An Odyssey of Waterfalls BARANOF ISLAND '99 My Seakayaking trips begin as dreams, born by the sight of a squiggle on a map, a view from a plane, a passage on a ferry. Visions of paddling in the midst of awe-inspiring scenery along a remote coast of wind and waves. Dreams of chance and exciting encounters with wildlife. For years the rugged east coast of Baranof Island had called to me. Many a morning, as I walked along the muddy streets of the remote Tlingit village of Angoon in Southeast Alaska, I gazed across the storm-tossed waters of Chatham Strait to the rugged shoreline of Baranof Island. To the south Kaskynu Falls could be seen tumbling into the sea. Slanted in its course down the granite mountainside, the first time I saw it I mistook it for a sail boat with sails billowed by the wind. I longed for a chance to sit in a kayak in its misty breath and hear it^Òs peaceful thunder. Those I talked to who had fished that distant shore told of other great waterfalls and cascades. I had to go. To the north sat White Rock. Long rains are the norm for this land, but on occasion the sun does shine and splendors abound. Many a sunny day I looked north to see White Rock shine as the welcomed sun gleamed off the rain-drenched rock. Someday but to touch this distant stone. One more enchanted place lay to the north -- Basket Bay. As I lived among the Tlingit, I sat at the feet of the elders who told me the stories of their peoples. They spoke of ancient days when in their noble cedar canoes they rode upon the waters of Noah^Òs great flood, landing at the head of the great rivers of the north. Knowing the journey was not yet finished they floated down the rivers into the great oceans and drifted with the tides to find a home. One group of Tlingit were searching for a home and a name. They paddled into a small bay where the salmon were running, but found only a few salmon and not enough to sustain them through the winter. Then a beaver swam into the midst of their canoes and then headed out to sea. They followed. Why? Sometimes when profound mysteries of the world speak, we are destined to follow. For miles across open and perilous seas, the beaver swam and slowly the Tlingit followed. In the distance a peninsula emerged out of the fog. The beaver swam up the inlet and silently disappeared beneath the waters. The Tlingit explored. They discovered miles of inland bays and rivers where salmon swam, deer roamed the beach and large tidal flats revealed an abundance of edible plants and shellfish. They discovered home; they discovered their name Dae Shee Taan -- The Raven Beaver Clan. Now, having been adopted by the Raven Beaver Clan, I wanted to see this place of legend, mystery and, perhaps, more truth than our skeptical modern mind could accept. I wanted to see Basket Bay. Yet sometimes years pass and misfortune falls before dreams can be fulfilled. Now, on an August day in 1999, with a few paddle strokes I began the journey of my dreams. Having flown out of Sitka, I landed in the remote fishing village of Port Alexander, a rough and ragged little place with a cast of characters who were more colorful than any fiction writer could make them. My boat had arrived a couple of months before me on a friend^Òs fishing boat. After packing up my gear, I headed out of the inlet onto the open sea. I lingered at the mouth of the inlet and looked south. Two years ago I had been at this very spot, yet then I headed south around Cape Ommaney and towards the outer coast. Fourteen days later I arrived in Sitka with a greater understanding of the world, myself and God. Last year I had also sat at this very same spot looking north to the horizon ready mentally for another great journey. "Ah, the best laid schemes of mice and men oft times go astray." (Burns) It was a horizon that, in the end, I would not cross. As I turned north the sun shone brightly in the clear sky, such a blessing in this land of rain. The previous year I had started on a rainy, foggy morning out of Port Alexander with the same intent, the same dreams and the same destiny -- the village of Tenekee. Yet only a mile and a half into the trip, I began to notice a slight aching in my left forearm. At first, since I had never had any physical problems like this before, I ignored it and paddled on. However, after a couple of miles, the pain was enough that I could not ignore it. I tried various ways to change my grip or my paddle stroke, but nothing helped. After only ten miles, I found a small bay called Toledo Harbor and made camp. The next morning I awoke when I rolled over on my now very sore arm. Determined to keep going, I began to stuff my sleeping bag. However my left forearm was too sore to either grip the stuff sack or stuff in the bag. I sadly realized I wasn^Òt going anywhere, especially to Tenekee. I sat there for the next two days, waiting for the arm to be well enough to paddle back to Port Alexander. The ten mile paddle back took two days. At first I dealt with the emotions of disappointment and frustration. All the dreams, hopes, planning, and packing were now taken away by a mysterious injury. Yet, as I had plenty of time to contemplate the hand life had now dwelt me, rather than falling into a pit of negative emotions, I chose to find ways to