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

AK 12 -- Echos of Tongass Island Village

AK 12 -- Echos of Tongass Island Village

The rhythms of waves rolling into the breakwater and reefs just off shore seem to leave a fair roar among the trees of the island. No matter where you go, you are always connected to the ebb and flow of the North Pacific coming into Dixon Entrance. Old growth groves of Sitka Spruce and Alaskan Yellow Cedar stand just at the shores edge, a carpet of False Solomons Seal extending out from their base, and the blue skies of the beaches filtering through the stand of shore pine making up the backdrop. Silver Poles of housepost and fallen Totem lay just beyond this Silvan temple, echoing a past when the T'Simpshain made this their home before moving to Ketchikan. Yet now nature has reclaimed it, swallowing up the clearings in thickets of alder and devils club, and only Raven remains watching with his curious eyes, cawing out his distant questions.

With fishing slowing down in the south-end, time has allowed me to journey to shore and up the channels in my Kayak. Tracking treelines and ridges, collecting along the shore, and just taking in the tideline of the Misty Fiords. This landscape feels haunted with spirits still living. Welcoming them in to the curious at heart. A vitality so rich you could reach out and tough it, not muffled by the works and pursuits of man. I follow tracks of otters moving from the tideline through the forest floor. Crossing a small divide in the island to forage for Dungeness amount the crabgrass bay on the otherwise. No matter where you go, layer upon layer show themselves to those who would care to watch awhile, letting the cloak unfold.

I think of the people who traveled between these islands. Fishing by cedar bark nets and woven fish traps. Harvesting from the land and the sea to live rich lives from the bounty, and to return to ornate clan homes. Paddling all the channels and passages we work our way through. Stories attached to each rock, bight and bay. A familiarity with the landscape that surrounds me today. Lost to story and echos of a life once lived, walking the groves and shores I still feel connected. Here a sense of home among familure places seems to call me in. And Raven always watch, following me around my walk and back to the boat. The sequential of the Tongass peering down from the ancient boughs heights. The old spirit of long forgotten clans that called this island, home.

From the Waters of the Inside Passage,
Jorj Aldair
山道人

AK 11 – The Fish Buyer

AK 11 – The Fish Buyer


Slap... Slap... The sound of salmon hitting the wet deck. They lay awaiting to be weighed before heading to ice totes. The fisherman leans over to see what price he will yield from the two King Salmon. Monsters of the waters, they come in at 30 pounds each, dressed. At $2.75 per pound the pair will bring the man around $165, not a bad bonus for his last set of the day. A grand smile gleams across his face, "There's plenty more where that came from." The crew of the other boat throw a glance knowing the fisherman always keeps their`1 favorite grounds a secret. Always shifting to keep the others guessing as to where he actually makes his big sets. In the end, with 14 King Salmon, and 6,000 lbs of salmon, he was High Boat for the day, something to be truly happy about.


On the starboard-side of the back deck, brailer bags swing in the air, after being plucked from the small gilnet boats loaded down with Salmon. Water trails across the hatch, till Jordan steadies the load. "Dogs...Twelve Seventy Five," calling out the weight to Brian at the crane. With a jerk of the tail rope, the bag releases it's load in an explosion of water as each salmon slides into the tank. Water boils over the tank and onto the deck, draining out of the scuppers to each side. As soon as it is empty, the bag swings over to the rail and is drapped over, in time for the fisherman to grab it, and pull the crane hook over for the next bag. All the while ice is being loaded onto he port-side boat, to ready it to head back out to the fishing grounds.


Another bag is steadied over a stainless-steal tray, "Mixed!" Fish fill to the rim, and hands begin to grab salmon by the head and the tail tossing them into white trico bins. Fish flying in the air, coho's with their silver square tails, all dressed in one direction, and sockeye vibrant with clear green, blue and silver lines, with an white-opaque tail. These are the money fish of most gilnet sets. In the other direction goes the dogs and the Humpies filling larger tricos with each throw. These are the most caught, and the bulk of each set. Dogs or Chums, each around 12-19 lbs take two hands to launch towards the bin, while the Humpies or Pink Salmon are 2-3 lbs and can be thrown by the head two at a time. The sorting goes on, fish flying everywhere, with very few missing the tote. After a month of this routine one gets good at launching at totes while keeping there eyes on the tray to sort. Soon the tray is cleared and the tricos weighed and placed into tank and totes. Completing the buy.


