, years ago, a Juneau sports club built a small railroad tram across the peninsula. I chose the tram because I was running short of time. An aluminum rail cart was made to run the tram, but unfortunately it was at the other end. So I hiked over and found the cart parked on a hill above the water. I enjoyed the ride back, remembering my childhood riding the train my dad ran a coal company in West Virginia.

I loaded the boat and began to push. It was a steep climb at first and the cart was heavy. I would push a few feet, then need to rest. The hand brake was broken off, so I tied a loop of rope around the axle to use to anchor to the cross ties. Next time I swore I would bring a small set of wheels and make my own cart! Once I got to the top it was easier, but when I got to Oliver Inlet I discovered the wind had really picked up. I figured I had earned a half day off, so I set up my tent and camped by the side of the rails. That night I dreamed of the trains that used to run by my boyhood home.

The last day dawned with a fury. The wind had not subsided, nor had the whitecaps disappeared. It would be a two mile open crossing over to Douglas Island -- and it was going to be fun. (Have you ever noticed that what a paddlers calls 'fun' everyone else calls insane?) The crossing was wet and wild. The wind and waves hit broadside and I found myself leaning into the gusts to keep from flipping over. Still at no point was I pushed to the limit, and I made the crossing in about a half hour.

Now I rounded Douglas Island and headed up Gastineau Channel to Juneau. A bit of sadness settled over me as I saw the bridge and the movement of cars. Civilization! Cars, traffic, phones, schedules ... yikes! I wanted to turn back! Back to the bears and the whales, back to the things that go bump in the night. Alas, my family awaited, as did my job and the real world, so onward I paddled into the heart of civilization, leaving behind the "Fortress of the Bear."
----

Copyright 2002 by Rev Bob Carter.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 8/28/2002.
Republished here with permission.

Kruzof Island: Paddling the outside

The coast of Southeast Alaska is characterized by an array of islands stretching all the way down to Washington. These islands serve as a buffer from the swells of the open sea, allowing boats to travel through the straits and narrows, and communities and cultures to build along the shore. For the sea kayaker these passages ways are a paradise. Yes, the winds still blow, the tides roll and whitecaps adorn the waves, but there is shelter from the storm amid the islands and bays.

I had lived in Alaska for three years and had paddled many miles by sea kayak. With each mile paddled, I gained more experience and knowledge of the wind and tides and the ways of the sea. Now it was time to take a big step, to paddle on "the outside", where the winds blow unabated and the swells crash full force upon the rocky, craggy shore. This ragged shoreline offers little shelter, forcing the paddler to go many miles before finding safety and rest. With the swells unabated, the paddler on the outside often faces surf landings upon not-so-gentle beaches. Also "boomers" lurked in these off-shore waters. Boomers occur where large rocks sit just under water. Most waves do not reveal their presence, but a large wave will suddenly break with great violence, catching the paddler off guard. More then ever before, as I paddled on the outside, I would be at the mercy of the sea. So why leave the sheltered waters to take on the risks of the outside?

Because, what is life without adventure? A mere dull parade of the everyday. True adventure is not found in the midst of sheltered lives; for some of us it is discovered when we dare to journey out there on the edge of the sea. Only when we venture beyond our comfort zones and test ourselves against what is real do we grow in mind, body and spirit.

"Because it is there," said Mallory of Everest.

"Because there we discover ourselves ," say we who paddle our boats into the midst of the sea.

I left my home in Angoon by ferry, headed to Sitka. The irony was clear. I would travel to Sitka on a large steel boat, powered by giant diesel engines, and return in a little plastic boat by the simple power of a wooden paddle.

As the ferry neared Sitka, it passed on the inside of Kruzof Island. Within days I would pass outside the protection of this mass of rock and gaze upon a new face to the sea.

The ferry arrived just after midnight, so I slept on a picnic table waiting for morning . After loading my boat with 10 days worth of food and gear, I took my first paddle strokes. It didn't take long for the excitement to begin. As I approached Middle Island, I saw a big splash, then another! A minke whale was breaching again and again! He breached over a dozen times! I had seen whales breach before, but not in such rapid succession and so frequently. It was an amazing sight.

A break in the clouds revealed the Mt. Edgecumbe Volcano, rising 3200 feet out of the sea and still holding the snows of winter on its peak. Beside it are the remains of another volcano that erupted a mere ten thousand years ago. A long time in human history, but just a wink in geological time. Actually several years ago Mt. Edgecumbe had a unique "eruption". It seems a couple of people thought life was too boring around Sitka and decided to liven things up a bit. So, on a bright and sunny April 1st, they flew up by helicopter to the volcano with about 70 old automobile tires. They dropped the tires into the crater and set them on fire! When the plume of smoke was seen pouring out of the volcano, the town of Sitka went into a panic. Calls were made by officials to begin the evacuation. The Coast Guard flew over to check out the danger and discovered that someone had tramped out in the snow with snowshoes the message "April Fool". Since there was no law against setting a fire in a volcano, the pranksters got off free.

I camped that night at the head of a trail that lead to the top of the volcano, but that would be a hike for another day. At dinner, much to my dismay, I discovered I had forgotten to pack a dinner plate! I ate out of my pot, but the food cooled quickly and the pot had to be washed before I could fix tea. I would have to come up with something for a plate.

At breakfast the next morning I watched two Sitka black -tail deer graze on the beach grasses just outside my camp. These deer often have surprisingly little fear of humans and will literally walk up to people. However, my friends who hunt say the first day of hunting season they all disappear.

I rounded Shoals Point and headed to Low Island, a wide island that is no more than three feet high at high tide. Many boat captains in the area fear it, because it can disappear in a storm. I decided to explore it. I was glad I did because I found a Frisbee that would serve as my dinner plate for the rest of the trip. Come to think of it, it was one of the best dinner plates I have ever used.

As I explored Low Island, two common oyster catchers let me know that I was unwelcome on their turf. They squealed constantly as I walked the island. Oyster catchers are beautiful birds, with eyes outlined in orange, and orange beaks contrasting with their black bodies. I thought of the name oyster catcher. Not much of a compliment when your prey cannot run.

After leaving low Island I headed to St. Lazaria Island. Formed by an vent of lava flowing up from the ocean floor, this rock in now a haven for sea birds including puffins, murres and auklets. The island is protected so I could not land, so I circumnavigated it, watching constantly for birds. The birds were everywhere . Murres clung in colonies to the cliffs. Cormorants perched on the rocks. Hundreds of puffins flew in circles, before landing in the tall grass and disappearing down their burrows to feed their young. Tonight the auklets would return from fishing at sea, and, I was told, crash land into the bushes. A lone arctic loon dove for fish. A few sea lions also fished the waters and a couple of sea otters lay on their backs and munched on sea urchins laid out on their bellies like a fine feast. What a place!

After a while I reluctantly paddled away and headed toward Cape Educumbe, which marked the real beginning of the outside. I did not plan, however, to round the point today, instead choosing to camp just inside of the Point Trubititsin and make the run tomorrow at slack tide. I learned long ago the read the tides, and, if possible, run troublesome points at slack tide.

