CHICHAGOF ISLAND The Realm of the Boomers and the Breakers It was towards late evening and we stood at the bow of the ferry LeConte as it approached Salisbury Sound. Within a couple of days my friend, Joe, and I would trade this vessel of steel and diesel engines for kayaks of mere plastic and paddles of wood. The low-hanging clouds painted the sky gray, remnants of a storm that had rolled through Southeast Alaska. Living on the inside, protected, waters of Chatham Strait, we had no clue how much the winds had churned up the open ocean. Now, as the ferry left the protected waters of Kakut Narrows and entered the open waters of the sound, we were about to find out. With the first swell the bow of the ferry rose up and crashed down, sending spray to the heavens. The tourists began to moan. Fifteen-foot rollers at least, maybe twenty. Our trip on the outside was going to be an adventure! We could only hope no other storm would torment us. Now the ferry turned left and chugged toward the protected waters of Neva Strait. Sideways to the swells the ferry rocked back and forth like a child’s toy in a bathtub. And we were going to paddle this in itty, bitty kayaks? The moans of the tourists grew, and they were turning a shade we call tourist green. The ferry arrived in the middle of the night, so we stretched out in our sleeping bags for a few hours sleep before beginning our journey. As we left the ferry terminal the next morning, a maze of islands lay before us. Thankfully we began this trip in protected waters, giving ourselves a couple of days to get used to padding our heavily laden boats. I spent a lot of time glancing between the map and the compass mounted on my deck. The compass declination here is 26 degrees East, a significance deviation to say the least. Many have strayed off course in this wilderness called Alaska because they simply forgot or didn’t know how to adjust for this declination. We passed Gavanski Island and set our sites for Guide Island. To the southwest we caught a glimpse of the open ocean. In the distance the ocean blue faded into the horizon. Somewhere out there was Hawaii or Japan, depending how badly one navigated. Out there were the big waves, tossed about unabated by the great storms of the Gulf of Alaska. For now the islands protected us, but in a couple of days we would forsake their guardianship and venture forth to be at the mercy of the wind and waves. Beyond Guide Island lay Kruzof Island, shrouded in the fog. Somewhere in the clouds loomed Mt. Edgecumbe volcano. Snowcapped and serene, the 3200 foot cinder cone rests quietly on the ocean’s edge. However to the North just a couple of miles reads a story of the power and violence of Mother Nature. Three small hills that stand half height of the volcano tell a frightening story. Just ten thousand years ago, a mere blink in the eyes of time, these mountains were one and as tall as Mt. Edgecumbe itself. Then in a rage of fire and ash it exploded, throwing the mountain into the sky above and the sea below. Now all that remains are the gentle tree-covered slopes of these three hills. Today Mt. Edgecumbe slumbers amid the clouds, but those who live in its shadow wonder how long she will sleep. Joe, up visiting from Kentucky, has yet to see the volcano and jests he will take my word that it exits. We had the choice of two routes heading north, the first through Olga and Neva Strait. However these were the normal shipping routes, meaning we would have to contend with ferries, barges and fishing boats. What concerned me most was not being run over, but, in the narrow sections, having our camping spot swamped by wake from the boats. More than once from the ferry I had spotted potential camping spots on these beaches only to watch the wake of the ferry inundate that very spot. Seeking both solitude and safety, we chose to paddle through the less traveled waters of Krestof Sound and Sukio Inlet. We had to time our paddle with the tides, since part of this section goes dry at mid-tide. We didn’t think we could make the tide the first day out, so we camped just outside of Mud Bay. If the name meant anything, it was that we didn’t want to camp inside Mud Bay and get trapped in by the tidal flats. Shortly after leaving camp the next morning we were treated to a surprise. The open ocean is the domain of sea otters, but here in these small passageways it is the river otter that reigns. As Krestof Sound narrowed we saw what we thought at first was a patch of bull horn kelp, but quickly realized that kelp doesn’t have eyes. Ahead of us was a family of six to seven river otters! They obviously had seen us first and were heading toward the shore. We both stopped paddling, so as not to stress these creatures anymore than we already had. The otter family moved close to shore, then turned to look at us. Suddenly one of the otters made a grunt sound. Then they all hit the beach and scurried into the underbrush. We paddled up as far