On busy days there is always a flurry of activity about the Tender. We move from anchorage to anchorage up the coast line from the US/Canadian Boarder towards Ketchikan and Revillagigedo Channel. Each place clings to the edge of the Tongass Forest with Bonsai looking trees clinging to weather battered rock. Vibrant contrast of green trees, white granite, black lichen and tan barnacles make up the tide line landscape. In the distance the mountains of Misty Fiords National Monument rises above Dixon Entrance. The echos of fish buying overtake these coves as we watch kayaker's move into the beach-side camps.


The day passes along, and we make our way through to Foggy Bay. The fisherman of this community begin to call their sets and work their way in to rest of the evening after a long day on the swells of the ocean coast. We work into the evening, watching the day fade away, and sunset cast against Mt Tamgas across the Channel. Colors of light turn more vibrant as the sun hits the water, and then fade as we continue the same routine boat after boat. Sending each away, we whittle away at the line, till the last boat comes up to outside, always the Eclipses, a gilnetter from the waters of Puget Sound. After our business is done, the floatilla will leave with the anchor pulling and wilderness returns to these coves and inlets. In some places small floats make up little evening community of gilnet boats, yet quiet places as the fisherman rest of their 3am start the next day.


Finish cleaning the deck and taking the time to grab dinner, we begin our 6 hour journey back to Ketchikan every other day to offload our fish. I usually take watch in these late night hours till 3am. Watching the failure lights and channel markers on the horizon, while listening to my music fill the wheelhouse of the Pacific Queen.These sentinels become friends marking our progress north. Black, Hog and Spire Rock. Mary, Angle and Twin Lights, till arriving at Mountain Point/Tongass Narrow, Ketchikan's beginning and the the start of the Captains Watch.


Peaceful and calm after a long day of hectic fish buying, it is a fine end to a long day. At times, I feel we are constantly in motion, serving as the face of the company to the fisherman, and the bus driver of their product to the plant. All in all, it is the life of a fish buyer with the rewards of the stories told over each encounter of your regular fisherman. With each pitch-off, you get to know them just a little more, yielding to the small floating community of this East Dixon fishing fleet. Acting sometimes as the main human interaction for many of these fisherman who go about bobbing along, setting, watching and pulling their nets, to harvest wild salmon from the sea, Alaska's Life Blood and age old trade.


-- Ridgewalker

AK 10 – High Seas of Dixon Entrance

AK 10 – High Seas

WHAM! It hits like a sudden freight train. Something out of the unexpected. Just after you have gotten used to the rolling of a wooden boat to 6 foot seas along Dixon Entrence, it happens without announcement. You know that it is intense, when all you can see out the window is green water, not the usual spray of white. The boat pitches wildly to the starboard side. Almost turning over, much of the galley crashes to the side, and all of the pots and the pans forcefully move within their respective cupboards. But as sudden as it happens, the ol' Queen correct herself, and soon righted, the wooden boat bobbs along like a cork in a barrel. The commotion sends alarms in the engine room, but they stop as soon as they started. Water on engine coolant temporally displaced is the culprit. I collect up my things from the galley table, papers that had boat tallies and load numbers, are in and about the cabin.


I start to look around to anything that may have caught loose on that last one. Outside on the deck I hear the sliding of totes across wood planks. Our main strap holding back 5 tons of fish has broken and with each wave the totes rock back and forth. Every pitch brings them closer to the other side of the deck and an precariously unbalancing the boat. To much and the next wave could roll it. So I grab Jordon and head out to the deck with crowbars in hand. Jordan grabs the new ratchet strap and sets it up on the rails, as I begin to pry the totes across the deck. At 1 ton each, I wait till the boat pitches to the port so to allow the totes to slide downhill. One by one they begin to move back towards the guard rail. Aligning up... Success... Then another roller comes in. As soon as I saw it, the wave crashed over me. Reaching out for the strap that we just ratcheted in, I feel my feet sweep away from me. Water surfs over me, and I feel what it must be like when an Orca takes a dive... Some how when I pop up again I feel refreshed, and alive. Looking around the deck, I see that Jordon is against the totes on the starboard side. He is dazed but jumps up quickly and gives a barbaric yelp! This is life on the high seas at it's greatest. For every trip, a little water must come over the side in the Inland Seas of the Dixon Entrance.


Brain turns the boat with the stern facing the waves. After that, the roll underneath the old Pacific Queen, and after an hour the Swells from the SW subside. Rounding the deck, I deal with the lids of the totes. One flew off in the crashing waves, so I begin to load the ton of sockeye salmon into a ice bag and lower it into the tank. For the most part the week has been chill and relaxing. The job of the tender buying and loading fish relatively easy to that of the fisherman. But in these moments, the job gets a little more alive... Another storm is setting in tonight, and we are likely to head out in the morning back towards Tree Point and Lord Rocks. The fish must be delivered, so we go...