celebrate what I did have. I was safe. It was salmon season and if I couldn^Òt paddle back I could flag down a fishing boat. I was camping in a remote, beautiful little bay in Southeast Alaska watching whale, seals and sealions swim pass. I was surrounded by a lush rain forest of giant spruce and hemlock, where mink, otter and deer lived out their days. I shared the bay with eagles who put on dazzling displays while plucking salmon from the sea. In the deep woods the haunting voice of the raven called out ancient mysteries. I was safe in a place of wonder, so how could I be anything but content? By odd coincidence I had chosen to read Homer^Òs Odyssey^Ò the story of Odysseus^Ò 17-year journey home, obstructed by the malicious Greek gods who toyed with his fate. I began to sense that mine was a different story. My odyssey was halted by a mysterious injury that had never before plagued me, nor has it ever shown up in the years since. It was if a more kindly divine force were saying there was something up ahead, perhaps some cross current of wave and tide or fierce wind of a storm or hungry marauding bear that I would not survive. I accepted this simple grace with thankfulness. Now a year later I was once again camped in Toledo Harbor. The sun was shinning and my arm was healthy; this year the journey was meant to be! The next morning I set off for Deep Cove, 15 miles to the north. Once again the sun shone bright! I passed Little Port Walter, where over 300 inches of rain fall each year. The joke is that it is so rainy there that even the salmon wear raincoats. A handful of people live there, running a salmon hatchery. I did not envy them. As I paddled by, I saw plenty of coho salmon making their way up the hatchery weir. Salmon spawning season was at full bore and I would need to be watchful of the great brown bears that roamed the streams, feasting on the bounty. The map noted a waterfall tucked inside a small inlet simply called Mist Cove. The maps showed the falls being fed by a small lake and the name mist implied a softness and gentleness. I wasn^Òt really expecting much. As I rounded the point, I was greeted by a thunderous roar and a wall of cascading water! Instead of being a gentle trickling falls, this was a deluge leaping off the cliff above, crashing down the rock face and pounding into the sea below! The watery mist resulting from the collision was more like an storm of spray! I sat mesmerized for a long time by the sight and sound of this waterfall. Since I was a young child, I have been drawn to waterfalls. The coolness of the spray on a hot summers day. The roar which is as much felt as it is heard. The dancing of the water as it tumbles downward. The rocks below polished smooth by the ages of falling waters. The sheer power. The world still being shaped and formed, created by the simplest of things, water falling from the sky. Baranof Island is about 100 miles long and 25 miles at its^Ò widest point. The snowcapped mountains rise to over 5000 feet in its^Ò interior. Steep-walled coves and fjords cut inland from the sea. I paddled into Deep Cove, the first of many coves I would call home for a night. Spruce and hemlock grew at tides^Ò edge, while willows, ferns and devil^Òs club climbed the mountain, eventually giving way to alpine plants of the mountaintops. Within a month the first snows would fall, covering these mountaintop meadows for another long winter^Òs night. Today however, both the mountain and I were bathed in sunlight. I discovered a small waterfall at the head of the cove. As I crawled into my sleeping bag that night, the sound of falling water lolled me into a deep and peaceful sleep. "Ya gotta go into The Lord^Òs Pocket", a friend said when she heard I was going to paddle up this coast. I searched the map to find such a place. The map showed a narrow cove so small I was surprised it was even given a name. She went on to say that I would have to enter on the flood tide and I would be there till ebb whether I liked it or not. Actually this entire trip was based on the tide. The flood tide in southeast rolls north and I had chosen these two weeks to take advantage of the favorable ebb and floods of the tide. Since I prefer to camp at the head of the bays, I tried to time it so I rode in with the flood and out with the ebb. The Lord^Òs Pocket would be no exception. I arrived at the entrance about two hours after slack tide. The first thing I noticed was how narrow the entrance was. As I paddled in, it necked down to such a narrow point that if I had turned sideways I would have broached! I was so preoccupied with navigating the slim passage that beauty of this place caught me by surprise. Wow! It was as if I had paddled into a whole different world. I had paddled from an ocean wide and deep into an intimate little bay whose shallow and reflective waters were surrounded by lush tidal grasses and old growth forest. I drifted for a while just trying to take it all in. Eventually I looked around for a campsite and chose a grassy knoll near the entrance. I set up camp and had dinner. While I was eating a noticed a disturbance in the water across the bay. River otters! I watched with delight as this family of otters frolicked about in the water. Then I noticed they were heading