Unfortunately the land didn't offer much place to camp and the landing was a dump beach, where the waves broke quick and sharp only a few feet from the shore. I waited patiently, counting the number of waves in each set. I then landed after following in the last wave of a big set. This meant that the waves that did hit me while I landed were the smaller ones. It wasn't a pretty landing but I managed.

The terrain was rocky and I barely found room for a solo tent amid the rocks.

That night as I lay in my tent I remembered two years before rounding Pt. Gardner on Kootznoowoo Island. It was a tough paddle, as the waters of Chatham Strait collided with the waters of Fredrick Sound . I made a mistake and got tangled in the kelp and got pounded in the waves for a moment or two. I survived, and learned. Tomorrow I would round a point of equal reputation and be exposed to the powerful waters of the Gulf of Alaska

Alas, the sea is a moody mistress. One day she lays calm and placid, never hinting at the fury that she could become. The next day the seas rage with wind and storm, with tides churning the sea into a white froth challenging all boats who venture forth!

I rounded Cape Edgecoumbe amid some left-over swells from a storm and a few playful swirls of current. Today the sea was indeed a kind mistress, offering grace instead of rage. For now I paddled in the midst of her grace, but I wondered when her mood would change.

I found a small beach in Neva Cove and took a lunch break. Neva is named for a Russian ship thrown up on the rocks by a storm. A friend owned a painting called the "Wreck of the Neva" which showed the boat being torn apart on the rock, while the crew and passengers hopelessly dove into the sea. Today, thankfully the cove proved an easy landing for my kayak.

After a couple of miles, as I entered Shelikof Bay, I noticed a bird I wasn^Òt familiar with to my left. As I paddled by, trying to figure what kind of bird this was, I noticed a log floating ahead so I steered around it. As I got beside the log, I suddenly realized that it wasn't a log but a sea otter wrapped up in a large strand of bull horn kelp. I was only a few feet from him and at first I thought he was dead. Unsure, I said "hello" (what else does one say to a sea otter?) and he jumped awake, looked at me and, in a flurry of a splash, dove under!

Even though it was an accident, I felt guilty for disturbing the sea otter's nap.

I camped that night at Pt. Mary, a small bay within Shelikof Bay. It was the first decent camping spot I had had in two days.

Being at sea for a while, I noticed my senses began to heighten. I was more attuned to the feel of wind and temperature on my skin signaling a change in weather. My hearing picked up for the sound of distant whales. My sense of smell also improved. This however had a down side. The next day as I neared a large island I began to notice a foul smell. Guano and sealions -- gag! The chart said "Sea Lion Rocks" and the name came true. A big old bull sea lion sat on the rock, surrounded by his harem. A few young males also shared the rock, but did not dare challenge the master for his ladies. I named him Bubba and called the rock Bubba's Domain. Content in the sun, the sea lions merely watched me pass by.

At the tip of one of the rocks I saw something I had never seen before, a sea otter on land. A mother sea otter had pulled her pup up on land and was apparently grooming it. Sea otters have little body fat and depend upon their fur for insulation. Hence the fur has to be kept very clean, or it will no longer protect the otter. After a few minutes the mother otter grabbed the baby by the scruff of the neck and hauled it back into the seas. The baby squealed in protest, but was soon resting contently on its mother's stomach.

The waters of Southeast Alaska are deep and drop off fast from the land. Hence there are surprisingly few sand beaches in all of Southeast. Sea Lion Cove is an exception, with its mile-long smooth sand beach. I wanted to explore this beach, but the swells were rolling directly into it. I paddled in slowly and discovered a steam poured in on the far right. This provided a place to paddle in behind a small sand spit to a gentle non-surf landing and a good camping spot. The rest of the evening I explored the beach, discovering an array of footprints from deer, brown bear, mink and land otter. A few human foot prints led me to a trail over to Kalinin Bay. Many folks anchor in Kalinin and hike over just to see this beach.

As I ate dinner a deer walked out of the woods and into my camp. On seeing me, he slowly turned away and walked back into the woods, showing no fear.

Rounding Cape Georgiana, I entered the waters of Salisbury Sound. Up to this point I had avoided being on a schedule, but my destination today would change that. I was heading toward Sergius Narrows, a narrow channel cutting between Chichagof and Baranof Islands, infamous for its raging tidal currents. On the spring leap tides the current at Sergius Narrows can reach up to 14 knots and the marker buoys are forced under water by the power of the tide! Stranger still is the fact that the tide changes at Sergius a full hour and a half before high tide catching many a boater off guard. My two concerns were to hit Sergius at the right time and avoid the ships in the narrow channel. Thankfully a native friend who had piloted these waters for years told me about Canoe Pass. Long used by the Tlingit in their war canoes, Canoe Pass to the east of Sergius would keep me out of the boat traffic and prove to be less violent water.

First though I had time for a side trip to the Goloi Islands. I had been told that a large sea otter colony lived here and I wasn't disappointed. As I approached the rocks, I noticed a jungle of large kelp beds. As I looked closer at the kelp, I saw lots of eyes watching me. Dozens of sea otters were swimming and feeding amid this forest of kelp. Several mothers cruised along on their backs, with their babies cradled on their stomachs. And I do mean cruise! I was astonished how fast they were swimming with what appeared to be so little effort. Their powerful tails moved back and forth below the surface, propelling them swiftly throughout the water. Also they used their tails to spy hop. Floating vertical they used their tails to push themselves up out of the water for a better look at me. Again they did this with the greatest of ease. I marveled at how well these mammals have adapted to life at sea. Their magnificent fur protects them from the cold waters. The sheer ease at which they swim is marvelous. I have seen them fishing for urchin in water that my navigation chart says is 20 fathoms or more deep!

Another remarkable thing is their ability to survive the winter storms. I have seen 25 foot swells here in the winter, not to mention 70 mph winds! The violence of the waves crashing onto these rocks is frightening, yet the otters call this place home. Here in the chaos of the winter storms, they feed their young and themselves. Truly an astounding and magnificent creature.

I tarried too long watching the otters and missed slack tide at Canoe Pass. Now the flood tide was gaining strength and I knew I was in for a ride! As I approached Canoe Pass, it reminded me of a white water rapid. A long narrow tongue of fast moving but smooth water climaxing in a series of waves, followed by a lot of swirling water. Yee-ha! It was fun! I shot through the pass, rode over the waves and had enough momentum that the swirling currents were not a problem; in fact they were rather fun. A few boils surfed me sideways, but a couple of strong strokes kept them from doing any damage. Now I was riding a fast current into the waters of Peril Strait. (Don't you love the names we give bodies of water?) The next 7 miles were probably the easiest I have ever paddled or actually floated. I popped my spray skirt, sat my paddle across my lap, opened my bag of Gladys' Granola (named for my wife Gladys who perfected the receipt) and munched away, watching the scenery fly by. I watched sea otters watch me as we both enjoyed the free ride. I floated past a group of harlequin ducks standing on a kelp-covered rock. A group of harbor porpoise joined me as they fished with the tide. The sky was blue, the air was hot and I was cruising without a stroke. Ah, life doesn't get any better than this!

That night I camped at one of the narrower sections of Peril Strait. I was probably only 100 feet from the main channel. I chose a beach with a small rise of land. Though I would see the high tide before I went to bed, nevertheless I wanted to be sure I was out of the reach of any boat wake. The Alaskan ferries, plus several small cruise ships, run Peril Strait, throwing large waves at the shore when they pass.

