PRINCE WILLIAM SOUND Upon A Sea Of Sorrow Sometimes just the getting there can be fun. This is certainly the case for my first kayak trip into Prince William Sound. On the drive down to Valdez from Delta Junction with my wife Gladys, my 3 year old son Martin and new paddle partner Dave, we see moose, buffalo and caribou. We roll past silt-laden glacier rivers, roadside waterfalls and tall snow-capped mountains. We drive over Thompson Pass where last winter over 900 inches of snow fell. Tall, bright yellow poles line the pass, to show the snow plows drivers where the road lay buried beneath the snow. In Valdez we stand on a dock with my three year old son and watch sea otters frolic below. "Sea daughters," he calls out in delight. Eagles fly back and forth, while gulls and crows mill around on the dock. The ferry arrives at the terminal and opens its mouth. This ferry, the MV Bartlett, lifts its entire bow to expose its car dock. We watch as this behemoth swallows a belly full of motor homes and tourists, like the whale who swallowed Jonah . As we carry our boats down the steep ramp I can not help but feel like a tiny piece of krill being gulped down by a whale. The ferry leaves the dock and heads south for the open waters of Prince William Sound. In the distance I see a marker buoy rise out of the sea. Bligh Reef, named for the infamous captain of the HMS Bounty. Now this name, this reef had become even more infamous. On Good Friday 1989, the oil tanker the Exxon Valdez left port heavily loaded with crude oil. The Columbia Glacier had been calving actively in the days before and the wind and tides had pushed ices bergs into the western shipping lane. The pilot turned the ship east to avoid the ice bergs. Tragically, because of a sad progression of errors including a drunken captain, the boat^Òs course was never corrected, which meant it crossed the shipping lane and plowed into Bligh Reef . Millions of gallons of crude oil poured out into the Sound, leaving a sickening trail of dead birds, mammals and fish. Though my partner and I will spend 12 wonderful days paddling the western part of Prince William Sound, most of which was not effected by the spill, I know the vision of Bligh Reef will haunt my thoughts throughout the trip. This tragedy was so easily preventable, yet now the damage was done and the infliction continues. The ferry, once a part of the fleet trying to clean up the spill, now had returned to its mission of hauling residents and tourists across the Sound. The ferry turns right and heads up Columbia Bay. The Columbia Glacier stands stately at the head of the bay. A mile wide and actively calving, the glacier fills the bay with icebergs of all shapes and sizes. The ferry slows to a cautious pace and continues into the ice field. I am surprised how close we are able to come to the face of the glacier. With the tide flowing out the icebergs have spread out, providing room for the ferry to move in. I desperately want to be in my kayak! On the side railing of the ferry is a stack of barrel-like canisters that hold life rafts. Ironically they look like depth charges and the lift they are attached to looks like a launcher. Now amid all the ice bergs I imagine putting my kayak on the launcher, climbing in the cockpit and yelling ^Ñ fire away!^Ò Even if I landed upside down I could roll up, then paddle amid all these ice bergs! Alas I am sure there was some rule against hurling a seakayaker into the sea, so I keep my fantasy to myself. The ferry enters Passage Canal and the town of Whittier comes into view. The wind kicks up as we approach port. The nickname of Whittier is Windier, because no matter how calm everyplace else is it will always be blowing like crazy here. Now the ferry once again opens it mouth and spit us out like a watermelon seed . We carry our boats up the ramp and then face the grim task of getting them down to the sea. The bank is a steep pile of jumbled boulders. One by one we lower the boats and hand down gear bag after gear bag. I don^Òt know how long this will take, but I am sure it will be too long time. Too long for a day we had plan to do a lot of miles. Oh well, such is life in a sea kayak. I watch with some anxiety as Dave launches his boat. Dave is no stranger to the wilderness. He grew up on a dairy farm in Idaho and moved to Alaska as a teenager. He has hiked many a mile in the Alaskan wilderness and has paddled a number of rivers in a canoe. My concern was that he only had a few miles of seakayaking experience. Last winter when I first told him about this a trip he asked to go. I tried to be honest about the risk. He was willing to train, but the ice had stayed too long on the lakes this year and he had little time to learn to paddle. Still he had learned fast and was willing to let me set the limitations. I reminded myself that I needed to make my decisions based on his limitations, not on mine. Especially in white water kayaking, I have seen far to many beginners paddle waters well above their ability because the leader overestimated their ability. I have also seen leaders take beginners down too tough a river merely because the leader didn^Òt want to run an easier one. He considers this trip good training for his next adventure. Each year Dave participates in an insane cross-country race across the Alaskan wilderness. 