my direction. Just a few yards from my camp spot, one of the otters looked up and saw me for the first time. She suddenly popped up half out of the water and stared at me. The others quickly joined her and began to chatter. "Oops, am I in your favorite spot?" I asked. Judging from their angry looks, I was. After a few minutes the otters swam away, with their noses indignantly thrust into the air. Eventually they came out on land about 50 yards from me and scampered into the woods. I checked out the beach and, judging from all the empty sea urchin and clam shells, this was their favorite picnic spot. Their revenge however was sweet. Though I saw no salmon in the bay, I was still wary of bear, and, as usual, I slept light. In the middle of the night I awoke to the sound of a crunch! Then I heard lots of crunching, close by! I scrambled out of my tent, bear spray in hand, only to watch the otter family dive into the water, their dinner of urchins at my feet. Then it hit me, I wasn^Òt wearing any socks or shoes and the wet grass was cold! Do otters laugh? I awoke in this little paradise to another sunny day. This weather was too good to be true. I paddled out the Lord^Òs Pocket and caught the flood tide north. My next stop would be the most poorly named bay ever -- Gut Bay. Gut Bay, despite a nauseating name, is spectacular, with a narrow entrance opening up into a four mile long inlet. Patches of snow high up in the alpine meadows melt to trickle down through the tundra grasses, to join with other streams to form dozens of small waterfalls which drop hundreds of feet into the ocean below. Schools of salmon swim toward the salt chuck meadow at the head of the bay to find the stream of their birth and begin the cycle of life again. Deer drink from the same stream with a wary eye, watching for the great bears of the forest. A beautiful bay deserves a better name. No one I talked to could tell me the source of the name, so I do not know if this was someone^Òs name, or a reference to a place to clean fish. Either way it deserves better. I camped as far from the salmon stream as I could. I did not see any bear, but I did see plenty of bear sign. The warm sun was probably too hot for them, so they retreated into the woods to wait for the cool of the evening to reemerge and fish for dinner. The next day was again sunny, unusual for August. I paddled out of Gut Bay and headed up to Hoggat Bay. I was hoping to see mountain goats. Though not native to this island, they were introduced here a number of years ago and have thrived ever since. (The first time I saw them was October 3, 1988. I was flying to Sitka from Angoon. When one passage proved to be fogged in, the pilot chose another and we were treated to the sight of several mountain goats grazing just below the snow line. Why do I remember the date so well? It was the day my son was born and I was flying over to the hospital to see him for the first time.) The sheer cliffs of Hoggatt proved memorable. They were by far the steepest and tallest I had seen and the waterfalls fell by the dozens, but unfortunately there were no goats to be seen. The campsite at the head of the bay was a little tight, but there was enough space to be comfortable. The first thing I checked in the morning was the sky. It was still clear and sunny! I paddled out to Chatham Strait and discovered glassy seas. I headed north and noted several salmon boats fishing. I could hear gear winding, and voices echoing across the water. Most were so preoccupied with their fishing that I was beside them before they noticed me. Usually they just waved. One woman though had just landed a nice silver (coho) salmon and offered it to me for my dinner. I had to politely refuse. I had no place to put it except on the boat or on in my lap. "Sorry," I said, " I can^Òt afford to smell like a salmon. Too many bears!" She laughed and said, "I guess you^Òre right." My next stop was Red Bluff Bay, a place well deserving of its^Ò name. The cliffs on the north side of the bay are a red hue, a striking contrast to the green forests and alpine meadows that surround them. I paddled all the way to the head and had lunch. The salt chuck meadows at the head were as big as any I had seen on this trip. Also the stream that flowed in was full of silver and pink salmon working their way upstream to the gravel beds where they would spawn. I watched the stream as they wiggled and squirmed up the shallows. The tops of their fins were blanched from being sunburned while swimming in shallow water. They had stopped eating a while back and now, with their jaws beginning to hook, they could no longer catch food. They were dying in their quest to spawn, beginning again the age-old cycle of birth, life and death. After watching the salmon for a while, I paddled back to the mouth of the bay and camped at an abandoned cannery site. Once upon a time, canneries like this were found all through Southeast but now are few and far between. Now most lie abandoned and slowly are consumed by the rain, the wind and the wet moss. The next morning I awoke to rain and wind. I couldn^Òt complain. I certainly had more sun already on this trip than my last three combined! The wind was coming from behind me and was beginning to really pick up. By