as we could and spent a pleasant morning waiting for the flood tide to fill our path. This gave us time to explore the sea bottom and get caught up in wonder at all the sea creatures who call the mud and rock beneath the sea their home. We were amazed at the variety of seastars, both in color and number of arms. Just as amazing were the anemones which waved their feathery arms in poetic rhythm amid the current, trying to catch their food. Hermit crabs scurried about and sculpin, called ‘double uglies’ by Alaskan children, darted about the soon-to-flood tidal pools. We stopped for a snack break just above a small tidal rapid that needed a little more water. When the tide finally covered most of the rocks we set off. Though the tidal rapid was small it was still a bit tricky, as our sea kayaks were not designed for tight maneuvers. Adding to the mix, these rocks were coated with sharp barnacles, so the paddle became more challenging then I first anticipated. We had fun and survived. Joe and I had met years ago on a whitewater trip in Kentucky. Since that time we had paddled several thousand miles together in whitewater kayaks, canoes, rafts and now sea kayaks. We had paddled a lot challenging whitewater together and saved each other’s necks a few times. I felt confident paddling with him. As we left the protected waters of Sukoi Inlet, we entered a different world -- the exposed waters of Salisbury Sound. The words ‘fun’ and ‘survive’ began to take on new meaning. First, the wind had kicked up and each cat’s paw of wind on the water tried to slow us to a crawl. Next. we began to experience the swells from the open ocean. One moment we were a top of the wave all the world to see, then the next we were down in the trough seeing nothing but the sky above and walls of water all around. Crossing the Salisbury Sound we encountered a very strong tidal rip flowing out of Peril Strait and Kakul Narrows. It had a distinct eddy line that extended ¼ to ½ mile out into the ocean. Being expert whitewater kayakers, we entered the rip at an acute angle expecting to be ferried out with the current, only to find that looks were deceiving. The rip was a boil of confused waves, breaking at various angles to each other, tricky but in this case not a real challenge to navigation. We laughed about our overly cautious approach and entry as we easily made our way across the rip. We paddled into the Goloi Islands and were soon rewarded for our efforts. As we ducked in behind the islands to get a break from the wind and the swells, two sea otters greeted us as they spy-hopped half-way out of the water for a better look at us. Once we showed ourselves to be no threat, they began to go about their business of diving for food, then swimming on their backs to dine at leisure. Admittedly we were not interested in a bite of their urchin lunch, but we were getting hungry for our own so we joined the otters in a floating lunch Joe describes what happened next: "We took a floating lunch here and I learned a valuable lesson in sea kayaking. While putting away the lunch, I let my kayak drift into some floating kelp. With the help of some small waves and the rising tide, I soon noticed my rudder was trapped under a few kelp strands and my stern was sinking as the tide rose. If not for the fast response from my friend, Bob, who cut me free from my trap, I would have had to make a wet exit from the boat, cut myself free and attempt my first wet re-entry with a loaded kayak. The old adage about safety in numbers was proven true again." With an ever increasing wind moving in off the ocean and the swells getting bigger, we decided to look for an appropriate landing area to make camp. A few miles later, amid a narrow passage between rocks, we spotted an area that looked promising. We carefully counted the waves to avoid the biggest swells, made a cautious approach and landed amid some of the roughest surf we had ever seen while sea kayaking. The fact that both my legs were cramped from sitting all day didn’t help. When the nose of my boat hit the sand beach, I tried to jump out quickly and grab the boat to haul it away from the waves. What actually happened looked like something out of a Jerry Lewis movie . I struggled to get out of the boat, nearly falling on my face. Then when I tried to drag the boat, my legs acted like they were made of rubber. The entire time the waves took great joy in pounding me. I swear I could hear them laughing. The camp was beautiful, with just enough room to set up a tent and cooking fly between large rock outcroppings. The sky cleared later that evening. At long last Mt. Edgecumbe emerged from its’ cloudy hiding place. Joe at last got to see the volcano! Late that evening we experienced a magnificent sunset that was truly the crowning event to an exhilarating day of paddling. The day of reckoning dawned. For the next 15 miles we would paddle along the Khaz Peninsula. With its ragged rocky shore line