150 miles from point A to point B, with the participants being allowed to chose their own route. No motorized or mechanical means are allowed, and a 25 pound pack is considered much too heavy. At the sound of a gun the racers take off across streams, over mountains, through tangled brush and past hungry bears. The racers come home with wild stories. Dave once had to wade chest deep into an ice cold pond to escape a curious bear. Dave^Òs best time was 5 days and he was a day behind the winner! At least he survived. At this point Passage Canal is almost two miles wide, but we feel this is the safest place to make the crossing . Farther down the canal the winds have more fetch to whip up the waves. Visible from the put-in is a series of waterfalls, tumbling hundreds of feet into the sea along the north shore. When we reach the shore line, we discover we have made a wise decision. Between two of the falls lives a large black-legged kittiwake colony. As we approach hundreds of the birds fly in large circling patterns over the water. Mated pairs of birds sit on small ledges. Here they will lay their eggs and raise their chicks. The dangers are many and the risks are high, but through the force of sheer numbers some will survive and continue the circle of life. We continue to paddle out toward the sound. Soon we come to Billings Creek, the silty runoff from the Billings Glacier far above. This is a beach of ghosts, not of shipwrecked sailors nor of stranded seakayakers, but of trees. Before us is a forest of ashen white trees, most with their limbs broken off by storms leaving only their tall trunks. The tides have eroded the soil at their feet, so they stand upon their exposed roots. What force has brought such havoc? In 1964, on Good Friday, a monster earthquake shook the earth beneath these waters. The face of the earth changed. Much of Prince William Sound dropped several feet, including this spit of land. Soon salt water began to creep into the roots of the hemlock and spruce. They died quickly; ironically, the very salt that had killed them now preserved them and turned them into the white ghosts. Now decades later they still stand as a reminder of this ever changing earth. We paddle on, leaving these haunting apparitions. We wonder when the earth would move again and are troubled by the thought of being upon these waters if the earth should shake again. In sea kayaking risk, wanted or not, is always a companion. The sea is wild, the wind capricious and fate an ever present foe. The unexpected can arise on a whim and a good day can quickly turn desperate. Yet it is this mistress called risk that adds to the mixture of why we go to sea. To live another day our senses must grow keener. We are compelled to practice and practice our skills. We read the wind for a change in weather and watch the horizon for an approaching storm. We scan the beach for signs of the great bears. We are more in tune to the world so that we might stay alive. Risk gives birth to energy, to honed skills, to life lived to the fullest. Out here in wild untamed seas, risk has a face. In looking into that face we discover our own validity and strength. As flame tempers the sword, so risk solidifies who we are. We value life more when we are at the edge of it. When to give up is to perish, we delve down to find our inner strengths. Then we carry those inner strengths into all of life. Sea kayaking is more than just a mere hobby. Out here amid the wind and waves seakayaking is about self discovery. It is more than a journey upon the sea, it is a quest to uncover ourselves. Today the earth lies still and we paddle on. We come to a small inlet called Poe Bay. I assume this is named for an old prospector who long ago discovered gold somewhere up the creek at the head of the bay. Somewhere up this valley, I am told, are the ruins of his old gold mine. Maybe there is a another reason for the name. Perhaps once someone camped here and heard the voice of the mysterious raven and remembered Poe^Òs poem? For those of us who paddle and hike this great land called Alaska the voice of the raven often calls out to us. It is said the