mid afternoon I was surfing the following swells. For a while this was fun, but eventually the waves became irregular and whitecapped. I caught several good surfs that were almost too good. Loaded with two weeks worth of gear and food, my boat was heavy and didn^Òt respond quickly to either paddle strokes or hip snaps, both vital in handling these following seas. Finally it was hunger and thirst that sent me to shelter. I saw a rock jutting out from shore up ahead and decided to duck behind it for a water and snack break. The wind was driving the seas and my boat at a pretty good rate when I nosed into the eddy, so I was ready to lean and brace into the eddy turn. Unfortunately just as I was sliding across the eddy line, a rather large swell came up from behind and lifted my stern. The result was the nose of my boat buried in the reverse current of the eddy and dove like a submarine! I nearly did an ender and had to fight the boat with a desperate lean to keep it from flipping! Though I have a good roll honed amid the whitewater rivers of West Virginia, a fully loaded seakayak being pushed by the back eddy into a rock might have resulted in an unplanned and rough swim. After a long snack break, I paddled north till I reached Cascade Bay. The map showed a short bay ending in a waterfall. If I could find a camp spot here, I could get shelter out of the wind. True to its^Ò name, an impressive cascade poured into the head of the bay. What little beach there was offered little for camping, but I found a spot under some giant spruce just big enough for my tent. Nice and cozy. Rain and wind greeted me the next morning, but I was too excited to care. If things went as I planned, I would make it to Kasnyku Falls today! First I had a decision to make. I would also pass by the village of Baranof, famous for its hot springs. I could paddle in and, for a small fee, enjoy a hot dip in the springs. I elected not to stop. I was concerned that the storm would grow worse and I would have to sit it out for a couple of days, so this was a day to make time. Also I was enjoying the solitude and was not ready to break the silence as yet. Besides, by not detouring to Baranof, I had more time to explore the Takatz Islands. These islands sit behind a small peninsula in Takatz Bay. As I paddled, I discovered a variety of birds, including harlequins, cormorants and surf scooters, joining me in choosing the shelter of the islands amid the storm. After years of waiting, the moment came. I rounded a small point and turned to enter Waterfall Cove. There before my eyes was Kaskynu Falls thundering off the mountain in all its glory! Not even the wind and rain dampened my spirits. In fact as the top of the falls disappeared in the low-flying clouds, it added to the wonder of the moment. The persistent wind pushed me north away from the falls, but there was indeed more to see. Two miles to the north was Hidden Falls. Though not as large as Kasnyku, still it was worth the price of getting here. Tucked inside a small cove, the spray was so great it didn^Òt matter whether it was raining or not; everything was soaked and stayed soaked! Alas the cliffs and the falls offered no suitable place to camp, so I headed north to Cosmos Cove. Two miles deep, it offered shelter from the storm. Unfortunately it was a soggy camp site, but I had little hopes of finding a dry one. The next morning the wind and the rain played the drums on my tent. The wind was not strong enough to prevent me from paddling; it was just that after 7 days I had planned to take a break anyway. I always plan in weather days on my schedule, just in case. So after breakfast I retired to my tent and read. The next day the wind had died down some, but not the rain. Not wanting to fall behind schedule, I paddled on. After a couple of hours, I came to the mouth of Kelp Bay, one of the largest bays on Baranof Island. I could have easily spent two or three days exploring this bay, but had decided to save that for another trip. With the limited speed of a kayak and, for that matter, my own limitations, I couldn^Òt explore everything I wanted. Still I ducked behind Pond Island and explored an area called "The Basin". Crossing the mouth of Kelp Bay proved to be a challenge. It was a two mile open crossing with the unbridled wind hitting me directly sideways. It was a wet and wild ride! The whitecaps took turns at me, seeing which one could drench me the most. The wind joined in on the game, throwing gusts at me, trying to catch me off guard and knock me over. The tide upped the ante by throwing in the occasional swirl. The rain made sure that my glasses would be useless. Ah, what a wonderful day to be at sea! Despite the rather miserable conditions, I made the crossing and turned north, putting the wind behind me. Now I approached Pt. Thatcher and I had a decision to make. First a little personal history. On two previous trips I had paddled the north and west coasts of Baranof. About one mile beyond Pt. Thatcher, somewhere in Peril Strait, I would pass the mark where I could say I had circumnavigated Baranof. This had been a personal goal for many years and now was practically within sight. The question was -- today or tomorrow? I chose tomorrow for a couple of reasons. I had already