That night as I slept one of the Ferries did pass by, but it was not the wave that woke me. It was their damned horn! Apparently the pilot saw my tent on the beach and thought it would be funny to give me a wake-up call. The blast literally shook the tent! To make it worse, I had seen bear tracks earlier so I was sleeping lightly anyway. I just about jumped out of my skin!

The next day was a wonderful lesson in patience. The waters of the ebb tide ran against me, so I waited until the return of the flood tide. One of the first lessons I was taught by the Tlingits was that their very name meant "The Tides People". Indeed, they had lived and fished by the tides for thousands of years. Now it was my turn to learn to wait upon the tide. I sat on the beach and watched as eagles fished, otters fed their young and the deer grazed upon the beach. It was a time of peace and thankfulness, a time well worth spent waiting.

Finally the flood tide came and I launched my boat. I was careful to stay out of the main channel, to avoid the many power boats that ran past. One problem though was that I could not avoid their wake. These shallow waters caused the boat wake to be steep and breaking. I laughed because I was getting wetter here than I did on the "outside".

After a couple hours of paddling I reached Deadman's Beach. Sadly it is a place that in history lives up to it name. Back in the 1800's, the Russian fur traders came to Southeast to hunt sea otter. They had captured many Aleuts, enslaving them to help with the hunt. However, one attempt to enslave the Tlingits ended in disaster. The Russians managed to capture a couple of Tlingits and insisted the Tlingits feed them . So the Tlingits went out on to the tidal flats and collected clams and mussels. The Russians ate their fill. The problem was that it was summer and the shellfish were toxic. (PSP-paralytic shell poisoning). The Russians died along this stretch of beach and it is forever called Deadman's Beach.

This place brought much sadness to me. Having lived and worked with the Tlingit for the last couple of years I had heard many stories such as these. Stories of conflict and war. Stories of cultural misunderstanding and cultural destruction. Spiritual battles between Missionary and Shaman. The loss of language and the old ways.

The saddest part of the story is that it didn't have to take this dark course. With patience, understanding and the valuing of another's culture, much suffering could have been avoided, yesterday, today and even tomorrow.

The next morning I awoke to the sound of rain upon the tent. I couldn't complain, because up to this point the weather had been excellent. Southeast is a temperate rainforest, and, thanks to the ocean weather patterns, rain is the constant companion of the paddler. I refused to grumble. I looked at the forests with the huge hemlock, spruce and cedar trees all flourishing because of the rain. Also the salmon return to spawn each year to the stream of their birth. If the rain doesn't swell the steams, then the salmon cannot reach the gravel beds upstream. For Southeast Alaska, rain was life.

The rain picked up as I reach Hanus Bay. I set up my tarp and fixed a cup of hot tea. In the distance I heard a rumble. A thunderstorm , a rarity here in Southeast Alaska. Thunder is so rare that most of the village elders can vividly recall hearing it for the first time. One elder told me that when he heard thunder for the first time he ran under his house, thinking it was the end of the world.

I slipped on my rain gear and hiked up a stream to Lake Eva. Later in the summer this stream would fill with salmon and hungry bear, but for now it showed no signs of the life and death struggle to come.

In the morning I awoke to the sound of rain and wind. This was bad timing for a storm to be rolling in. Tomorrow I would need to cross Chatham Strait, a 10 mile expanse of open water. I didn't want to make the crossing in a storm. Living in Angoon, on the shores of Chatham Strait, I had too often seen its fury in the clutches of a storm. A few times I had crossed it on a ferry during a storm , and wondered if the ferry was going to make it!

I paddled 6 miles to Traders Island. My plan was to camp there for the night and make the passage in the wee hours of the morning, when I hoped the winds would be calm. In the evening the rain stopped, the rains ended and a spot of blue sky appeared. Was the mistress of the sea seducing me to cross only to turn against me in mid channel or was she offering the blessing of safe passage? Only time would tell.

My plan was to awaken at low tide, 4:00 a.m., to start my crossing. However, when I awoke, I was stunned by the size of the tidal flat. It was massive, muddy and mucky. Normally I can break camp quickly and launch in about an hour, including breakfast, but this morning, with such a massive tidal flat, it took well over two hours. The extra time was spent carrying gear out through the boot-sucking mud to the water. Now the tide was coming in fast and I realized that I could have slept an extra hour and it would not have made a minute's difference! Oh well such is the way of the sea.

The wind had died down and the sea was calm. Still, with a 10 mile crossing ahead of me, I set a good pace. If the wind were to return, I would pay for any laziness. To the north of me, I heard humpback whales at Morris Reef. I passed up the temptation to add a couple miles to my crossing to see them. I needed to cross while the winds were still down.

The first thing I had to deal with was the loss of perspective. For 8 days I had paddled close to shore, where I could gage my speed and progress by looking at the shore or kelp beds as I passed. Yet now with no land close by I could have been standing still and not known it. In fact, it felt like I was standing still! For the longest time the distant shore didn't seem to be getting any closer. Was I standing still? Surely not, but the illusion was somewhat unsettling. After a couple hours, I began to notice subtle changes on the distant shore. A few landmarks appeared clearer and I was beginning to see more and more of the beach. I was making progress after all! I learned this day that there is a difference between intellectually knowing you are making distance and actually feeling you are making it. Believe me it is a big difference.

When at last I could make out Wailing Island in front of the village, I knew I was almost home free. Then the sea threw one last surprise at me. I am not sure why I turned around, maybe just to see where I had come from? At first I wasn't sure what I was seeing. Several hundred yards off, there was a dark shape rising out of the water but not moving. A killer whale spy hopping! I had heard of killer whales doing this, but never thought I would get the chance to see one. Soon he sank and disappeared and I did not see him again. (I realize that many prefer to use the term orca, but one of the clans of the Tlingit is the Killer Whale Clan. In fact, from where I sat, I could see the Killer Whale Totem in the village, so I favor using the term killer whale.)

My journey was now almost over, but I wasn't mentally ready for it to end. I stopped at Wailing Island to reflect. A simple wooden cross sat on the highest rock on this island, a memorial marker for a village fisherman who never returned from the sea. Today, by the grace of the wind and sea, I had returned. So I stopped and reflected on the journey, on all that I had seen and experienced. I pondered on all that I had become along the way. I prayed and thanked God for a safe journey and for each profound moment at sea.
----

Copyright 2002 by Rev Bob Carter.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 9/9/2002.
Republished here with permission.

Cape Ommaney

Ed looked frail as he walked up to me after church. I knew better; this was one tough old bird. He had spent much of his life fishing in Alaskan waters, hauling monster halibut up from the deep and flinging them onto the deck of his boat . He had survived a plane crash, and his face still showed the scars. He and his wife Jane had survived the destruction of their fishing boat when it got caught in the surf on the outer coast. They both had bravely dove into the sea and swam out to where the Coast Guard chopper could pluck them out of the cold waters. Just this past winter he had survived two emergency surgeries in three days.

"I hear you're going around Cape Ommaney in your kayak," he said.

"Hopefully," I replied

"I think you're crazy!" was his retort.

