AK 14 – Fading of An Alaskan Summer

AK 14 – Fading of An Alaskan Summer

The buzz of the single engine roars over the muffled directions of the pilot, in echoed tones he tells us that we have arrived in the Misty Fiords National Monument. I look down into the blue waters of Behm Canal, streaking north the ebb tide that is flowing towards the head of the sound. New Eddystone rock shines in the afternoon sun, like a Druid Obelisk standing 100 feet above the sea, marking the entrance into sacred land. For as we approach the fiords in this small Cessna float plane, you gain the true feeling of entering into something grand. Low laying mist whisks around the sound, but still the large granite walls of the fiord come into view. This is all I would imagine that Norway would be like. One cannot understand the magnitude in words that 4000 ft from sea level a solid granite wall gives. Those who fly here often just call it, The Wall. Banking our turn, we feel as if only one extra wing tip from the rills of granite descending to the sea as we pass by. My eyes watch each line, looking for cracks and impurities that would avail an ascent. The yamabushi always asking in me, “How does one get to the top of this Temple Mount.”

We bank our turn and begin to descend towards Punchbowl River. This is no easy task! The plane takes a sharp starboard side turn and makes a 180 degree pitch as we follow the opposite granite wall opposite of “The Wall”. I feel my body press against the seat, and my soul whisk sideways towards the nether, it is exhilarating. The promise of the trip begins to take shape. More then just a tourist flight of an hour, I roped myself into a 3 stop tour of the monument to resupply cabins for the coming big trophy fisherman. Something only talking to the locals can gain. I figured I had earned my turns, pushing fish and packing for an entire summer, and it payed off. The wilderness before me was unmatched in remoteness. As soon as we finished the turn, and I gathered my composure, I felt the sudden slap of hard water... The pontoons begin to vibrate against the small ripples that make up the upper reaches of Rudyard's Inlet. The plane slows with rapid speed and we find ourselves gliding into the safe harbor of the Punchbowl Lake Float.

I feel like Tyler from Never Cry Wolf, the extremeness of the mountains and the suddenness of events, I hear the pilot ordering me to drop off the crates onto the dock... “Oh they will be fine there till the tourist arrive. The bears never wander down the float...” So I comply in the only way I can, stacking them one by one as quickly as I can, knowing of the place he still wishes to show me on this clear SE Alaskan Day. Five crates out, we are ready to go. Strapping in, I hoped that I got the right boxes, due to the nature of our journey and limited fuel we still have two more cabins to go. The roar of the engine as we gain speed bouncing off that fine surface of the ocean tide, bouncing in all angles till finally the elegance of a cushion of air pulls us upward. There just is no other feeling like it. The hum of the engine begins to flow over me, as we climb 5000 feet in height to rise over the gap in the fiord to begin our journey across the high mountain ranges. Looking over glaciers and deep valleys, those fabled lines of Dogen Kigen ring through my mind invoking my tough to speak them at that monument, “Mountains and Rivers Without End...”

We follow the rest of the afternoon, dipping down to river streams and paddling the float plane up to watch the bears feasting on the migrating Pink Salmon. Caught in the moment of the moment of the kill as the bears clampering down upon the moving body of fish churning up the shallow streams. Then returning to the skies, to find a new cabin tucked within a glacial cirque, that needs supplies for those in the lower 48 to keep them comfortable enough to enjoy the wilds of Alaska. This is a practice of most Alaskans, as they try and scratch out a living obligated to the demands of those who come from very different realities. Yet the wilderness remains theirs, even when the tourist leave with the last passing cruise ship. It is a hard thing to explain, but being Alaskan, is observing an ever present tone that tells you that Nature is master to all, and mind it, fight it, or flow with it, but never forget it or it will, take you in. Flying through these mountains after spending six months tied to it's seas is an ever present reminder to these lessons.

One cannot hope to explain the total Alaska in words that can be sent in one email. The people are of a different character, and a place that holds only the ability to inspire. In my last days here, I spent time Kayaking out to Lord Islands. A collection of rocks, occupied only by seals, ravens, eagles and two deer that must have washed ashore. I felt as lone as any human could feel, yet as empowered by the crashing of waves, the sound of an raven hovering in air or the concouphany of seals over taking a beach as a man could endure. In the end, even as I paddled against the 4 foot waves back to the relative security of the Pacific Queen, I felt a vitality that I had lost long ago. Through all the bullshit that comes with being on a fishing boat for so long, I felt as vital as a man as one could hope. And knowing that I was leaving Alaska, deep within I knew it would not be for long.

A few days later, after saying good by to some friends I meet near to the end of my stay, I flew over the fishing grounds near the East part of Dixon Entrance, AFNG 1B-101 (Tree Point Fisheries). What had taken me time and time again 8 hours to transect by a 7 knot boat, passed by in mire minutes. Leaving Alaska, I felt the mass of memories the last few months had brought me, and would continue to play within long after I left. With that a sadness to leave a land as big as a man could imagine, but as available as a woodsman would try... Some place we all have dreamed and will hold it's spell..

From the Waters of the Inside Passage,
Jorj (Ridgewalker)
ridgewalkernw@gmail.com