done 15 miles and was quite spent. I had managed one open crossing and Peril Strait would mean another. So I decided to camp at Pt. Thatcher and save the moment for tomorrow. The problem was tomorrow had other ideas. In the wee hours of the morning, I awoke in a tent that was trying to go airborne! The night before I had set it up in a small wind block, but the wind direction had changed and it was kicking out of the west. By morning Peril Strait was a sea of whitecaps. I watched as the wind formed waves then blew them apart. A friend in Port Alexander later told me they measured 60mph gusts there, and she hoped and prayed that I was somewhere safe. To make a long story short, I sat there for two days, watching seas rage and oceans boil. I had waited years for this moment and now was stopped literally within sight of my goal. Also I was concerned about how much time I would have to make up. It was 39 miles to Tenekee, my eventual destination. The ferry was scheduled to leave there in four days. Would I get three easy days to paddle or two long ones. Only the wind knew. Admittedly I became frustrated at first, but then eventually reconciled to waiting and waiting. By the third morning the storm had receded and the seas had ceased their raging. It was time to paddle on. Somewhere just beyond Traders Island I raised my paddle in the air and simply said "yes". I had done it, over the years I had circumnavigated Baranof Island. True it was not the greatest feat in Seakayaking history, nor even my own greatest achievement Still it was a moment when a dream comes true, when the intent of a quest is reached. Onward I journeyed, renewed by the moment, knowing that other great moments were to come. Ahead lay the shores of Chichagof Island. Soon I reached Morris Reef, a shallow reef at the mouth of Peril Strait. Morris Reef is famous for a few ship wrecks and whales. Many a time on the ferry I had seen whales feeding here and today would be no exception. Whoosh! Ah, that wonderful sound of whales. A small group of humpback whales were feeding on the outside of the reef. I sat for a while, playing a guessing game of where they would surface next. Most times I missed my guess, but it was a fun game to be able to play. The sun was trying to break through the clouds and I was guessing that white rock would soon be gleaming. As I paddled closer it seemed like a different world, the rock formations were different and the seas became more shallow. More sandy beaches appeared. Great kelp beds lined the shore. Then I saw it ,White Rock, shining in the sun! I stopped for lunch on a large tidal flat that at low tide would have extended all the way to White Rock. A small stream flowed through a small valley on to the flats. A group of herring gulls floated at the mouth of this stream. Hermit crabs scurried about in the tidal pools waiting for the flood tide to renew their home with food. A few unfortunate jelly fish blown into the shallows and stranded by the tide lay like a glop on the mud waiting for the salvation of the incoming tide. And there was White Rock itself, a great boulder amid the sea. Tall and round with steep sides, in a way it seemed out of place, with no other rocks for companionship. Perhaps it had risen out of the sea through the awesome force of the movement of the earth^Òs tectonic plates. Perhaps at one time it had been a ^Ñrock of Gibraltar^Ò but now, with the passage of the wind and waves and time, was in its^Ò dying glory. Mysteries unanswered, I paddled on. Normally I try to hold my days to no more than 15 miles, but today my destination called for a 19 mile paddle. It is not so much my arms and back but my butt that sets the limits. After so many miles my tush starts to protest. So I was ever so glad to see the entrance to Basket Bay! The very thought of Basket Bay renewed my strength. In addition to the place of Tlingit story, Basket Bay also is also known for an underground salmon run. The stream that flows out of Kook Lake ages ago carved through the soft rock and flowed underground to the sea. Now the salmon follow that same course to spawn in the waters of Kook Lake. I searched out the stream and followed it into a cave. The top of the cave had broken through in a couple of places so there was adequate light to see. Several boat lengths into the cave I encountered a small waterfall. Below me, moving about in the water, were hundreds of sockeye (red) salmon, patiently waiting the right moment to travel upstream. A few salmon bumped my boat as they jockeyed about, trying to position themselves behind the egg laden females. Slowly I backed out of the cave and set about looking for a camp site. I landed on the beach and immediately discovered a wealth of bear sign. Tracks, scat and chewed-up salmon lined the beach. The trail leading up to Kook lake had bear tracks of every size. Despite one tent spot that looked inviting and soft, I wasn^Òt about to camp here. I instead paddled to a small rock point some 100 yards away. Sleeping on rocks seemed a better alternative than to sleep with bears. It turned out later this was a good choice. That evening while I munched on dinner, I watched as a young brown bear came down the trail from Kook Lake and ambled out on to the beach. He sniffed at a few