Cape Ommaney is the southern-most tip of Baranof Island in Southeast Alaska. There the tides of Chatham Strait meet the roaring swells of the open sea. How wild can it get? Once upon a time, a lighthouse stood on the point of Cape Ommaney, until a winter storm with 40-foot rollers wiped it off the face of the earth! Ed and Jane had plenty of stories about bucking the waves and tidal currents at Cape Ommaney and they made sure that Sunday that I heard every one.

For me it was as Yogi Berra had said, "Its deja vu all over again." Pt. Gardner on Kootznoowoo Island, Cape Edgecumbe on Kruzof Island. Points where the tides, wind and waves battled for supremacy, creating wild chaotic waters. Places where a paddler's skill would be tested and more. Yet, as with the other trips, this was the price to pay to reach my destination, the outer coast of Baranof.

Have you ever looked at a map and seen a place that beckoned you? A spot that seemed to call out adventure and grandeur. A place that, no matter the journey to get there, you just had to see . The outer coast of Baranof was such a place for me -- wild, remote and untamed. What called me most were long glacier-carved fjords that cut into the heart of Baranof Island. The dream of being surrounded by tall mountains, granite cliffs, lush forests and cascading waterfalls as I paddled summoned me like a vision quest.

To add to the spirit of adventure for the trip, I would be paddling solo. Some would say this was dangerous, others foolhardy. Yet I am neither a fool nor do I thrive on danger. It is simply this: in solitude one can listen and search one's soul to a deeper level. In the intense quiet of nature when the noise of the world is silenced and the ways of technology are left behind, only then do we discover what it means to be human.

One other reason that I often travel solo is that, as a pastor, my job is people-intensive, helping people each day answer life's deepest questions or to cope with the problems and sufferings of their world. Now, solo in a kayak, on the remote outer coast of Alaska, this would be my time to ask my own questions and seek the answers in the wind and waves.

I would begin my trip from a remote fishing village called Port Alexander, one of the rainiest and windiest places on earth. Up to 300 hundred inches of rain fall here every year and the winter storms are merciless. The hearty folk who live there brave the waves and wind to fish the sea for their livelihood. The people of Port Alexander are an eclectic bunch, who like to refer to their town as P.A. and pronounce Cape Ommaney simply as "Omni." They live out their lives with a deep respect for the sea. They have no choice; in days past some have not returned, having met their Maker amid the wind and waves.

The first problem was just getting to P.A. No ferry service exists and floatplanes would not carry hard-shell kayaks. Luckily Dave, a friend of mine, fishes here every summer and agreed to haul my kayak down on his fishing boat. Ironically, he chose the longer (inside) route to avoid going around Cape Ommaney!

On a Monday morning, I flew in a DeHaviland Beaver float plane out of Sitka and headed for Port Alexander. The flight gave me an opportunity to see the outer coast. What I saw confirmed what I read on the maps. The coast line was ragged and torn. There would be few landing spots, except deep inside the bays. I would have to watch the weather very carefully, lest I get caught in a storm with no place to seek shelter.

As we neared Port Alexander, the plane began to be tossed by the wind. A storm was approaching from the southwest. The pilot chose to fly through Larch Bay Pass to beat the storm. Just a few years ago a plane had crashed in this area when the pilot chose the wrong pass. Thankfully this pilot made the right choice and we landed safely. The pilot was in a hurry, since if he didn't get out in time he might be stuck here for days. He unloaded both the passengers and baggage very quickly. My gear was literally thrown all over the dock.

I gathered my gear up in a pile and headed out in search of my boat. My friend told me he would leave my boat with the local store keeper, a character named Bud. He was a character all right. He looked like he had walked straight out of a Robert Service poem about some crusty old gold miner who had not seen civilization in 20 years. Bud cussed like a sailor and drank like a fish. Despite his gruff ways, I discovered Bud loved kayakers. He immediately showed me his log book. In it were the writings of several sea kayakers who passed through and had been befriended by Bud. He lamented that someone had stolen his most treasured log book, the one Audrey Sullivan had signed. He wouldn't tell me where my boat was, until he told me the story about meeting her and her trip around Baranof Island. Then made sure I wrote down my float plan in his book "for [my] safety."

Eventually he showed me a storage building where my boat was and I carried it to my gear pile. I began loading my boat when suddenly I realized something was missing. My fuel bottles and my bear spray were gone! Then, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, I remembered. Due to the volatile nature of both, the float plane pilot had put them in a compartment in the floats rather than in the cockpit for safety reasons. Apparently a couple years ago a bear spray canister discharged inside a plane in flight! It was a miracle the pilot was able to land. My pilot had been in such a hurry to beat the storm that he had forgotten to unload them.

Immediately I ran back to Bud's store for help. He called the float plane company who radioed the pilot, but the pilot refused to turn around due to the storm. As frustrating as this was, I couldn't blame him; the winds were picking up and the visibility was dropping. He would try to get back tomorrow, but gave me no guarantee. As I lamented my situation to Bud he said with a very serious look, "You weren't going anywhere today, a &*^%#@ storm's coming in." The look on his face told me that, if he had to, he would take a gun and shoot a hole in my boat before he would let me paddle around Cape Ommaney in this storm. I immediately took a liking to this guy, because in his own gruff way he was taking care of me.

Bud gave me a place to stay and told me of the local one-room library where I could read until they turned off the generator and the lights went out.

I knew that Bud was right but after all the months of planning I just had to paddle, so I jumped in my unladed kayak and headed out of the inlet for a romp amid the waves. The swells were big and rolling and they were fun! The only problem was staying out of the way of all the fishing boats cruising in to beat the storm.

I love the energy of big ocean swells. I love how one second you are on top of the wave, seeing for miles and miles, then the next you drop deep down in the trough and the world disappears amid a wall of water. Despite all the fun, eventually the wind started to make things a bit nasty, so I headed back in.

As I crawled into my sleeping bag that night, safe and dry from the wind and rain of the storm in Bud's storage shack, I thought about this rough and barnacled character who offered me shelter from the storm. If ever there was a Good Samaritan, surely it was Bud.

I awoke the next morning anxious to hear the sound of a plane. Thankfully the storm had passed, so there was hope. At last the plane came through the pass, landed and taxied to the dock. The first person to meet the plane was Bud, who made sure the pilot unloaded my stuff first! What a guy!

I loaded my boat and finally took off . Unfortunately, I would not have the luxury of taking a few days to get used to a loaded boat. Cape Ommaney was just six miles away. My goal was to hit Cape Ommaney at slack tide, normally the safest time to hit a point. My fisherman friend Dave had warned me though that, for some unexplained reason, the current from P.A. to Ommaney always ran south on both flood and ebb tides. He also warned me that it ran fast. He was right! I found myself getting there quicker than I wanted, so I pulled out at a small rocky beach to kill time and have lunch.

I was in for a treat. No sooner had I sat down to my usual peanut butter, jelly and pilot bread when two big killer whales swam by not 100 feet from shore! Judging from the tall dorsal fins my guess is they were two males. I am not sure where they were headed, but they were getting there fast. I only saw them surface twice more before they were out of sight.

