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

AK 5 - Dawn on Alaskan Seas

It had been a long night, the weather had turned leaving the boat
battered and shaken. Five foot seas, doesn't sound bad off hand,
definatly not Bristol Bay Ocean. But this was a boat loaded with 65
ton of Herring plugging it's way back to Metlakatla to unload the
Herring that we had loaded up in Seymour Canal. I was on wheel-watch
this night. Winds of 25-30 mph gusts were compressing the waves
together, causing the boat to slam down it's keel with the second or
third wave. Water kicked up to the cabin windows, 20 ft above the
water. Luckly just spray, no green water yet...

Bang! Another one hit jolting me out of the pilots chair. Bracing
against the wheelhouse sides, it was time to find a new course. Moving
towards the starboard side, I saw a mountain side blocking the winds
from the SE. If things got too bad there was possible good anchorage
in a cove just a head. Either way it would be nice to stop the rolling.

It had come on suddenly... Most of the past week had been flat calm
seas on clear skys. With 70F weather and views of glacier capped
mountains as far as the eyes can see. We had made our way through
Wrangall Narrows, more of a river then a marine passage. The currents
running 10 knots and boiling to either side of the boat. That was when
the bilge alarm sounded, jolting me out of my bunk. The back tank was
leaking and filling the boat with water. Lucky the large pump did
quick work of the matter. That disaster overted, we jogged on down
thur the Narrows and into the mountain filled Stikine Sound. Looking
forward to maybe uneventful day ahead.

Bang... The boat creaks as it rolls over the next wave and hits the
succeding wall while in the troft. By this time I begin to remember
the leak in the back tank and check the gage for the bilge. The pump
seems to be working like a charm, low water. We were still about two
miles off the shoreline and my hope of calmer waters when the captain
arrived in the wheelhouse. It seems that I threw him out of his bunk,
and so unable to get back to sleep decided to see how I was handling
the boat. He didn't seem to conserned, more inquizative. Grown
acustume to such temperments of the Inside Passage.

Once on the seas, there is little to do other then find the right way
to roll with the waves. Like ridding a bull, all you can do is point
yourself in the right direction and hold on. For old-timers it is the
wild dance they have almost found the perfect sway to. In the ocean
swells while stronger are father apart, so the wooden boat seems to
just sway back and forth. But these wind-tide waves seem to knock us
around more. Brian agrees that the fiord walls to the starbord are our
best bet.

Soon we make it into calmer weather and the waves reduce to just a
little chop. I'm left to finish out my wheel watch as the pre-dawn
light begins to fill the Clarence Straits. The light begins to shine
upon the snow capped mountains above Tongass Narrows and Behm Canal,
Ketchikan lies somewhere below them. It seems that another day has
come and soon we will be making our way down Nicholes Passage and
Metlakatla to off load our load of herring.

Alaska seems full of suprisesand beauty. You are never left unaware of
natures wild-ness as well as her sublime highlights. These morning
times, looking out the wheelhouse windows as well as the moments
caught in the rolling seas, all seem to have much to tell a man. If
heisonly patient enough to listen, these sprirts have much to tell and
I have yet much to learn...

From the waters of the Inside Passage,
Ridgewalker
山道人
ridgewalkernw.blogspot.com

AK 4 - Paddling with Eagles

The water stands as still as a mirror, set in electric tones of silver, gold and black. I feel the slight breeze catching the stern of my Eskimo Style Kayak, that seems to want to wonder with each breeze. S'plook... My paddle catches the next wave as I causally correct my drift, eyes fixed on the setting colors of the sun as it fades out over the NW end of Tongass Narrows. Like the contentment of the evening fire's glow, this sunset caps. A beautiful two days here along the waters of Ketchikan. A glimpse at spring grows the hear towards the future. Knowing that three systems are working their way across the Gulf from the Aleutains, everyone has been soaking up the sun as it has brought warmth to these rain drenched forests. Tonights after dinner paddle is no exception, what seemed like a sleepy little Alaskan town has awaken from it's rainholes, to bask in the glory of the sun.

I make my way south along the pilings that make up the front of Ketchikan. A city so connected to the sea, it is built above it's very edge. Now at low tide, it towers 25 ft above my little kayak. Each piling plastered white and beige by columns of barnacles, while below great flowering anemone and sea cucumber forest the creosote beams below. Keeping just out from the traffic of fisherman heading out for an evening troll, the snowy cap of Deer Mtn rises above the Narrows
reminding e of the chilly nights of early this week. But tonight they catch the alpenglow with electric intensity, making a first-ring of the ridges cornice line, with glittering avalanche tracks descending below.