– Ridgewalker

AK 8 - Returning to the Source

AK 8 – Returning to the Source

There are places that most remember all their life. Places that ring deep to a central core, telling a story of where we came from and how we see the world around us. These places are like a vivid dream in our thoughts, as real at times that a smell or a sound conjures it into such detail that we feel we can reach out and touch them. For most people, images of these places live in the past, where we were kids, just opening our eyes to the world around us. Then it seems, we were more aware of the moments of our lives, then when we grow older with time. An awareness that we seem to spend the rest of our lives in pursuit of awakening again. For some these places are near by, always within reach to invoke emotions and memories of the times. Others return from time to time through their life, to feel the full force of that tactile sense of a place. For me, walking through the long beaches and trails of the Chilkat Valley about Haines has been such an experience.

Growing up, I remember Alaska most out of any other experience. Our family had a Salmon Tender called the Pacific Queen. She was a beautiful wood boat, eighty feet in length, white with fine black lines from bow to stern. In front, a wood carving of an Tlingit Eagle sat below the windows of the pilot house, upturn just enough that from a distance it looked as if the old girl always had a smile. The "Queen" was a working boat, ran by my grandparents, who had raised a family of 6 on the boat through their life. For me, I would get a month or so out of each summer to spend time, running up and down the fiords of Lynn Canal. Watching my grandfather Stan working through the gillnet boats of the Haines Salmon Fleet. Images of the high glacier capped mountains, and lingering sunsets seemed to always bring a deep warmth inside.

The beaches of Portage Cove and Battery Point were where I would wonder for hours during the lingering twilight, looking for lost treasure. Always returning before we headed out to the fishing grounds the next morning. Roaming the forests around Letnikof Cove, getting views of Rainbow Glacier falling from the Ice Fields far above Pyramid Harbor. I had my first bear encounter on a walk out to Mud Bay. Watching him forage about in the current berries, and shore cranberries, I would sit among the tree lost in the moment. During the winters, I would spend time looking over old dis-guarded nautical charts planning where I would go the following summer, imagining what the landscapes would look like from just the contours and numbers on the map. In many ways I could transport myself there just by looking at them, remembering the smell of the tideline meadows, sounds of the flowing Chilkoot River, and relief of a southerly wind on a hot high summer day, just by the word Lutak Flats written in small blocky letters. Always the mountains rising high above the patches of fireweed and lupine just at the Chilkat River's edge. These natural places became my vision of Shambala, a true mountain kingdom of Ten Thousand Buddha's. A place of pure serenity...

Walking the beaches of Haines again is like returning to something core, a source. Like migrating salmon returning to the same river, lake or stream that they began their journey, from time to time, we all return to that personal source. For me, just being among these mountains and waters brings a real sense of joy to my life. In the past few years I have became a Vagabond, heading out for distant places. In the beginning it was to find myself, and escape the disappointment of a failed engagement. But soon my eyes began to open up wider and wider. The people and places along the way, reminded me of where I had already been long ago, and the advise and kind words of strangers reminded me of those from people in my past. Somehow visiting Haines, seems to have brought it all into focus. Realizing that I do have a family history, and connection tied into the Waters of Lynn Canal. To look out and name the mountains that my grandmother quizzed me when I was 7 years old, I feel a link to that past while sitting on the shoreline at Portage Cove. Just lost in the vividness of the moments.

These were some of the great memories of my life, spending time with both my grandparents. There was a sayings that Stan would always say, "Never Run Short in the Land of Plenty." Growing up and having little, I always sort of thought this was a overly optimistic saying. But the grain of wisdom in it was, that no mater what you had, you could make it into plenty. Indeed, my grandfather did make what he had into plenty, good times. The old guard of SE Alaskan Fisherman all have a similar creed. It usually has something to do with, "Love what you do, and to hell with the rest." And yet, these words of advice seem to coincide with those memories from past days in the Chilkat Valley. As kids, I think there is part of each of us that loves that moment of discovery and exploration. Sometimes it just takes awhile for us to let go of that which ties us to the ground and our own rut. But for now, the end of the day, brings a warmth to move on, lingering only another day before heading south back to Ketchikan and the beginning of the Salmon Season...