I got back in my kayak and started toward Ommaney. As the shore of Baranof began to turn toward the Point, I saw for the first time Wooden Island. A huge rock island rising out of the sea, Wooden Island is home to a large colony of puffins. They were everywhere, one of the largest concentrations I had ever seen! My guess is the churning tides pushed a lot of fish to the surface, offering the puffins a royal feast. Unfortunately, with Cape Ommaney coming up, I had to concentrate more on paddling than on bird watching.

The seas were getting lumpy and swirls of current boiled the water. I began to wonder if there was such a thing as slack tide here! I was surprised when I first saw Ommaney. I expected to see cliffs or a mass of rock. Instead I saw a small point of low-lying rock reaching into the sea. In reality Cape Ommaney itself was only 10 feet wide.

I, however, still had my hands full. As I rounded Ommaney, I faced the swells head on. They were coming from the west, left over from the storm. As the swells hit Ommaney they overwhelmed the current flowing from the east. The result was an overflow of water at the very point. Weird! It was like paddling up a wall of water or like hitting a big wave on a river! I reached up to plant my paddle near the top and pull myself over. This was one of those times when I was glad for all my white water kayaking experience.

When I made it over the top, it was like looking out over a whole different world. Everything was in chaos! Waves danced and broke at odd angles and shapes. The waves were pyramid shaped and the swells rolled unabated onto the shore. This was the craziest sea I had ever seen and I had my hands full.

Most of my paddle strokes were half stroke and half brace. A few times I rose up on a wave only to have it collapse under me. A couple of these landings were hard enough to jar my teeth!

Despite the wild and unpredictable seas, I felt in control. Ages ago, when the Aleuts and other native Americans built the first kayaks out of skin, bone and wood, they were built for seas such as these -- wild and unforgiving. Now millenium later, in a kayak no longer made of wood and walrus skin but of plastic, yet still bearing a resemblance to those ancient craft, I rode confident upon this restless sea.

For those of us who take to sea in our sea kayaks, these are the moments for which we live. Our skills pitted against the sea. Challenging enough to cause the adrenaline to flow, but not so chaotic that we fall into fear. All the years and miles of paddling honing our skills pay off in this moment, we have arrived!

This was a true moment of sheer joy, a moment of feeling fully alive. I burst into song amid the waves, and the puffins didn't complain that I can't sing.

I approached a group of islands called Eagle Rocks. I passed inside of them to get a break from the swells. Instead I found myself in the midst of the clapotis waves bouncing between the rocks. The wild seas suddenly became totally crazy, so I put on a burst of speed to get out of there! I was following an old whitewater kayak motto, "When in doubt, paddle hard!" A small group of sealions sat calmly on the rocks as I paddled by. "Stay there guys," I thought, "I don't need your help."

I had planned to land in Larch Bay, but as I approached I saw that plans would have to be changed . The shoreline was clogged with logs! Over the years these logs had escaped from log rafts being towed by the logging tugs. Sadly, they pile up on shoreline and are left to rot. It is a shameful waste of what were once magnificent trees.

I paddled on to Little Puffin Bay and found a campsite near the head of the bay. I chose my campsites carefully, knowing that a storm could pin me in for days. If I was going to be stuck somewhere I wanted it to be a good spot. That evening after supper I felt totally drained. I guess I didn't realize how hard I had paddled. I slept soundly.

The next morning I woke to the sound of rain on my tent. Little did I realize that rain would be my constant companion for the rest of the trip. It would rain 11 out of the 13 days I was on this trip.

Still the wind wasn't bad and the tide was beginning to roll. Running with the tide would be a major factor on this trip. The flood tide in Southeast Alaska runs north and my plan was to ride with it. I knew that, thanks to Murphy's Law, the wind would be against me no matter which way I paddled, so at least I could have the tide in my favor.

I had been told there was a large sea lion colony somewhere on the outside of Baranof, but I had been given conflicting reports as to where. My nose gave me the first clue. Gag! Two miles away and I could smell them! Within one mile of the rock I began to hear them grunting and barking. I decided to give these rocks wide birth for safety sake. As I passed I saw the rocks were literally covered by sea lions. Hundreds of them! A biologists later told me an estimated 300 animals live on these rocks. Several big males were perched on the choice places surrounded by their harems. Each grunted and barked at the other males saying, "Stay away from my ladies." Young males lay at the waters edge, dreaming of the day when they could lord over their own harem.

Despite paddling over a hundred yards off, the colony quickly noticed me and this set off a flurry of activity. The big bulls grunted more loudly and the females lifted themselves up by their front flippers and swayed back and forth for a better look. Several females and young males slid into the water and made a beeline for me.

"What have I gotten myself into?" I thought. I felt like a slow ship with a fast torpedo coming at me! Suddenly I was surrounded by sea lions! They popped their heads out of the water, barking and grunting, their open mouths showed an impressive set of canine teeth. They were not aggressive, just a little too curious for my comfort.

As long as they stayed curious at a distance I felt I would be OK. Then I saw one of the big males hit the water! It was his turn to check me out, or maybe these were his ladies surrounding me and he was coming out to settle things! I grabbed my deck knife and held on to it while I paddled. This could get serious. How do you tell a big bull that you are not interested in his ladies? "Bubba" looked like a submarine plowing through the water. He stopped about 20 feet from me and popped his head up to get a better look. Then he paced me for a hundred yards or so, then headed back to the rock. I guess he saw that I wasn't a threat, so he needed to get back to his harem before one of the other males grabbed a few of his ladies. I breathed a big sigh of relief and paddled on.

As I had noted from the plane, the coast line offered few spots to pull out of to seek shelter if the weather turned bad. However, seeing it on a map or from the window of a plane was different. Now I was experiencing the vulnerability of my situation. Somewhere between luck, skill and the grace of the sea I paddled on.

I camped that night in Branch Bay, remembering how 30 years before man named Bill Branch first taught me how to canoe and led me down my first white water rapids. Too bad he forgot to tell me about the waterfall!

The next day I would paddle past a couple of bays that I wished I had the time to explore. The down side to a trip like this is that you have to pick and choose what you explore and what you paddle past. So on I paddled and I camped that night in Sandy Bay.

On those dark winter nights when I sat with my hot cup of tea looking over my maps, it was Whale Bay that fascinated me the most. A wide entrance to the bay led to two long arms -- Great Arm and Small Arm (I wish the map makers had had a little better imagination in naming the arms.) Now as I rounded Tikhaia Island, Whale Bay began to unfold before my eyes. After all the planning and dreaming I was here! Though it had rained most of the day, the sun found a hole in the clouds and the bay seemed to shine. A solitary fishing boat chugged out of the bay heading north. I doubt if the captain even saw me.

As anxious as I was to paddle deep into Whale Bay, I chose to remain at the mouth of the bay. Due to the steep walls of the fjord, the map didn't show much promise for finding a camping spot for at least another dozen miles and I had already paddled over a dozen miles into a not-so-gentle breeze. Also I was near the end of the flood tide and didn't want to paddle against the ebb tide.

I camped in a little bay called Rakovoi. The Russian fur traders were some of the first non-Natives to explore this island, so Russian names dominate the map.

