[Paddlewise] A Day Of Grace / long post

A Day Of Grace








About midnight, before going to bed, I check the weather forecast. It is the
typical mid-winter Alaskan -- lousy. Rain or snow, temperatures in the low
30’s at best and winds up to 30 mph. So much for my plans to paddle tomorrow.
Yet I can’t complain, this is Alaska and it is December. Add in the short
daylight hours and the good paddling days are few and far between.





The next morning I awake and glance out the window, expecting to see the usual
winter gloom and doom. Instead I see a brilliant blue sky! I glance at the
treetops and they stand motionless. No wind! Frost lays thick on the ground,
but I can live with that.





I grab my gear, load my boat and head down the road to Papkes Landing on 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 flood tide enters the Narrows from both the North and the South. When the
tide begins to ebb, Papkes Landing is the dividing point with some water
heading south and the rest heading north. Today my goal is to paddle south
down the Narrows, then turn up a tidal inlet called Blind Slough. 





I paddle out into the Narrows, looking up at the blue sky and a bright
winter’s sun. The waters about me are mirror calm, with not even a whiff of
wind. The temperature has climbed above freezing and, in the sun at least,
feels quite comfortable. This is a day of grace. A day when a window of good
weather offers a wonderful paddle. 





A beautiful mid-December day in a land that rarely offers such a gift. I
paddle amid its grace.





I head SE along the Narrows. This is the first time I have paddled this area
of the Narrows, so I need my map and compass to help me find the entrance to
Blind Slough. As it turns out the name Blind Slough was very accurate. The
winter sun hangs low in the sky and reflects brightly on the water directly
ahead. It is blinding! Not only do I have trouble seeing landmarks ahead, but
I have trouble seeing my compass! The compass is mounted on my forward hatch
and the sun’s glare on the water makes it impossible to read. My only choice
is to paddle at an angle to the sun in order to see. As a sail boat tacks to
the wind, I am literally tacking to the sun! 





After a mile I decide to give my eyes a break, paddling up a small unnamed
creek. As soon I enter the shadows, I hit sheets of pan ice. Thin enough to
easily paddle, the ice softly crunches as I cut through it. As I enter the
creek I see what at first I think are chunks of floating ice. Only as I paddle
past one do I realize I am seeing something much more unique. Frozen foam.
Somewhere up stream a rapid has churned up the organic materials in the water
into a pile of soft foam. The cold temperatures has frozen this foam into
delicate ice structures that floated upon the waters. Mini ice foam bergs?





The creek is a joy to paddle. It proves to be a lot longer than I thought and
takes me deep into the woods. As it narrows it remains deep. At last I reach a
small falls. Only then do I discover that there is no room to turn around, so
I back up several yards and, after several attempts, manage to turn around. 





I reenter the narrows and head to Blind Slough. A line of navigation lights
mark the deeper channel of the Narrows. Big boats have little margin for error
in this constricted water. I stay it the safer, shallow waters. 





As I round Danger Point, a flock of geese nosily protests my presence. I turn
to avoid them, but they take flight and head out into the Narrows. As I
watched them fly away, I see a dazzle of light on the water a mile or so away.
The light moves like a ghost upon the waters. What is this? The landing geese
give me a clue. Another flock of birds, maybe scoters, has taken flight. As
they splash across the water to get airborne, the splash is reflecting the
sunlight, creating a dance of light. Such wonders on the day of grace.





I hug the left shore and, despite the glare of the sun, manage to find the
entrance to the Slough. The channel narrows and the current quickens as I pass
by Blind Island. Ahead a few ripples indicate the channel is growing shallow.
To my left is a small bay. The map indicates a small creek, Big Gulch, feeds
this bay. I will have to check it out on my way out. The channel narrows
further and ahead I see a board walk. It is the trail that leads down to Blind
Slough Rapids, a tidal rapid that forms on the out-going tide. 





It is about 45 minutes until tide change, so I paddle with the current farther
up the Slough. Ahead the current turns left and begins to cut through a number
of small grass islands. I drift slowly through. Seeing a small rapid ahead, I
paddle into a small eddy to decide if I want to run through the rapid. If I do
I will have to wait till slack tide to come back through. Since I do not know
the tides of this area well enough to know how much lag there is between the
tide change in the narrows and in the Slough, I decide to wait another day for
paddling these rapids. 





I head back to the overlook and have lunch. I watch the tide roll in while I
munch on my roast beef sandwich and sip on a hot cup of tea. For dessert an
orange hits the spot. It is 12:48, high tide according to the tide chart, and
the tide is still rolling in. My best guess is that it will run at least
another half hour. Discovering this tide lag will hopefully save me a lot of
paddling someday. 





Now beginning to chill, I get back in my boat and head down the Slough. When I
moved from West Virginia, where the rivers all flow down hill, and came to
Alaska, where the tide determines the direction the water flows, I had to come
up with some new terminology. How can I call it ‘downstream’ when the water is
running the other way? Is it still paddling ‘upstream’ when I paddle with the
flood tide going upstream? Up the down stream? Down the up stream? Confusing.




I paddle back towards Big Gulch. Once again the world changes, as I paddle
from a wide body of water into a narrowing stream. It is as if the wilderness
begins to surround and embrace me. The trees are closer, the clear water
reveals the sea life below, shells alive and dead slide below me. More frozen
foam floats by. The sun hides behind the trees and the air noticeably chills.
Frost now lines the banks, clearly marking the highest reach of the highest
tide. A small rapid babbles as a kingfisher in a tree above protests my
intrusion into his world. I turn to paddle away, back toward the warming sun.




Soon I reenter the waters of the Narrows. Here the tide has turned, so I
paddle against the current for a mile or so until I reach the dividing point
and once again begin to flow with the tide. Paddle up till you start down?
Whatever.





I arrive at Papkes Landing and check my watch. It is 2:20, so I have less than
an hour until sunset. Falls Creek is within reach, so I take off. As I round
an unnamed point, I once again enter the land of frost and frozen foam. This
time though there is a lot more foam, foretelling greater things ahead. The
creek narrows quickly and I hear the falls before I see them. At last the
falls come into view. Tannin-colored water pours in torrents down an ancient
rock bed. A very old battle is taking place here. In some places the water has
cut channels in the rock, but at others the rock has prevailed and juts above
the water. In time and with time, the waters will win and one day the rock
will disappear, dissolved into the sea.





Another battle will ensue in the late summer months. Salmon will gather in the
deep pool below and fight their way up the falls in an effort to spawn in
quiet waters above. The falls, however, are steep and the current fast. Most
salmon exhaust themselves and die before reaching the safe water above. 





In many places in Alaska, human beings have been the greatest obstacle to the
spawning salmon, to the survival of the species. Streams have been altered in
the name of progress, timber operations have dropped trees into the stream,
and many steams have been over-fished. On Falls Creek it is a different story.
Here humankind has repented and, instead of bringing death, tries to help life
continue. To the right I see two concrete wall emerge out of the rock. Between
them an ascending series of pools rise out of the creek and provide the salmon
with a Jacob’s ladder to heaven, the top of the falls and the chance to spawn
and begin life again. 





I play for a few moments in the currents below the falls. I ferry back and
forth across the swift foam-laden current. Today it is merely play, but
perhaps some day in the future ferrying across a current may mean survival. In
seakayaking, through play our skills grow. 





I turn and head back out to the Narrows and toward the end of day.





The air cools as the sun sets in the Narrows. Daylight is fleeting and the
first stars begin to appear. In the distance I see clouds gathering as the
next winter storm announces its presence. It is the end of a wonderful day in
this land of winter storms and darkness. Truly a day of grace. 














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