FOG I stand at the boat harbor, surrounded by a fog so thick it seemed to shroud the entire world. I laugh. Today is the first day I will paddle the waters of my new home, Petersburg, Alaska. The first time I will see the waters and the land from my beloved ancient craft. Now surrounded by the fog, I know I will actually see very little of these new waters. Still the wind is calm, the temperatures are in the 40’s and the tide is rising, perfect for a winter’s days paddle in Alaska. Quietly I settle into my boat and head out. There are many things I love about paddling The movement of the boat in the water, chance encounters with wildlife, being surrounded by wilderness. Above all one of my favorites experiences is seeing new waters. Beholding for the first time a bay or a stream or even an horizon. Ever since I began paddling the wild waters of my home state of West Virginia years ago, I have been fascinated by seeing what was around the river bend. The sea is different; instead of river bends, there are points of land and islands. Still there comes the moment when I round a point or cut through a pass between islands and experience new waters, breathtaking views, wonderful surprises. Even today, with the fog hiding the world about me, the excitement is still there. The views would be few and incomplete but still wondrous. These are the waters of my new home, and just the small hint of what lay beyond the layering fog was enough to send my heart soaring. As soon as I clear the boat harbor, I take a compass reading. The map indicates I needed to run a course of 270 degrees West to reach my goal of the mouth of Petersburg Creek, across the open water a mile away. Now I make some careful calculations. The magnetic declination here is 25 degrees West. Many have become lost in these waters, and on land, for failing to account for the declination. When I taught wilderness survival at Sheldon Jackson College, I impressed this on my students by saying the difference in ‘true North’ and ‘magnetic North’ in Alaska is the difference between getting a little lost and really lost! Today I am not so much worried about getting lost as I am of missing the entrance to the creek and having to paddle back and forth to find it. Getting lost is not the only hazard in the fog; getting run over is another. Petersburg sits at the mouth of the Wrangell Narrows. The Narrows is a 24-mile channel, which serves as a shortcut between Wrangell and Petersburg. Fishing boats, ferries, tugs and small cruise ships save almost two hundred miles by running the Narrows. The powerful tides of southeast Alaska run fast through the Narrows, and so do the boats racing throughout. Often boats go aground because of low tide. I begin the one-mile open crossing listening intently. Usually I listen closely for the sound of birds and whales, but today I listen for the whine of the outboard or the thump of a diesel engine. I stare at my deck compass, running a corrected course of 245 degrees WSW I peer into the fog, looking for land. I glance at the map and try to guess my drift with the tide. Finally, out of the whiteness, a dark shape begins to emerge. The bow of a ship? Thankfully not, but a cabin sitting on a point. I am safely across. Out from the cabin floats a dock and at the edge of the dock sits a large white goose decoy. I have seen plenty of decoys in the water, but this is the first time I have seen one nailed to a dock. I laugh and start to paddle on by. "Honk!" Yikes, this bird was alive! The bird now really put up a ruckus "Honk, Honk!" I have heard of guard dogs, but not guard geese. I paddle on; eventually, after I disappeared into the fog, the goose grows quiet. I enter Petersburg Creek with the incoming tide. The creek is over a half mile wide at this point, so I can see neither shore in the fog. I discover myself in a world of floating ducks. Not only are they floating on the water, but they also seem to be floating on air. The whiteness of the fog joins with the placidness of the water to create a wonderful illusion. Water and sky became one, erasing the horizon line. The ducks float, as if flying without wings. One of the first ducks I see is a raft of oldsquaw. It has been a couple of years since I last saw one and it is like seeing an old friend. The males are beautiful, with a white cap of feathers covering their heads and rolling down their backs like a cape. The characteristic tail of the male is long, pointed and curved upward. The females are somewhat drab in comparison (sorry ladies), without the long tail feathers. Oldsquaws are noisy ducks and these begin a worried chattering the moment they see me. They are skittish, as would be all the birds I encounter this day. Perhaps it is because I emerged unexpectedly out of the fog. Maybe because fog hides predators as well the prey, the birds are nervous about anything coming out of the fog. Next I come upon a large flock of surf scoters. I do not want to disturb them, so I try to pass by quietly. Suddenly they all begin to flap their wings and dance across the water. The wind whistles a shrill tone in their wings as they fly away from me. I love paddling in the fog. I paddle to leave behind the world of machines, schedules and creature comforts. Out here the fog masks away the encumbrances of the world and I become a part of the wilderness. I am alone with the tides and the sea. I am at one with the sound of birds. I feel the fog as it touches my face and welcomes me here. I love the fog because with the loss of sight, sound becomes the most important sense. Paul Simon wrote a song about the ‘Sounds of Silence’, listening to hear what others will not. I close my eyes and listen to the wind in the wings of the scoters. I hear them, I feel them within. I listen to the waters of the tides as they cross a shallow ripple. I listen to the sound of my own paddle moving through the water. I hearken for the voice of the wilderness and her Creator. I roll on with the tide and emerge into a hole in the fog. It is as if I have paddled out of a narrow tunnel and into a great cavern . Above me I see for the first time the blue sky. Somewhere up there the sun is shining. Alas, such blessings of blue sky would be fleeting today. The creek begins to narrow and my blue sky disappears. Once again I am embraced by the fog. I pass over another shallows and suddenly the world about me begins to turn a golden glow. Through the fog I see a cliff face shining bright as the sun reflects off the wet rocks. The reflection turns the fog a wonderful golden hue. I stop paddling, wishing the moment would not end. As I slowly drift with the tide, I see an eagle emerge out of the fog. Black elegant wings against a sky of gold. Such is the land of dreams. The golden glow fades away as the fog once again thickens. Once more all I know is the whiteness of the fog. What lies ahead? What adventures great and small await? When my son was a child, I read to him from The Chronicles of Narnia, by C.S. Lewis. Here I am reminded of the passage as the gallant crew of "The Dawn Treader" set out to explore the wonders of the last sea. When they come to the waters at the edge of the known world, they dare not take the Dawn Treader any farther. Yet one brave soul, Reepicheep, a brave and fearless mouse, dares to go on. He jumps into his little boat and paddles onward, seeking what lies beyond the end of the world. It is the greatest adventure of all. The creek begins to narrow and trees emerge from the fog. The high banks reveal that much of the tide is yet to come. This day however I must paddle ahead of the tide. The short Alaskan winter days will not allow me to wait. With the Alaskan winter sun setting just past 3 PM, I want to start my crossing of the foggy Narrows no later than 2:30. The bottom of the creek begins to rise to meet me. Its’ course through the forest begins to twist and turn. I encounter shallows and wish I had brought an old beaten up fiberglass paddle, rather than one of my cherished wooden ones. As the current begins to run stronger, paddling up the shallows becomes more challenging and entertaining. I come to a long rapid and, like playing a game of chess, begin to work out my moves several plays in advance. I hop from eddy to eddy, side to side up the rapid. At last I hit deeper water and ease up on my stroke rate. I come to a small sand bar and decide to break for lunch. As I step out of my boat, I see the tracks of a river otter in the wet sand. The tracks tell a story. He had been walking along the edge of the sandbar when his nose told him there was a tasty morsel buried below. What he found I do not know, as all that remained was the hole he had scratched out in the sand. I sit on the sandbar, sipping on a welcome cup of hot tea. The mountain and the fog have combined to steal the warmth of the sun and, now that I have stopped paddling, I begin to feel a chill. Then from the deep forest I hear the call of a raven. I close my eyes and listen deeply. The raven has many voices. Some are crude, some melodious and others mysterious. Yet each voice is an expression, each call speaks of life in the deep forest. The Tlingit people of this land once believed that the raven had a spirit, a spirit so powerful that it set the sun and moon in the sky and filled the waters of the sea . Now such myth exists only in stories of the culture, but the voice of the raven remains. I have often listened to the voice of the raven and each time feel a kinship to the dark feathered creature. Years ago I was adopted into the Raven Clan by the Tlingit people. Now the raven is my brother. The raven continues to call. Is he seeking his mate, or calling for others of his flock to join him? Maybe he is watching wolves finish a meal, hoping to feast on what remains. Perhaps he too feels the mystery of the fog and calls out to it. I remember the story of old Noah in the ark. Before he sends out the dove, to see if the waters of the earth have receded, he sends out a raven. The raven flies to and fro over the waters of the earth, but never returns to the ark. Where did the raven go? To lands afar? To this land of rain, fog and deep woods? Such are the mysteries of the world best explored in the deep wilderness. I finish lunch and it is time to head back. The water upstream grows too shallow and the short Alaskan day is beginning to fade. Soon I paddle back into a whole different world . The rising tide has turned a narrow creek into a broad stream. What a difference a tide makes. The high banks I had looked up to on the way up are now below eye level, revealing the land beyond. Plateaus of grass and forest spread beyond the creek. This is the home of deer, bear and wolf. This day I see no creatures of the forest, but I wonder what eyes are watching me as I pass. Soon all is once again swallowed by the fog, so I paddle over the left bank to have a point of reference in the haze. Finally I come to the cabin that marks the mouth of the creek. The goose is still there, standing motionless in the fog. Again he waits till I am almost next to him before he erupts into honking. On an island that boasts both wolves and bears, this bird stands fearless against all. I move along the shore, until I reach the spot where I want to cross the Narrows. I sit and listen. In the distance I hear the thump of a diesel engine. The crab fishery is ending and a weary fisherman is heading home with his catch. I wait until he has past, then set a 90 degree East course into the fog. Once again I listen intensely as I paddle. Soon I pick up the sounds of the city ahead. Then, out of the fog, I see the float-plane dock with the fog-bound planes tied up neatly in a row. I see the entrance to South Harbor and head on in. For a moment I drift a couple of feet from the ramp. I don’t want this day to end. Somewhere deep in the forest, I know the raven still calls. Calling me back to the waters of fog and rolling tides. One day soon I will answer this call. I will return. *************************************************************************** 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. 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