For the last week, we have been moored at port, cleaning and passing time. Between openings, as it seems again waiting is the ever constant variable in fishing, that seems not to make it to the action packed reality shows. But ever constant as time fades by. Each day had brought a deluge from the sky, keeping a man inside his wheelhouse perched above the Narrows looking out to a gray world. With 200 inches of rain a year, my old home has nothing on this place. But a midweek hike out to Shelter Cobe shown, 15 feet in diameter Yellow Cedars are common place. Pulling you in to their temple green glow, almost like sturdy beams of Tlingit Longhouses, holding up a roof of lichen and moss. Enough wonder to keep. Man going to the next break in the clouds revealing the mountains that had been lost from sight for days. But during these
times, work, books and conversations keep you occupied. Mulling over thought and ideas brewed in a vat of the most recent chapter or bar tale. It is the nature of this place, and part of it's people I have learned. Yet warm spring days as recent seem to remind the heart of the Alaskan spell that weaves itself deep.

As I turn back to paddle towards my floating home, I feel the great movement of air behind me. Whoop.....whoop.... whoop... And as though a large silent plane were about to land upon me an Eagle glides but paddle reach above me. I first catch his fanned out white tails feathers, displayed like a geisha dancer before me. Then with a mighty sweep 9 feet of wing span flowing down with a whoop of the air. Yellow talons reaching out, he plucks a herring out of the water in front of my port-side before climbing into the air without a splash. Time seems endless in these moments, and as I watch him rise, I feel the wilderness of this place, even if the town is but. 1/4 mi away. His silowet rises against the glow of the setting sun. The power of the sublime creating it's own temple out of the moment. This is what the tourest of yesterdays cruise ship missed, caught in the limited time of a four hour Port of Call. The time to just let Nature show her skirt
to you, and lead you away within the moves of her dance. Memories that cannot be bought at Trinket shops or admired on dusty shelves.

Before rounding into the cannery, I see the long V lines of migrant birds moving their way north to the Arctic. Tomorrow, we'll move north as well, towards the Fjord of Taku, the Glaciers of Turnigan Arm, and the protected tide flats of Seymour Canal. Yet another Herring Cycle will begin again, here in Inside Northern Waters...

From the waters of the Inside Passage,
Ridgewalker
山道人
ridgewalkernw.blogspot.com

AK 3 - Surrounded by Herring

An armada of small boats leave the protection of the harbor on a overcast day. Trailing behind larger boats, they bob up and down while in tow. As we round the bend and out of the rocky shoals of Metlakatla Bay, the chatter on the radio begins to heat up. With each conversation the excitement of the many fisherman is clear, as they have waited weeks now in anticipation for this Herring Opening. For some this will be the first paycheck in months since the close of Salmon fishing the previous fall. But to all this is the beginig of the spring and the stories to come over the next summer of following the fish through these forested channels of Alaska. For the tenders, we've been waiting for two weeks peeling away time from the calendar as well, and now with 60+ boats leaving the harbor it is a sight to see.

We make our way around the north end of Annette Island, the land of the T'Simpshian Nation. This fisheries is special to them, and only open to members of the tribe. The four tender boats act as large tanks pumping fish off of small aluminum skiffs and taking it back to the Cannery. As we enter Kwain Bay, the Armada stages like little floating islands, as about 10 boats and skiffs are tied to each Tender. With little room to cook or house waiting fisherman on their skiffs, Tenders back deck becomes a hub of activity. We take our place in the bay below the snow clad arms of Mt Tamgas rising above and wait for the opening anouncement. Then hours click away through the day till the evening comes. The anxieous drink their coffee and talk of years past while bouncing to and from eachothers rigs. The fish and game float plane passing overhead checking the progress of the fish, watching for the first sign of the Spawn. Waiting for the perfect moment for the harvest to begin. This catch is kent to harvest the Herring for their Roe or eggs to send out for coveted caviar, so while their has been hundreds of schools sighted, timing is of the essence to get the right quality.