– Ridgewalker

AK 7 – Cycling in to the Yukon

The distance back to camp clicks off with each milepost, peddling along the Chilkat Flats. At MP 8, I turn off and take a break, the river flows by a small beach sheltered by some Aspen from the heat of the day. The sharp glaciated peaks of the Chilkat range rise from the tide flats of Pyramid Harbor, holding back the icy mass that gives Glacier Bay it's characteristic fiords. Yet I lay on my back collecting my strength to push on those few last miles more. It has been a long day, with views that could not have been imagined. It seems with every turn in the road, the vistas only got better and better. If I had know that I was going to go so far I might have paced myself a bit. But early in the day when the miles were quick, I seemed to be pulled onward. Now I just lay in the grass, looking out towards the evening light cast it's shadows. It is 8pm and still the sun is out, warmth in the air, and miles yet to go before I sleep.

It started out from the town of Haines, having return from two days in Skagway. This village perched on the peninsula of the Chilkat and Chilkoot Inlets, had history for me, memories so many they seemed to come at once in all directions. When I was young this had been where I spent many summer, aboard the Pacific Queen. Now looking at the mountains, I knew why the lure had soaked within me, always wanting to see what was behind that distant range. Here they are unimaginable, like told in sweeping panoramas, or tales of haunted Klondiker's looking to rise over their dizzying heights. While only reaching up to four to five thousand feet in elevation, their steep sights hold the visitors gaze. The day I arrived, I felt that I wanted to go far up into the Yukon, along the old Dalton Trail. Now made into a road to Haines Junction, a bike rental shop caught my eyes. A quick $35 dollars for a road-bike, helmet and saddle bags together. I went back to camp and awaited the next days dawn to come.

The light rose at 4 am, and I finished my breakfast of oats and packed up to go. At first the peddling was quick and I round the old field where the Ten Mile Cafe once stood. Memories of a Prime Rib Buffet seemed entice the appetite. But a few cliff bars and PB&J was all that I had brought. The Highway wound its way along the Chilkat Flats. Here in the coming weeks the eagles would begin to converge, drawn by the flash of Sockeye migrating up the river. Towards the fall, they would perch on every tree, gazing down at a virtual circus of animals taking in the grand feed. This valley is famous at these times, and photographers from all around converge to capture images of Eagles and Bear feasting as winters chill sets into the valley air.

At milepost 20 at the divide of two rivers, a lone Moose bull splashes about in his cold glacier feed bath. Looking up for me for a bit, the back to the crossing away from the busy strip. I peddle on up the river, passing Tsirku River, Klukwan and Mosquito Lake. Leaving the Chilkat, the Dalton follows the Klehini River as wild as any other, still milk-grey from glaciers rising to McDonell, Three Guardsman, and Nadhahini Mountains. Mark by meanders and sand bars, the river courses it's way to the Sea. The aspen groves rattle in the Chinook winds that relieve this biker on a hot June day. Skies blue and clear as any I've seen in as many weeks. Uncharacteristic for SE has this day ever been.

The road continues to rise through the Mining district of Porcupine Creek. Small cabins and sluce boxes line the rivers edge. Now with gold as high as it is, what was once dead places seem to find a little life again. There is still Yellow nuggets locked in these sand bars. The same that lured tens of thousands a hundred years past. But hard work and little payout is all a miner mostly find, so old family holdings seem to be for relaxation then searching for "the strike." The wheel beats the pavement groves slower with time, the road near Pleasant Camp and Canada begins to rise. Following the route old Dalton blazes to the skies.

Long slow switch back turn towards the summit top. A low pass by constant, I peddle without giving up. Realizing that maybe I should have turned back. The summit is close and the land is beginning to open up. Reaching the Pass. I pause at the summit. Until I realize I am yet to the Chilkat Pass, and the road still keeps agoing. Yet here at Three Guardsman Pass, I can see across to the horizon never ending. The trees yield to tundra, the alpine and fields. Just beyond the horizon lies the Yukon that I had wished to see. But at 45 miles from my camp, I'll have to wait for another day. Here the it seems you are on top of the world. Yet the mountains to the West and East still rise higher. That Spell of the Yukon seems to call deep to a mans heart. Remembering ol' Robert Service's lines, I could not put it any better this day.

"No! There is a Land. (Have you seen it?)

It's the cussedest land that I know,

From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it

To the deep, deathlike valleys below.

Some say Good was tired when He made it;

Some say it's a fine land to shun;

Maybe; but there's some as would trade it

For no land on earth – and I'm one...

"The summer – no sweeter was ever;

The sunshiny woods all athrill;

The greyling aleap in the river,

The bighorn asleep on the hill.

The strong life that never knows harness;

The winds where the caribou call;

The freshness, the freedom and farness-

O God! How I'm stuck on it all..."