I awoke early the next morning, anxious to paddle up the Great Arm of Whale Bay. I listened and heard neither wind nor rain on the tent, a good sign! I poked my head out of the tent to check things out and discovered I was in the midst of a world of white. The fog was so thick I could barely see 50 feet. It engulfed everything, the land, the water, even my white kayak! Disappointed I crawled back into my tent. I wasn't going anywhere for a while. What is the use of paddling up Whale Bay if you can't see Whale Bay?

The fog lay like a blanket upon the water all day. Bored with reading after lunch I decided to paddle around a bit. With no visibility I would have to rely on my map and compass, lest I spend the rest of my life paddling in circles trying to find my tent! Basically I hugged the shore, like Linus in the comic Peanuts hugs his security blanket. At one point I noticed something white emerging out of the fog. It was an anchored sail boat. As I paddled up to it, I saw a man standing on deck. His back was to me, so he had no idea I was there.

"Hello," I said in a quiet voice.

He slowly raised his head, looking around with a puzzled look on his face as if he was afraid that he was hearing voices. Finally he saw me and just stared for a couple seconds.

"What are you doing here?" he eventually found his voice to ask.

We talked for a while about where we had come from and where we were going and about how thick the fog was and how long we thought it would last. Boaters talk basically.

It was strange, I thought as I paddled back to camp, that it didn't matter what kind of boat we were in, the fog had captured us both. By the time I got back to camp the rain had settled in and was still falling as I crawled into my tent for the night.

The next morning I awoke to sunshine! The sun had found a big enough hole in the clouds to burn off the fog! I took advantage of the sun, while waiting for flood tide, to dry out some of my clothes. I laid them out on the rocks and they literally steamed .

Now the day I had long waited for -- to paddle the fjord! It was more beautiful than I had ever imagined. The fjord narrowed quickly and soon I was surrounded by steep mountains rising over 3000 feet up out of the water. Waterfalls big and small tumbled and crashed into the water. Ancient spruce, hemlock and cedar clung to the mountainside. Seals drifted near by, peering at me with their deep dark eyes curious but shy of this strange creature that floated upon the water. A group of harbor porpoise swam in with the tide following their fish prey.

Atop a giant spruce a bald eagle sat silently, watching the water intently. Then slowly it spread its wings and launched into the air, intent on a spot in the water in front of me. It swooped down, gaining speed, then tipped up the front of its wings, extended its sharp talons and skillfully plucked a salmon from the water. With a few powerful flaps of its wings, it climbed back into the sky, bearing its prize back to a tree-top perch for a feast set for a king.

After 12 miles I neared the head of the bay. The tidal flats gave way to a large grass flat. Small islands of spruce dotted the sea of grass. Eventually a wall of trees formed, signaling the beginning of the forest that climbed up the valley. A cascading stream poured down between the mountains, meeting the sea as a winding creek. A large group of Bonaparte's gulls floated at the mouth of the creek, squawking loudly as they fished. I paddled up the creek as far as I could, then lined the boat till I reached one of the spruce islands. I sang loudly the entire way. Though the salmon had yet to spawn, bears had already begun to come off the mountain to check the streams. They like to snooze in the tall grasses by these streams. This grass was chest high in places and there was a great risk of stumbling onto a bear. I prefer to let sleeping bears lie!

I arrived at high tide, which meant I had 12 hours to set up camp, eat, sleep and launch again. I wanted to leave at high tide to avoid the large tidal flat the map showed. Also I had enjoyed paddling in with the tide and I wanted to paddle out with it.

The next morning was cloudy. The mountaintops I had viewed yesterday were now shrouded in a blanket of clouds. As beautiful as these mountains were yesterday in the sun, today they held a wonderful grandeur softly adorned in their robes of white.

As I paddled I saw more eagles fishing, sometimes snagging their prey and at other times coming up with nothing but wet talons.

After a dozen or so miles, I paddled out of Great Arm and headed for Small Arm. A couple of possible campsites didn't pan out. I headed up Small Arm hoping I wasn't committing myself to seven more miles of paddling, especially now that I was against the tide. Thankfully about three miles up the arm I found a small flat gravel bar beside a creek that tumbled off the mountain. Admittedly a gravel bar doesn't sound like much of a place to camp, but this one was composed mostly of flat oval-shaped rocks. It would prove to be comfortable enough for a good night's sleep. The map indicated a small tidal flat giving me more flexibility in launching tomorrow morning.

Though small with not much shoreline to explore I enjoyed sharing this campsite with a roaring water fall and an inquisitive mink. Common to this area, mink like to check out the high tide line to see what has washed up for dinner. Ms. Mink and I shared dinner on the beach that evening. I dined on rice and beef stew, while she dined on some shellfish and crab. All we needed was a bottle of wine.

I took things slow the next morning. I only had a few miles to go to the head of the Bay, so I waited until the high tide was rolling in before setting out. I ate lunch at the head of the Small Arm where, once again, the tidal flats merged into grasslands.

When the tide eased up somewhat, I paddled out of Small Arm and started looking for a campsite. The map indicated a stream pouring into a tiny bay. My view was blocked by a large boulder, but when I paddled around it I found a small grassy knoll with adequate room for a camp. Later that evening, as the tide went out, I realized that map underestimated the size of the tidal flat. It extended well beyond the boulder. This was going to be a fun carry tomorrow.

The next morning I popped my head out of the tent and stared at the tidal flat. It stared back and smiled! This was going to be a long morning of hauling boat and gear. It may sound funny, but one of my main worries on a trip like this is not so much the sea lions or the turbulent waters, but simply slipping on seaweed. The mud flats of Southeast Alaska are rich with shell life, many of which are sharp. Mainly it is the razor-sharp barnacles I worried about most. In addition to their ability to cut, the wound can become infected quickly, due to the organic matter embedded in the shell. Add to this a literal dose of salt water and the risk is real. Infected hands whose wounds would not heal would be no fun on a trip like this. In fact, I carry surgical scrub in my first aid kit to cleanse any cuts. I very carefully carried my boat and gear out to the rising tide line.

Once on the water I headed out of Whale Bay and onto Necker Bay. The wind had picked up overnight and the seas were beginning to churn. As I rounded North Cape the sea became tempestuous, tossing me around till I cleared the Cape and paddled into the Guibert Islets. From there I entered Necker Bay, but I had to wonder what would be in store for me in a couple of days when I headed back out.

Wonderfully, Necker Bay proved to be just as beautiful as Whale Bay, and was actually a more interesting place to paddle. My goal was Dorothy Cove, about six miles up the fjord. However the winds were beginning to pour off the mountains and it was tough going. I pulled into a small cove for a break and discovered a beautiful campsite with a freshwater stream and a wonderful view of the mountains. An old derelict fishing boat lay half out of the water, adding a touch of charm to the scenery.

I decided this was where I would camp that night, but I wanted to see the head of the fjord first. An unnamed island sat near the head of the bay, so I decided to circle it. The backside revealed several narrow passages which abounded in marine life. The water was clear and I could see many sunflower sea stars, one of the largest in these waters, spread out below me. Solitary blood stars in their brilliant red slowly moved along the bottom in search of food. Clusters of sea urchins were everywhere, and various sizes and shapes of anemone were in full bloom. Crabs scurried about and jungles of kelp waved in the flowing tide. Too shallow for a power boat, this was truly a quiet place of wonder for those who chose to travel with but a paddle and a kayak.