With the crackle of the radio, the voice of the biologist comes over the radio reporting what they saw in the last pass and declaring the fisheries open along Crab Flats. A sudden flurry of activity takes over the bay. Boats begin to motor off to spots already scoped out. 54 boats total pass sound the reef, some crusing ahead, others puttering behind trying to catch up to the best place in the flats. For days the Orcas, Eagles, Seals and Gulls have had their fill of the schools, now that they have started to spawn it is the Fisherman's turn. Everyone knows eachother in this fleet, most are somehow related to eachother from this small village. So the opportunity to catch the first big set is king bragging rights. Words are tossed in the air as well as fists shaken as boats manuver to get out to "The Spot" that will bring home The Catch.

As soon as it started, the bay is now empty, only the sounds of the last boats wake slapping against the shoreline and the cry of Eagles perched on the breakwater rock, just as bewildered as the four remaining boats anchored in Kwain Bay. It seems so peaceful now, as I hear the small river flowing over the tide rocks and out of the cedar forest below Tamgas. A tranquility of the moment before and after action, broken only by the neccesity of passing time. There is always
that feeling of surreal I'm those fractions of time, when the canvas of the world takes center stage before the players walk on fade it towards the back. It is when you notice the voice of nature that abounds, always there in every other story playing out.

The silence is broken by the distant whine of an outboard motor. Soon the aluminum skiff makes the corner around the rocky island and work begins. Activity and life begin to bussle about as more boats enter the bay. The sound of giant vacumns take hold as skinny footlong Herring are Bering sucked out of the boats a ton at a time. The air is filled with the chatter of stories being told of doging in and out of other boats as they hurried to set their nets to surround the schools, while dodging others trying to cut them off. A few stories of collisions and bent egos make their way out, but as I hurry to off load the boats to return them to the grounds there is mostly laughter. It is amazing to hear, as tons of fish make it into our holds, that only 15-20% are harvested each year. Herring make up a large step in the food chain of these northern waters, and yet their numbers are staggering in proportions. To see a school is like watching a moving ball swarming by. The hope is to catch of of the balls just at the right moment.

As the evening continues on we work through the night. Cold hands cling coffee cups from sweetshirt and orange raingear cloaken figures as I work. Soon dawn begins to break over clear skies, and the boat reveals a full hold, 65 Ton of fish. With our last boat we pull anchor and head towards the processing plant at Metlakatla, three hours away. Passing the fleet clacking away as they repeatedly pull and a set their nets out from the shoreline. I wash down the deck and equipment, scalely fish slime cover everything. Soon the pressure hose does it's trick and I find the boat back to it's previous state. As the sunrise over the mountains behind Dixon Enterance, back to port with a full load of fish.

From the waters of the Inside Passage,
Ridgewalker
山武士

AK 2 - Wilderness of Metlakatla

The surf pounds the rocky shores of Smuggler's Cove. Repeating with a slow rhythm, every fourth brings a spray out on the basalt stacks protecting the beach. These are the ocean swells running up Clarence Straits from the wave hatchery that is the Gulf of Alaska. The
sequence a tell-tale sign of their origins in the wild-er-ness of the open sea. Between each cycle smaller waves expose, the pools of low tide, and a open sand beach just long enough to find sanddollars
reflecting against the sun. Sunny days have caught me on Annette Island, exploring this undesignated wilderness. Here Nature seems both sublime and bold. The creak of boardwalks along Muskeg forests to the thunderous waterworks of the waves crashing against the rocky headlands, Nature holds ways here to play to each part of the symphony. I'm reminded of the last four months absent from the view of
wilds, how the city has a dulling effect to the ear. But the last week walking around this T'Simpshian World, has all my attention stirring.

I've spent as much time in Metlakatla exploring, as it seems the best use of the idol energy in waiting for fish. Watching from theshoreline wilderness as Orcas feed playfully on schools of Herring,Eagles catching fish and courting their mates from aloft in Cedar tree bungalows, to the Sea Otters working their dayscracking open shells of oysters muscles and smal crab. All these seem to signal Spring trying to take hold of SE Alaska. And yet still while climbing to the top of a local peak, snow squalls lay in, keeping the mountains locked in winters hold. But between arms of SE'sterly winds and Northern fronts, Alaska captivates the imagination of this Naturalist.