– Ridgewalker

AK 6 -- Cruising the Alaska Marine Highway

AK 6 -- Cruising the Alaska Marine Highway

I lay back in my chair, enjoying the rays of sun that have been plentiful this past few weeks. The rumble of the ships engine seems to lure me into a state of holiday relaxation. Watching others move about the deck of the boat. Passing by the forest, islands, peaks and glaciers of the Inside Passage seem innumerable. Like slicing through a mirrored pond the M/V Columbia makes it's way north. Every now and then I get up to wander the sides of the Ferry. Catching a pod of Humpbacks and Seals along the shore. Vistas of great rivers of ice moving towards the sea or lone fishing boats plying the waters along sunset reflections. No matter where you look, beauty rises from the tide line towards the sky, calling the imagination in an upward gaze.

As I move north towards Skagway, names float by with long telling tales. Baranoff, Kupreanoff, Churchicoff and Mitkoff. The Russian traders who made these waters, on search of firs and wealth leaving names upon the landscape so far from St Petersburg and Moscow… Kasaan, Dyea, Stikine, and Taku, marks of the Tlingit, Tsimshian and Haida who made this place home, exploring with the cedar canoes from island to island for good fishing, hunting and berries to harvest… Juneau, Sumdum, Skaguay and Dalton, words taking a man back to the days when a yellow stone made the men crazy with dreams of changing their lives with a few bits of stone and hard work. Built towns out of creeksides and brought the most determined to find a Alaska weaving a spell within them. Ship Island, Lincoln Rock, Eldred Rock and Wreck Reef, titles to warn those that navigate these sometimes treacherous waters. With wind, tide and weather capable of changing the mood of the long blue highways that take us along.

The ferry stops at the small towns along the way, giving a traveler time to explore the depths of this collection of islands. Formed by the collision of far off exotic islands, bent and folded the mountains tell the tales of millions of years past. The fiords leave little room for towns, yet each clings to the shores of the islands, for their essence depends on the sea. Wrangell a small fishing village at the edge of the large Stikine Tide Flats. Waters turned brown from the silt of the inner depths of Grand Canyon and high Plateau of it's Canadian depths. Petersburg Harbor, filled with the great SE Fishing fleet, bounded by Norwegian Tradition, enduring the long year round harvests of the sea. Juneau, the bustling city clinging to the side of glacier caped mountains, with the Mendenhall pouring down right to it's very edge. Haines, spread out along the flats of the Chilkat River and Mountains. And Skagway, a tourist town and Gateway to the Yukon.

With the Ferry comes the freedom that you don't find on the Cruise ships, to get out and explore deeper. There is the Alaska that we are all looking for yet get caught in the regular haunts of the tourist facades. Caught in the back-roads, and small towns. Never will a large ship visit Coffman Cove or Kloowack, Hoonah or Angoon,, these are where the true Alaska lives, and the stories are told over morning coffee before heading out to the fishing grounds. Watching from the sundeck along the glacier waters of Stevens Passage, the white cruise ships hurry their pilgrims to ports of call. Armed with 4 hours, it is curious to watch as they rarely leave the confines of the local dock, lined with diamond and trinket shops, toting wares from far off lands, China, India and the Islands of Indonesia. World Trade has touched even this corner of Alaska. But just a mile off of the docks, Alaska begins, trails leading towards mountains and rivers without end, in some ways a land that matches a dream.

The boat leaves the Stikine Flats and passes around Zarembo Island. Soon we are at the entrance of Wrangell Narrows near flood tide. More a river then a shipping lane, 84 buoys, lights and markers line it's tight channel. Having seen this passage at low tide, I am amazed by the work the Captain makes of it's frequent tight turns. The wake of the ship surfs the shore, blasting up the rocks on both sides into the trees at the edge. Yet in one spot, each side we are only at 20 ft to spare. Bear and Eagle perch on the sides, looking out to our passing by. Until at the end of Petersburg dock, if the rest were not enough, a small iceberg caught by the current, stands in with way of our likely route. From the distant LeConte Glacier, it has ridden the tide to here. As the ferry unloads and loads at the dock, seals take to lay on this floating rock. Translucent blue and as beautiful as they come, it is caught in Wrangell Narrows and will make and obstacle to some.

With a blast of the horn and lines cast off, we enter Fredrick's Sound at the last light of day. All the mountains and ice that surround, are caught in the cloak of alpenglow shades. Devils Thumb seems to lift to the sky. Towering over the range as the day heads to darkness. Making a sleeping bag bed on the top deck, I watch the moon dance from the back of the ship. Sounds of French, German, and Spanish surround, a surreal sense to this last light till dawn. Lighthouses and markers flash white, green and red. And the stars come out and play out overhead. I think of others tucked in their elegant cruise ships, but I would not give up my deck-chair with it's open air cabin on this blue ferry ship…

-- Ridgewalker