The Alaskan Boatyard |
Hello Friends,
Spring came abruptly to
Alaska. Seemingly overnight, the understory erupted in the fresh,
verdant green of deciduous foliage. A sleep-muddled bear fell
through the roof of a Juneau house into a child's birthday party and,
in Sitka, a grumpy grizzly wandered the streets preying on dogs while
taking generous gunfire from the locals.
Leaving Sitka was a
bittersweet occasion, but the weather was fair and the endless
wilderness beckoned. Several consecutive going-away celebrations
left us a little groggy, but the brisk spring air pushed the
boat slowly north. Kara's brother, Nathaniel had joined us
for a brief sojourn, a rather inexplicable occurrence given that his
last visit had consisted primarily of large, wicked seas and a
terrifying collision with a humpback whale in the southern Indian
Ocean. Not knowing any better, he considered the sea conditions in
the Gulf of Alaska just fine, if a little chilly, as we worked out
way up the outside of Chichigof Island.
Chichigof Island,
incidentally, is renown for having the highest population density of
grizzly bears on Earth. Kara, of course, wanted to hike daily and so
I'd borrowed a 12-gauge shotgun. I was under no illusion about
stopping a charging bear—or even my ability to locate the gun's
trigger under such circumstances—but I hoped it would make loud,
presumably bear-scaring noises. This theory proved fantastically
incorrect; the bears we encountered were decidedly unperturbed by
gunfire and I started to worry that, just maybe, the more curious
were coming to investigate the unfamiliar noises. Their reactions to
our presence ranged from imperious disinterest to nervous retreat,
and after several peaceable encounters I stopped worrying.
As the last grocery store
faded astern, Kara's role as provision-shopper began to evolve. In
the course of her endless quest for fresh food, wild mushrooms,
greens, and berries gradually supplanted their storebought
predecessors. She perfected her salmon-trolling technique, and there
were several halibut dramas; the largest catches were tremendously
muscular and impossibly difficult to subdue, even after being hoisted
aboard. The ensuing cockpit battles all culminated in an abrupt,
deadly silence, the clank of a gore-spattered anchor dropping from
Kara's shaking hand, tears leaking through beads of sweat as she
grappled with the harsh realities of wresting food from the
wilderness.
In July, we entered the
inside passage through Icy Straight. In the late 1700's, the first
European explorers reported the area unnavigable, choked with ice,
and named it accordingly. Other, recent sailing publications advised
caution around large bergs. We sailed through with a sharp lookout,
but the ice had vanished. We kept Orca pointed
east—deeper into ice country—and finally the first bergs
appeared. The sea became deceptively peaceful as we spiraled further
inland; the waterways tightened, cliffs soaring. Four times daily,
the twenty-foot tides struggled to squeeze through narrow passages
and in places the currents ran at 15 knots with large standing waves
and tumbling, house-sized ice cubes.
Ford's Terror |
Orca was
feeling sluggish and the swirling tidal currents had us at their
mercy. Her bottom was dirty, but the frigid glacial waters left Kara
disinclined to dive the hull to scrape the vigorous Alaskan
growth—with twenty hour days, the marine ecosystem was booming. We
gave ourselves a crash-course the use of the Alaskan boatyard; I
drove Orca aground at
high tide. In an hour, she was high, dry, and ready for paint.
With a clean bottom, we
sliced decisively through the currents. Orca pushed
even deeper into the fjords than should have been possible; our
nautical charts, last updated in 2009, told us we were buried beneath
five-hundred vertical feet of ancient tidewater glacier. Finally,
miles further inland, we sighted the Dawes glacier. Cracking ice
echoed louder than thunder, and hundreds of tons of ice cascaded from
the face. The slabs rained into the sea, explosions of spray
rocketed hundreds of feet up, and the entire waterway sloshed
endlessly. Floating bergs scraped, crashed, collided, broke, rolled,
and groaned.
Powerboat at Dawe's Glacier |
But even floating in this
raw, roiling granite basin surrounded
by the awesome power of the ice, it was obvious that something even
bigger, even more tremendous, was conquering the glacier's hold on
this land. The ice-scars on the valley's smooth walls, like high
water marks, were thousands of feet up. Plants—even lichen—had
yet to colonize the fresh rocks and scree adjacent to the glacier,
and meltwater roared from a hundred waterfalls. This glacier was in
full retreat.
We
turned south, pushing through a slurry of shattered ice and into
Canada. The salmon vanished at the border, unable to spawn with
their home streams choked by the muddy runoff hemorrhaging from from
clear-cut logging operations. Signs of civilization began to appear;
boarded-up sportfishing resorts, networks of logging roads, and
industrial salmon farms where desultory attendants shoveled pink food
pellets laced with antibiotics into vast pens of imported Atlantic
salmon (without a steady diet of artificial dye, farmed salmon
fillets would be grey and unmarketable).
Three
hundred miles into Canada, the first vacation homes appeared—at
first just tiny cabins. As our latitude decreased, their size and
density exploded until, finally, we re-entered the U.S. at Friday
Harbor on San Juan Island where the water's edge is an impenetrable
wall of five-story condominiums. The adjacent tiers of mansions had
swelled to include every conceivable inch of waterfront space, and
'no trespassing' signs were ubiquitous. Somehow, throughout the San
Juan Islands, it is common practice to market exclusive access to the
tidelands, resulting in a beautiful coastline of forested beaches
almost entirely owned—and fiercely defended—by private
development interests. They made it abundantly clear that little
Coconut was not
welcome ashore, and our excitement about exploring the islands
withered.
With
the notion of finding a berth and a job for the winter, Kara called
each of the fifty marinas in Seattle. Confronted with lengthy
waiting lists, large insurance minimums, and a general distaste for
live-aboards, Orca,
seemingly of her own volition, turned west, out into the Pacific and
was swallowed by a dense fog. She emerged fifty miles off San
Francisco Bay, where her course began to angle east and we soon found
ourselves on a course for Thanksgiving with our families in Monterey.
Thanks
to everyone who bought a copy of the book, and especially those
twenty-seven friends and strangers who contributed to the 4.8 star
average on Amazon.com.
Fair
winds,