"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^Òt 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^Òt 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^Òt 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^Òt 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^Òs 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^Òs 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^Òs 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^Òt 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^Òt 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^Ò 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^Òt 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^Òs Beach. Sadly it is a place that in history lives up to it name. Back in the 1800^Òs, 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^Òs 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^Òt have to take this dark course. With patience, understanding and the valuing of another^Òs 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^Òt 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^Òt 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^Òt 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^Òs 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^Òt 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^Òt 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^Òt 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. *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
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