That evening I was entertained by a family of land otters frolicking in the water. What playful creatures and what fun to watch. Though occasionally they would spy hop to make sure I was no threat, they continued to feed, wrestle and play, enjoying life in their own way.

A storm was coming in, which meant a stiff southeast wind. Though this would put the wind to my back, it also meant that all the wind, tidal current and swells were hitting Cape Aspid head on. On my way to Cape Aspid I passed through the Yamani Islets. I noticed several orange buoys piled up on shore, so I paddled over to investigate. A shack made of beach driftwood stood amid a collection of boat parts and old nets. A sign with faded letters said "Here is the home of a Troll." I stepped into the trolls' hut and noted that either there had never been a roof or a storm had removed it. Perhaps when the troll returned he built a new roof.

Cape Aspid was in a joyful state of pandemonium, with irregular waves everywhere! The tricky part was that the swells were big enough to surf me and toss me like a toy into these erratic waves. I stayed busy. Sometimes I was backpaddling to avoid being surfed and other times paddling forward with strong strokes to keep my boat under control.

At one point I saw a small boat headed my way. I wasn't sure if, in the chaos, they would see me, so I moved out of their way. The boat passed close enough that I recognized a friend, Rebecca. She and another fisheries worker were on their way to Necker Bay to do a salmon count. They were so focused on getting around the Cape in these wild seas that she told me later she never saw me. A scary thought.

I spent the night in Jamboree Bay, quite spent.

The morning revealed rain and higher winds. I had a gut level feeling the night before that this could be such a day. I was in a good position though. the fury of the wind and sea. Plus, the wind was to my back. I paddled through Walker Channel, then through the Rakof Islands. I made the difficult decision to pass by Crawfish Inlet. This inlet was on my original schedule, but I feared this storm might pin me down for a few days. Though I had 17 days worth of food packed for a 14 day trip, I felt I owed it to my wife to arrive as close to schedule as possible. (Since she was willing to endure my solo adventures the least I could do was to avoid being overdue.)

The name Crawfish was somewhat of a mystery. There are no crawfish in Alaska, so what it is named for I haven't a clue.

The map indicated Windy Passage was ahead and I soon found out that this place was named quite correctly. The southeast wind screamed through this passage, churning the seas white. Between the wind and the following seas, I felt I was being flung out of a slingshot, a wet sling shot at that! Waves broke all around me and over me! With my hood up to keep the waves from crashing down my back of my neck, I had to rely on feeling the waves beginning to break. After a few near broaches, I got the feel of things and started to enjoy the experience. Still I knew I was nearing my limits, so I moved closer to shore, in case I had to run for shelter.

I was glad to see Kliuchef Peninsula. This meant a bay of calmer water was ahead and better yet it was called Hot Springs Bay! I coasted into the bay and ahead of me was Goddard Hot Springs. The springs are named for a Dr. Goddard who believed the springs contained healing minerals. In the 1930's he built a hospital here and would bring patients from Sitka to bathe in wooden tubs overflowing with the soothing hot waters.

Today several small shelters house wooden tubs where the water is piped in. The water temperature is about 120 degrees, too hot for most, so a small pipe of cold water from a nearby pond allows one to adjust the temperature.

Ah! After 10 days of wind, rain and frenzied seas, floating in a hot tub felt like a gift from above! Scientists may dispute the healing powers of these springs, but I am a believer.

Unfortunately the ground is permeated with the springs, so it proved to be a soggy place to camp. I wound up sleeping in an abandoned shack where the old floor boards kept me dry.

Instinct is an important sense when one is on a long kayak trip. The next day I had a decision to make, to paddle or not to paddle. After looking at the wind and the waves, my instincts, honed from years of seakayaking, said I should stay put. The conditions were just too dangerous and might push beyond my skill level. Actually the wind had died down to about 10mph and the seas were quite calm. What really honed my instincts was the fact that I was floating in the hot tub once again!

Reluctantly, the next morning I packed up my gear and headed out. Soon I would be in familiar waters. I had often paddled down this far out of my home in Sitka. Yet the sea still was full of surprises. I had dropped into a steady rhythm, cruising along with the tide. I passed by Frost Reef and headed towards Redoubt Bay, wondering if the sockeye salmon had begun their run.

"Whoop!" Out of nowhere a humpback whale breached 100 feet directly behind me! I nearly breached out of my kayak! That was close, too close for comfort! Now the whale was back underwater and I wasn't sure where. I sat there waiting, hoping if he breached again it would be a safer distance away. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he surfaced for a breath a couple of hundred yards off, heading out to deeper water.

Would a whale breach onto a kayak? I did not want to be the first to know or, for that matter, the last one either.

Now I passed Povorotni Pt., one of my favorite play spots. I had often paddled out there after storms when the winds had died down yet the swells were still rolling. With many rocks and reefs, this area becomes a circus of waves and breakers. I loved to shoot between rocks, timing the waves that break amid them. One of my favorite tricks was to paddle on the seaward side of the bigger rocks and watch the big swells crash onto them . I loved this awesome experience of power. Paddling just beyond where these waves broke, I could feel the sheer energy of the sea being liberated.

Out here I had honed my skills for such a trip as this, so it was fitting that the final hours of this trip would be spent here amid the rocks and waves that had taught me so much.

I turned the corner of Cape Burunof and my home of Sitka came into view. Just past the Eckholm Rocks I saw a fleet of fishing boats trolling for salmon. This presented a unique problem. The fleet was fishing back and forth in long oval patterns. The problem was that I needed to cross their paths to reach Sitka. It was like having to cross a freeway on foot. Often these fisherman are working their lines off the back deck and not paying much attention to what was happening in front of them. So basically I had to sprint, and wait, then sprint and wait again and again. I kept looking for my friend Ed to let him know I had made it and I wasn't as crazy as he thought, but unfortunately Ed wasn't fishing that day.

I passed Whale Island with its concrete bunkers, grim reminders of WWII when, after the Japanese invaded the Aleutians, it was feared that Sitka would be next. All through the war men peered out of these bunkers, searching the horizon for the enemies' great ships of war. I had often sat on top of these bunkers on day trips out of Sitka, thankful that they now served as great lookout perches for whale watching, a peaceful purpose at last.

As I paddled into Crescent Harbor I felt the satisfaction of having completed the journey. I had ventured forth on an odyssey and had returned. I experienced the joy of looking back at what I had accomplished. Yet I humbly knew that it was by the grace of the sea that I had passed through these waters.

I also felt a degree of sadness for the journey was ended, no more rolling swells, no more chaotic capes, no more magical chance encounters with wildlife. Just the memories and the dreams of other odysseys to come.
----

Copyright 2002 by Rev Bob Carter.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 9/16/2002.
Republished here with permission.

A Day Of Grace

About midnight, before going to bed, I check the weather forecast. It is the typical mid-winter Alaskan -- lousy. Rain or snow, temperatures in the low 30’s at best and winds up to 30 mph. So much for my plans to paddle tomorrow. Yet I can’t complain, this is Alaska and it is December. Add in the short daylight hours and the good paddling days are few and far between.