carved by a million storms, there was no place to seek shelter from the wind and waves. There is a certain lure and lore to the outside waters. The sea at its’ full force of tide, wind and waves. Sea creatures surviving where life is the toughest. No shelter from the storm, no harbor from the waves. Life on the edge, life lived to the fullest, the only life to live. And it was rocking and rolling. The swells rolled deep and mighty. At first I was having fun riding up and down of the face of these wonderful swells, then I got a start. Joe was missing? Just a moment ago he had been several yards off to my left, but now he was gone. What happened? Then as quickly as he had disappeared he reappeared. Was he a hobbit with a magic ring? No, it was just that he was disappearing and reappearing amid the swells that peaked between us. For the next couple of hours we played hide and seek amid the swells, seeing how long we could disappear from each other. Despite the fun we were having, there was one disconcerting aspect to this paddle. Lurking just under the surface were many boulders and rock outcroppings. The breakers they formed were causing us to paddle a mile to a mile and a half off shore. We constantly needed to scan up to a mile ahead of our position to be sure we kept clear of these walls of boat-devouring foam. Lunch was a unique challenge. The map showed a small cove that we could duck into. The problem was we would have to maneuver through the breakers to get there. At first the shore looked like a solid wall of breakers, but as we slowly paddled in we could find small openings between the breakers. Like paddling a moving maze, we worked our way in and found the cove and a small beach. This technique we would use the remainder of the trip. Just after lunch we started seeing a huge explosion of water more than a mile in front of us. Looking at the charts we both carried, our guess was that the explosions were large waves breaking onto what was named Tea Pot Rock. As we neared the area the rising tide changed the explosive nature of the show, and it became clear by the shape of the rock just how it got the name Tea Pot. Wide at the base and flat at the top each wave that hit the rock sent forth a stream of spray into the sky, where the wind grabbed the droplets and scattered then about the sea. Tea anyone? I would love to be here during one of the great winter storms that generate the huge swells. What awesome explosions of water this place must see! On the other hand, I would be a fool to be out here in the midst of that kind of power and pandemonium. About this time we also were shaken to our souls by a huge monster of a breaking wave that was so close and so unexpected that neither of us could say anything coherent for several seconds. A boomer! The deadly combination of a large underwater rock and the power of an especially large swell. We frantically paddled out to sea for all we were worth to get away. We must have sprinted for 100 yards before letting up on our pace and relaxing. Finally we neared the end of the Khaz peninsula and sought the shelter of Khaz Bay. According to the map, just past Khaz Point was a small entrance called Piehte Pass. Rounding the point all we saw were a sea of rocks, and breakers as far as the eye could see. We had no choice but to stay outside. The marine charts called this area the Khaz Breakers; for the next five miles these white beasts kept us out to sea. Finally we spotted an opening and slowly picked our way into Khaz Bay. Dog tired from miles of adrenaline-rush paddling, we spotted a cove that looked like it might have a place to call home for the night. Joe led the way in and nearly paid a heavy price. He was several boat lengths ahead of me as we neared the back of the cove. We were both tired, so we were only half-heartedly trying to surf the small waves that rolled past us. I thought I was far enough behind Joe for safety. Unfortunately I was wrong. I glanced at a wave coming from behind and took a couple half-hearted paddle strokes to catch it. Instead it caught me! The next thing I knew I was at the top of this rogue wave, bracing for all I was worth. I looked down to see Joe below me merrily paddling along, not realizing that I was about to land on top of him! "Look out!" I screamed as I frantically back paddled. Joe looked over his shoulder, at the wall of water, then up at me. His eyes grew wide and he tried to accelerate from the coming doom! Luckily I managed to break over the back of the wave and miss the collision. It was too close a call for both of us. The lesson learned: always let your buddy lead! After two days amid the boomers and the swells, we headed for Ogden Passage which cut in behind Herbert Graves Island. What a change in scenery! Instead of looking out over miles and miles of open ocean, we were now surrounded by trees, beach and kelp. The effect was more than visual. Having paddled the last couple days with a sense