raven can make up to thirty sounds. Some are rough, like the caw of a crow. Others are melodious, like the dripping of water upon a bell. Some sound almost human, like a baby crying. Yet the voice of the raven is more than just sounds, it is the voice of the wild. The call of a life lived surrounded by the giant trees of the forest. A life lived upon the wind. A strength that thrives amid the great storms of winter. I envy the raven and listen to hear his tales of the wild wind. As we pass Decision Point on our right, we began to leave the protected waters of Passage Canal and paddle out into the open waters of Prince William Sound. Though with my experience I am the faster paddler, I drop back to watch Dave as he paddles. His canoe experience is evident; he paddles straight and his strokes are getting smoother. Today the waters are fairly calm with the few swells gentle in their path along the sea. I hope for both our sakes it will remain this way. Smooth water is one thing, but I do not know how Dave will handle rougher conditions. I have chosen our route to avoid long open crossings until later in the trip when Dave has more experience. I am also willing to back track if necessary to avoid putting Dave or myself at risk. Only time and tide will tell. The tide is now high and soon will begin to ebb. We discover a small sea arch along the shore. It is tempting to shoot through but the high tide and small swells make the ceiling too low and not worth the risk of a major headache. Reluctantly we paddle on. We camp that night on the eastern edge of Entry Cove at the mouth of Passage Canal. Our campsite provides a beautiful view of the sound. To the east we can see Esther Island. If the weather holds out, in a week or so we will be exploring her shores. We awake to a rising tide and set off up Port Wells. A stiff breeze greets our faces and speaks of being our companion for the day. I paddle over to Dave and give him some pointers to help him be more efficient with his paddle stroke. I also warn him that with the wind blowing opposite of the tide things might get choppy, so we will be wise to stick close to shore. Dave gets his first taste of big waves but not from nature. A large tour ship hurrying to show tourists the glaciers speeds by kicking up big waves. Dave sees the waves coming, but is surprised by their size and steepness. Thankfully he keeps paddling as they hit and, after the third or forth wave, begins to enjoy the experience. Prince William Sound, like much of Alaska, has an assortment of interesting names. On the way to Hobo Bay we stop off in Pirate Cove. Did pirates once hide here while preying on the unsuspecting? We find this bay peaceful and a good spot for lunch. The pirates live only in our imagination. The wind stiffens after lunch and my paddle seems to grow heavy. We talk of pushing many miles and getting to Harriman Fjord a day early, but tired muscles make the decision for us. We find a campsite at the entrance to Hobo Bay and again ponder such a name. We rise early to run with the tide. We have about eight miles to go before we reach Barry Arm, the entrance to Harriman Fjord. About mid-morning a man and woman paddling a double catch up with us. We chat for a little bit. "Where are you coming from? Where are you going ? Where do you plan to camp? How about this wind?" Then when the small talk is done they head off. I notice that just before they start to paddle they both put on head phones and paddle off listening to their Walkmans. Different stokes for different folks, I guess. Out here I prefer to hear the music of the world. The whistle of the wind, the distant voice of the loon or raven, the roar of waves breaking upon the shore. Also I wonder about the safety issue. Will they be able to hear the sound of approaching ships? I doubt it. I also wonder about their choice of music. If their stroke rate is any indication, it is fast-paced and they quickly leave us behind. Either they are both in great shape or, like a savvy marathon runner, we will eventually catch up to them when they wear out. We had been warned about the tide flows here. Harriman Fjord is twelve miles long and up to two miles wide. At Point Doran the ebb tide gets narrowed down to about a mile, so waves, maelstroms and icebergs come rolling out. We run with the flood tide to avoid the gauntlet, but the wind will not let us pass without testing our resolve. The wind blows against the tide, creating a sea of breaking chop. The wind-born cold from distant glaciers howls down the channel and holds us in its grip. Each stroke is a battle, each foot gained a victory. The spray is relentless and I am forced to yank my glasses off to be able to see. I keep an eye on Dave, but thankfully he