of the chewed-up salmon, then walked up to the very spot I had thought about setting up my tent. He reached the spot and sniffed the ground for a bit. Then he preceded to vigorously scratch his butt on the ground! Glad I wasn^Òt sleeping there! The morning brought a stiff north wind. With 19 miles to paddle, that was the one direction I had hoped it would not be. Alas, rather than lament, I decided to accept what was given, so into the wind I ventured. On long days like this, I try to focus on my paddle stroke, trying to make each as efficient as possible. When my stroke is most efficient I fall into a rhythm, my torso rotating into each stroke, balancing the upper arm push with the lower arm pull, keeping my hands loose, extending the fingers of the upper hand to prevent cramps. I know by feel where the blade should enter the water and where it should exit . After all these years I know the feel of the wooden shaft of my paddle flexing ever so slightly as it cuts through the water. Today everything felt right and good. These were special hours upon the water. The long journey near its end filled with memories and stories to tell for years to come. The wind brisk in my face, and out in the channel the seas are beginning to toss whitecapped waves about. My body was weary but strong, my paddle stroke falling into a sweet rhythm. I watched eagles dine on fresh salmon plucked from the sea. Whales on the horizon spouted plumes of cloudy breath into the wind. An old sealion cruised by, heading to haul out on a distant rock. A curious seal followed for a bit, ducking under the water each time I peered over my shoulder. A bear wandered along the beach, nosing here and there for food, unaware of my passing or of my joy at watching. The wind now switched out of the northwest, unfortunately the direction I now headed into as I left Chatham Strait and entered Tenekee Inlet. Ten miles to go and the wind began to pick up. For days the wind blew at my back, easing the days^Ò paddle. Now it seems I must pay the piper and earn my miles. Another two mile open crossing greeted me with wind and whitecaps. I paddled into Trap Bay for a long rest, snack and water break. I wanted to catch the ferry out of Tenekee tonight, not to mention enjoy a soak in the Hot Springs. Yet the decision to cross in these conditions must be made not according to human schedules but by human abilities and limitations. To many have died because human schedules have conflicted with natures^Ò. "Do I have enough left to safely make the crossing?" is the question I have to ask myself. There have been times in the past when I have answered that question "No". I live to paddle again because I did. After a walk on the beach to stretch my legs, I climb back into the boat. The seas are not pretty, but I honestly feel I am within my limits. The closer I come to the middle of the inlet, the more the seas kick. Up and down my boat is tossed by the waves. The occasional wave breaks over me, for a second grabbing my boat and surfing it sideways. I lay into the wave, brace with my paddle and ride out wave ^Ñtil it breaks its^Ò back and lets me go. No room for the timid here; it is give your all to a brace or get tossed upside-down by the sea. Actually I am having fun and enjoying the energy of the wind and waves. I am within my limits and skill level, I am dressed for the conditions and have backup plans B,C & D ^Ñjust in case^Ò. I am confident in my roll and paddle float rescues. I have been in worse conditions and survived, so I truly relish moments like this. This is why I paddle, to experience life at the edge where we rely on ourselves, our human traits of skill, wisdom and courage rather that our fancy technologies. This is a great day! The crossing now complete, I made my way along the north shore line to Tenekee. About a mile out, the wind threw one final fury at me. Several big gusts just about stopped me dead in my tracks! Old mariners and salty old seakayakers talk about the wind having a consciousness that plays games or (worse) extracts revenge on the traveler. For a moment I began to wonder! The last hundred yards were the worst, but finally the nose of my boat touched the shore and the journey was at end. After staging up my gear at the ferry ramp, I treated myself to a soak in the hot springs. My body had paid its^Ò dues, especially the last two days. As I slowly slid into the 108 degree water, at first my body stiffened with all the aches of the trip momentarily coming back, but then the muscles began to relax and I settled in floating amid these soothing hot waters flowing up out of the earth. Ah, hot springs and memories. Remembrances of deep bays with cascading waterfalls shining bright in the sunshine. Recollections of wild and untamed seas, rolling tides, whitecapped waves dancing before the wind. Reminiscences of great bears and spawning salmon, of spouting whales and curious seals. Thinking back to this journey of 150 miles and realizing that such a journey is not measured in miles, but is measured in the difference in ourselves gained along the way. *************************************************************************** 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. 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