of vulnerability, the closeness of the land and the lack of large swells gave us a sense of security. Although we enjoyed the excitement brought about by the "outside," we also cherished this more intimate and secure landscape. It seemed we were not the only ones to seek these protected waters. There were birds everywhere. Harlequin ducks sat in the tidal backeddies of the bigger rocks. Old squaw ducks squawked in worried tones as we paddled by. A pair of common loons dove to catch small fish. We had hoped to hear their mournful cry, but they were too busy feeding to entertain us. A group of cormorants gathered at the top of a rock, while a scattering of black-legged kittywakes sat perched on the rocks below them. In the distance a group of surf scooters suddenly scurried across the water, as if flying away from something. When we saw the nose of a solitary sea lion come up to breathe, we knew who the culprit was. Seals popped up to look at us, not used to seeing people in these seldom-traveled back waters. They followed us, both curious and cautious. A gentle whoosh was heard and, after several missed attempts, we spotted a small pod of harbor porpoise fishing the back channels. We had entered a magical world of birds of the air and creatures of the sea. It was why we came, why we paddled so far amid the stormy open sea. To paddle peaceful waters so full of life. We had timed this trip to take advantage of the northerly flow of the flood tides and we were making great time. However, as we entered Kimsham Cove, we hit a monstrous back eddy. It felt like we were paddling uphill and backwards at the same time! We were paying our dues, I guess. We made some impromptu plans for exploring that included a side trip into an estuary fed by a rather large stream. It was spawning time for the salmon in this stream. To be safe, we made a lot of noise as we paddled up to make our presence known to any bears in the area. When the going got too shallow, we got out of our kayaks and waded upstream to a small stair-stepped falls. The falls were full of salmon trying to make it to the spawning grounds. They would leap from the pool below and plop into the pool above, take a moment’s rest then go for the next level. As they jumped they never stopped flapping their tail as if they could swim in the air as well as the water. Joe literally reached into the water and picked up two 8-pound salmon. The biggest fish he had ever caught and he didn’t need a fishing rod! (Too bad we couldn’t keep them.) The fish were constantly bumping into his legs as he stood knee-deep in the water. As we paddled out of the stream our boats were often moved from side to side, not by current in the stream, but by groups of salmon moving past us to spawn. The next morning dawned cold and rainy. Usually this would dampen our spirits, but the map showed this might work out perfectly. Tucked inside a small bay near by was a place where powerful forces deep below worked their magic and brought to the surface a marvelous wonder -- hot springs! White Sulfur Springs is a series of small springs surrounding a central large spring. Years ago the Forest Service erected a shelter over the larger springs and built a cabin nearby. Now, cold and chilled, we paddled along with great expectations of the soothing hot water ahead. First though we had to once again brave the outside. As we paddled out of Dry Pass, the swells were waiting for us with gusto. A northerly wind added choppy waves to the mix, forcing us to pull ourselves out of our daydreaming and to concentrate on our paddling. As we approached the Springs, we realized this was going to be a tricky landing. The beach, if you could call it that, was clogged with years of debris tossed up by the sea. Before us lay a mass of logs, whole trees, and old planks from a few ill-fated fishing boats. "After you, Joe." Joe managed a landing without too much mishap. My landing was with far less grace. Due to an ill-fitting seat, my legs had a bad habit of going to sleep; hence when I landed I often had trouble getting out of the boat quickly. This landing was no exception. As I neared the beach, it was obvious that the only way to land would be to turn sideways to the debris pile and scramble out of the boat and onto the wet slippery logs. Much easier said than done! To make the situation more miserable the waves were in sets, close together. I did my best to land and scramble fast, but it wasn’t meant to be. As I turned sideways to the log jam, a small but powerful wave slammed into me and bounced me into the logs. I tried to scramble out of the boat, but caught my knee of the cockpit rim and sprawled the top half of my body across the logs. Fearing my boat would get sucked out to sea, I hooked the cockpit rim with my foot, then tried to reach back and grab it! Thankfully Joe saw my predicament, bounded across the logs and grabbed my boat. "Thanks, friend". Racing the incoming tide and the occasional