Annette Island, with it's villages of Tamgas Harbor and Metlakatla, is a sovereign nation here. Part of the greater T'Simpshian Nation, which range from lower SE Alaska, down through the BC Coast to Bella Bella just north of Vancouver Island. Boardered by the Tlingit to the North, the Haida to the East and Kwaquitl following the Inside Passage to the South, they are often over-shadowed by the culture of these
surrounding Nations. But due to an act of history, they have held Annette Islands their own in the face of modernity for 100 years. Before then the Tlingits held this island, in much of a wilderness state. But Metlakatla grew from a group of T'Simpshian Natives led by missionary William Duncan escaping troubles between settlers near Port Simpson on the mouth of the Stikine River near Prince Rupert.

The other evening, while walking back through Metlakatla after following the rocky beaches of Cemetary Point, I was lured in by the sounds of drums and signing coming from the cedar longhouse near the edge of the bay. Standing outside seeing the glow of lights from the firebox atop the roof, I caught myself listening to the drums and chants being preformed within the walls. Soon a Native Fisherman invited me in to watch. I walked in the hall clad in four clan poles carved in each corner and stained wooden benches. I watched as women dancers young and old donned in wool blankets outline with designs of mother of pearl buttons. Circling the center where a male dancer with a mask of a raven played out the story of stealing the sun and sharing it with man. The rhythm and beat of the five drummers, and the power of their chants, played in harmony to the sounds of the signing of the female dancers following in a circle.

I sat in awe at the spirit if this team practicing for the summer\tourist season. Four dances of the stories of different animal spirits, reminded me of how alive Nature felt watching that day. How some in the community were keeping that tradition power of myth and legend in connection. The dancers were made up of from the 2 yr old girl to the 65 yr old elder but most were of age of teens. In an isolated community, the urge to leave for modern pursuits comes at the cost of disconnected generations. And yet here they were trying as they could to keep the ties going, even if it was in the name of performing to the hordes of tourist who would arrive on cruise ships in the coming summer.

It is easy sometimes to see Nature as separate from man, yet we are part of it and need a wild-ness in our own lives. Through exploring the Islands forest, mountains and coast, listening to old fisherman tales and watching the stories of Nature's characters play out in song and dance I'm faced with thoughts and images. Of how it all intersects with man as he lives with his fellow inhabitants that abound here. How he changes it, as well as it changes him. Either in city or wilderness, it is always there, you just have to look.

From the waters of the Inside Passage,
Ridgewalker
山武士

AK 1- Midnight Shift Along the Inside Passage

Darkness blankets the wheel house as I take the mindnight watch on my
journey to Ketchikan. I stand behind the wheel looking out at the
horizon keeping course with the deck light of the lead Fish Tender out
of our group of three. The churning hum of the desiel engine seems to
set our 9 knot pace as we cross this portion of Queen Charolete Sound.
With each wave the green glow of sea algae trails the wave of the
boat, giving that glow to the Sea. The skies above break every so
often to reveal as many stars as a man could count before loosing
himself, and yet not enough to tale away from the dark loneliness of
the Sea. Islands dot the Sound, with faint flashes of channel lights
marking the shore, outlines that only come to light with the sweaps of
the radar that I hold my course with. In these moments, I realize the
Wild-er-ness of the Inside Passage. Out here, on watch, the night
finds it's solumn tones.

A crackle comes across the CB, Gabe calling in to check the watch,
three boats lined up one after another passing north to Alaska.
Cugging away at about 10 mph, it is a long slow haul to make it up
towards the fishing grounds. Many hours spent just looking out towards
the sea till your next turn.

"Big-B... Big-B... This is Sumpy callin' out..."
"Yeah Stumpy, I hear you loud and clear. Another long night watch
while the skipper takes in some Beauty-sleep..."

In the last day or so, our call signs have turned into nicknames of
the captain of the boats. Every now and the the Muskrat chimes in, but
mainly on these late hours it is just the watch of the Gene S and
Pacific Queen, keeping eachother company. Through the hour or so we
talk about mountains, Gabe spends most of the off season travelling to
find the perfect powder to ski down.

Both hikers, we obsese over mountains we've seen along the way, and
old haunts deep in the Cascades. Connected briefly to thoughts of
home, and yet they seem to be revived by the fiords and channels that
we've past through in the last few days. Some how this leaky boat has
become home, and the canvas of the mountains and channels the catalyst
for the summer to come. For a wilderness, awaits our along these
coastline waters, one far wilder then I have travelled before.

From the waters of the Inside Passage,
Ridgewalker
山武士
seattlerainretreat.blogspot.com