The next morning I awake and glance out the window, expecting to see the usual winter gloom and doom. Instead I see a brilliant blue sky! I glance at the treetops and they stand motionless. No wind! Frost lays thick on the ground, but I can live with that.

I grab my gear, load my boat and head down the road to Papkes Landing on the Wrangell Narrows. The Narrows is a 24-mile channel which serves as a shortcut between Wrangell and Petersburg. Fishing boats, ferries, tugs and small cruise ships save almost two hundred miles by running the Narrows.

The flood tide enters the Narrows from both the North and the South. When the tide begins to ebb, Papkes Landing is the dividing point with some water heading south and the rest heading north. Today my goal is to paddle south down the Narrows, then turn up a tidal inlet called Blind Slough.

I paddle out into the Narrows, looking up at the blue sky and a bright winter’s sun. The waters about me are mirror calm, with not even a whiff of wind. The temperature has climbed above freezing and, in the sun at least, feels quite comfortable. This is a day of grace. A day when a window of good weather offers a wonderful paddle.

A beautiful mid-December day in a land that rarely offers such a gift. I paddle amid its grace.

I head southeast along the Narrows. This is the first time I have paddled this area of the Narrows, so I need my map and compass to help me find the entrance to Blind Slough. As it turns out the name Blind Slough was very accurate. The winter sun hangs low in the sky and reflects brightly on the water directly ahead. It is blinding! Not only do I have trouble seeing landmarks ahead, but I have trouble seeing my compass! The compass is mounted on my forward hatch and the sun’s glare on the water makes it impossible to read. My only choice is to paddle at an angle to the sun in order to see. As a sail boat tacks to the wind, I am literally tacking to the sun!

After a mile I decide to give my eyes a break, paddling up a small unnamed creek. As soon I enter the shadows, I hit sheets of pan ice. Thin enough to easily paddle, the ice softly crunches as I cut through it. As I enter the creek I see what at first I think are chunks of floating ice. Only as I paddle past one do I realize I am seeing something much more unique. Frozen foam. Somewhere up stream a rapid has churned up the organic materials in the water into a pile of soft foam. The cold temperatures has frozen this foam into delicate ice structures that floated upon the waters. Mini ice foam bergs?

The creek is a joy to paddle. It proves to be a lot longer than I thought and takes me deep into the woods. As it narrows it remains deep. At last I reach a small falls. Only then do I discover that there is no room to turn around, so I back up several yards and, after several attempts, manage to turn around.

I reenter the narrows and head to Blind Slough. A line of navigation lights mark the deeper channel of the Narrows. Big boats have little margin for error in this constricted water. I stay it the safer, shallow waters.

As I round Danger Point, a flock of geese nosily protests my presence. I turn to avoid them, but they take flight and head out into the Narrows. As I watched them fly away, I see a dazzle of light on the water a mile or so away. The light moves like a ghost upon the waters. What is this? The landing geese give me a clue. Another flock of birds, maybe scoters, has taken flight. As they splash across the water to get airborne, the splash is reflecting the sunlight, creating a dance of light. Such wonders on the day of grace.

I hug the left shore and, despite the glare of the sun, manage to find the entrance to the Slough. The channel narrows and the current quickens as I pass by Blind Island. Ahead a few ripples indicate the channel is growing shallow. To my left is a small bay. The map indicates a small creek, Big Gulch, feeds this bay. I will have to check it out on my way out. The channel narrows further and ahead I see a board walk. It is the trail that leads down to Blind Slough Rapids, a tidal rapid that forms on the out-going tide.

It is about 45 minutes until tide change, so I paddle with the current farther up the Slough. Ahead the current turns left and begins to cut through a number of small grass islands. I drift slowly through. Seeing a small rapid ahead, I paddle into a small eddy to decide if I want to run through the rapid. If I do I will have to wait till slack tide to come back through. Since I do not know the tides of this area well enough to know how much lag there is between the tide change in the narrows and in the Slough, I decide to wait another day for paddling these rapids.

I head back to the overlook and have lunch. I watch the tide roll in while I munch on my roast beef sandwich and sip on a hot cup of tea. For dessert an orange hits the spot. It is 12:48, high tide according to the tide chart, and the tide is still rolling in. My best guess is that it will run at least another half hour. Discovering this tide lag will hopefully save me a lot of paddling someday.

Now beginning to chill, I get back in my boat and head down the Slough. When I moved from West Virginia, where the rivers all flow down hill, and came to Alaska, where the tide determines the direction the water flows, I had to come up with some new terminology. How can I call it ‘downstream’ when the water is running the other way? Is it still paddling ‘upstream’ when I paddle with the flood tide going upstream? Up the down stream? Down the up stream? Confusing.

I paddle back towards Big Gulch. Once again the world changes, as I paddle from a wide body of water into a narrowing stream. It is as if the wilderness begins to surround and embrace me. The trees are closer, the clear water reveals the sea life below, shells alive and dead slide below me. More frozen foam floats by. The sun hides behind the trees and the air noticeably chills. Frost now lines the banks, clearly marking the highest reach of the highest tide. A small rapid babbles as a kingfisher in a tree above protests my intrusion into his world. I turn to paddle away, back toward the warming sun.

Soon I reenter the waters of the Narrows. Here the tide has turned, so I paddle against the current for a mile or so until I reach the dividing point and once again begin to flow with the tide. Paddle up till you start down? Whatever.

I arrive at Papkes Landing and check my watch. It is 2:20, so I have less than an hour until sunset. Falls Creek is within reach, so I take off. As I round an unnamed point, I once again enter the land of frost and frozen foam. This time though there is a lot more foam, foretelling greater things ahead. The creek narrows quickly and I hear the falls before I see them. At last the falls come into view. Tannin-colored water pours in torrents down an ancient rock bed. A very old battle is taking place here. In some places the water has cut channels in the rock, but at others the rock has prevailed and juts above the water. In time and with time, the waters will win and one day the rock will disappear, dissolved into the sea.

Another battle will ensue in the late summer months. Salmon will gather in the deep pool below and fight their way up the falls in an effort to spawn in quiet waters above. The falls, however, are steep and the current fast. Most salmon exhaust themselves and die before reaching the safe water above.

In many places in Alaska, human beings have been the greatest obstacle to the spawning salmon, to the survival of the species. Streams have been altered in the name of progress, timber operations have dropped trees into the stream, and many steams have been over-fished. On Falls Creek it is a different story. Here humankind has repented and, instead of bringing death, tries to help life continue. To the right I see two concrete wall emerge out of the rock. Between them an ascending series of pools rise out of the creek and provide the salmon with a Jacob’s ladder to heaven, the top of the falls and the chance to spawn and begin life again.

I play for a few moments in the currents below the falls. I ferry back and forth across the swift foam-laden current. Today it is merely play, but perhaps some day in the future ferrying across a current may mean survival. In seakayaking, through play our skills grow.

I turn and head back out to the Narrows and toward the end of day.

The air cools as the sun sets in the Narrows. Daylight is fleeting and the first stars begin to appear. In the distance I see clouds gathering as the next winter storm announces its presence. It is the end of a wonderful day in this land of winter storms and darkness. Truly a day of grace.
----

Copyright 2003 by Rev Bob Carter.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Originally posted on Paddlewise mailing list on 1/2/2003.
Republished here with permission.