rogue wave, we managed to drag our boats up the log jam and onto the grass above. Wet, tired and cold, we staggered up to the springs. Alaskan hot springs etiquette calls for one to bathe in one of the smaller springs before soaking in the larger one. After 6 days at sea, we didn’t want to leave an oil slick in the soaking pool so we each found a knee-deep, toasty hot puddle and washed away the grime and salt. Then we spent the rest of the day soaking our tired and sore bodies. Ah! such pleasure for the body, mind and spirit. In addition to the soothing hot water, the view is spectacular! A chain of rocks lead out to the Porcupine Islands. Explosions of whitewater vaulted skyward as the great swells of the Gulf of Alaska broke their backs and met their violent end. Seabirds, and sea lions attempted these wild realms in search of food. Sea gulls sat amid the breakers, gobbling up the small fish stunned in the turbulence, taking flight at the last second before the next wave claimed them as a victim too. The problem with paradise is that eventually you have to leave. We still had a long ways to go and somewhere out there a storm lurked. The next morning, despite the siren call of the hot springs we packed our gear, survived a launch over the wet and slippery log jam and once again found ourselves in the midst of rolling seas. Decision time lay ahead. Our destination was the small town of Pelican, nestled deep within the waters of Lisianski Inlet. We had the option of two routes. The shorter and safer one was to turn up Lisianski Strait. The other, which would be much longer and more challenging, would be to go up round Yakobi Island then cut down Lisianski Inlet. (The Inlet and the Strait form an upside-down ‘Y’) The latter route would be made more difficult because we would need to paddle the entrance to Cross Sound. The waters of Cross Sound is the funnel by which Glacier Bay, Lynn Canal and Upper Chatham Strait are fed. The chaotic currents and rips of these treacherous waters are legendary to sailors throughout Alaska. Still, without hesitation, we decided on the longer route. The sea and weather conditions were favorable and we were feeling confidant in our abilities. Yakobi Island marks the beginning of the West Chicagof-Yakobi Island Wilderness. Having gotten spoiled by our days paddling inside, we quickly realized that paddling this wilderness meant we would be back in the open ocean, even more exposed than before. Here the rocks and boomers lurked farther out to sea and at times we had to paddle up to two miles offshore to avoid the breakers! We found this exciting, challenging and unsettling at the same time. When Joe and I first started paddling, it was on the creeks and rivers of West Virginia and Kentucky. If thrashed by the rapids and your roll failed, you did a wet exit and swam your boat to shore. Not here! The only way to survive if you were forced into a wet exit out here would be to somehow get back in the boat and bail it out. Joe and I had discussed this worse-case scenario and came to a sobering conclusion. The many miles of whitewater kayaking had honed our ability to both brace and roll our kayaks. If we got into conditions where both our braces and rolls failed, then it was hard to imagine we could perform a rescue under those same conditions! Such risk though is the price we pay for the rewards we discover at sea. The savoring the feel of the wind, the rise and fall of the waves. Feeling the heart beat of the sea. The hallowed encountering of the creatures of the deep below and of the sky above. Experience of both life’s frailty and triumph. Paddling mile after mile of wild seas in a delicate balance of our sheer skill and nature’s grace. Encountering the sacred in the mist of it all. With such risk, we paddle onward and grow deeply within. After many miles well out to sea, it was time to head in. The map showed a promising camp site on the Takanis Peninsula. Getting there seemed daunting. Between us and the shore, all we saw was a gauntlet of breakers, rocks and maelstroms. For the next 45 minutes, we slowly picked our way through the maze into shore, watching ahead for breakers and behind for the larger swells. Eventually we saw a small cove and made a run for it. After dinner we both turned in early, our bodies telling us we had paddled twice as far as the map had said. I had spent the winter before pouring over maps of this area calculating milages, according to naive straight lines drawn along the shore lines on maps. Reality was different: today the first two miles were straight out to sea, then turn north! Good grief, the daily mid-day bathroom break added four miles to the trip! However the rewards for such an odyssey abound. The next day, as we paddled near a large rock, a bit of movement caught my eye, then practically everything began to move. "Joe, look!" Ahead of us a colony of sealions scrambled into the sea, not knowing what to make of these strange creatures who approached their haul out. I felt bad for disturbing their leisure, but was also thankful that their only response was to belch and burp as we passed. The day was beautiful, filled with spectacular scenery and the awesome feeling of peace with the world that often overwhelms one in environments such as this. The ocean swells had begun to diminish. We hit Cross Sound at flood tide, which certainly eased our way. Our destination was Soapstone Point, a massive outcrop of soapstone that jutted out into the ocean. The soft stone was often used by the Tlingits for carving and trading. We gathered a few pieces with dreams of one day creating wonderful sculptures. First though we would have to learn to carve! We awoke to partly cloudy skies and a gentle wind. We left the turbulent waters of the open sea behind and celebrated the protected waters of Lisianski Inlet. Surrounded by mountains rising 2000 feet out of the sea, the remoteness of the open sea left us and the intimacy of the inlet embraced us. We found a small island where the waters of the Strait and the Inlet join and set up camp. The last night of any long trip is always one of quiet emotion. Memories flood of special moments. Our thoughts pondered what we have become in these many miles at sea. Remorse lurked in us that by tomorrow we would once again join the march of civilization. We felt a dread curiosity of what news the world would bring. Surely the usual mixture of sadness and joy, tragedy and laughter. Families awaited but a word of our safety and arms wished to embrace us to say "welcome home." We broke camp the final morning and had just five miles to paddle. We took our time to savor life upon the water in our ancient craft. We arrive in Pelican to await the ferry, which comes in twice a month. It is an odd name for a town, even in Alaska, since no pelicans live here. It seems the founder of the town named it after his boat, ‘The Pelican.’ The town consists of harbor full of fishing boats, a board walk , some weathered homes, a cannery, a church and a bar. Having said many a prayer at sea we decided to have a brew to celebrate our journey. We entered Rosie’s Bar and were greeted by an elderly bartender (Rosie herself) who ask us where we had come from. When we told her we had paddled up from Sitka, she looked no less impressed than if we had said we had arrived by ferry. At her bar filled with fishermen who fished the wild waters Gulf of Alaska on a daily basis, she had heard her share of wilder stories. We sat at a small table sharing memories and stories. We raised our glasses in a toast to all the miles and all the waves, to all the creatures and all the sights and sounds. We raised our glasses to toast the next time we would paddle forth to ride the waves of the great and restless sea. Bob Carter and Joe Yung *************************************************************************** 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/ ***************************************************************************
Beautiful, Rev. Bob. Thank you! Shawn "Bob Carter" <revkayak_at_mtaonline.net> wrote: >>Such risk though is the price we pay for the rewards we discover at sea. The savoring the feel of the wind, the rise and fall of the waves. Feeling the heart beat of the sea. The hallowed encountering of the creatures of the deep below and of the sky above. Experience of both life’s frailty and triumph. Paddling mile after mile of wild seas in a delicate balance of our sheer skill and nature’s grace. Encountering the sacred in the mist of it all. With such risk, we paddle onward and grow deeply within. __________________________________________________ Do you Yahoo!? Y! Web Hosting - Let the expert host your web site http://webhosting.yahoo.com/ *************************************************************************** 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/ ***************************************************************************
On Thursday, October 24, 2002, at 2:41:08 AM PST, Bob Carter wrote: > Such risk though is the price we pay for the rewards we discover at > sea. The savoring the feel of the wind, the rise and fall of the > waves. Feeling the heart beat of the sea. The hallowed encountering > of the creatures of the deep below and of the sky above. Experience > of both life’s frailty and triumph. Paddling mile after mile of wild > seas in a delicate balance of our sheer skill and nature’s grace. > Encountering the sacred in the mist of it all. With such risk, we > paddle onward and grow deeply within. Worth quoting again and again (I see that Shawn also selected this paragraph to quote). Thanks again Rev. Bob, for sharing with such depth your wonderful experiences and insights with us. -- Melissa *************************************************************************** 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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