is handling the situation well. His years of cross-country travel in Alaska, not to mention living where the temperature sometimes drops to 60 below, has given him experience that he translates into paddling. Since everything is coming straight on the risk is less than if this chaos was hitting us broadside. I steer us straight up the middle, avoiding any eddy lines along the shore. Just past the entrance we see the young couple hiding out of the wind behind a small cliff. They look tired, very tired. Only after passing Point Doran are we able to relax a little and take in the view. I dry my glasses and put them back on. Wow! The northeast corner of the fjord is a horseshoe shaped bay where three glaciers, Coxe, Barry and Cascade, march down the mountains and touch the sea. The bay is a cauldron of icebergs of all shapes and sizes. Suddenly tired muscles revive, the wind is forgotten. This is why we came, what the getting here is all about. Nature in all her glory spreads a feast before our eyes. Ice, rock and sea is woven in a tapestry of splendor and glory. We find the campsite and prepare to go ashore. This is a moment for us to be on guard. Calving glaciers can create huge waves. Judging from the ice chunks far up on shore, this beach is no stranger to this unbridled surf. We watch and listen for several minutes, then quickly paddle in and team up to pull the boats far up the beach. The beach is one of the most strangely beautiful I have ever seem. The sand is black and smoothed by the tide. All footprints of those who have come before are erased by the moon-driven high tides. Yet here and there are chunks of ice born from the glaciers face and tossed upon this beach by the waves. Crystal white, they lay strangely beautiful amid the black sand. Surrounded by all the chunks of ice is one large iceberg. White with a patch of aqua blue, it lies dying in the sand like a beached whale. We approach it, an opportunity we dare not take in the water where icebergs can flip unexpectedly. How long ago did this ice fall from the sky as single flakes of snow? How long has it traveled down the mountains. A thousand years, ten thousand? How great was its plunge into the sea? The answers lay deep within the slowly melting ice. A dome of brown rock rises out of the black sand and provides a spectacular view. We gaze on in wonder as the three glaciers show all the colors of the glacier rainbow. Some pure white ice meets the sea while some ice lay deep blue, indicating enormous pressures that has squeezed out most of the air from the ice. Some ice is black, telling a tale of titanic battles with the rock. The rock mounts between the glaciers are almost black, with a variety of waterfalls cascading down like lightning bolts blazing white against a dark summer night sky. Ice of all sizes and shapes floats before their makers. Seal moms with their young are hauled out onto the ice to enjoy the mid-day sun. As we sit upon the rock, enjoying both the scenery and lunch, the couple in the double approach the beach. They too take a couple of minutes to watch for waves before landing. All at once she yells "Now!" and they frantically paddle to the beach, digging a deep gouge in the sand at they plow into shore. Then they take their paddles and hurl them like javelins onto the beach. They both jump out and began to grab gear bags and, like Olympic hammer throwers, heave them up the beach. As soon as they think the boat is light enough, they drag it farther up the beach, sand flying from their feet as they frantically try for traction. When they reach their gear they begin flinging it farther up the beach. It is like watching the troops hit the beaches of Normandy! I am guessing the outfitter had warned them about the danger of landing on this beach. At least they were listening. After lunch it is time for some exploring. Though our companions^Ò landing may have been an overreaction, the dangers of paddling near glaciers is very real. First I talk with Dave about not approaching calving glaciers too closely. The heavy chunks of ice can fall without warning and be lethal. Only a couple years before a couple in a double had been hit by falling ice in another part of the Sound and both were killed. Calving glaciers can produce big waves which present several dangers to the kayaker. One is that the big waves can flip the already unstable icebergs. Another is that the waves can use ice to thrash kayakers in the middle of a lot of it. A wave filled with ice breaking over the bow can literally break the bow or injure the kayaker. Another danger is getting trapped in the ice. This is especially hazardous on a flood tide, as the ice moves around so that passages appear and disappear. A lead may tempt the kayaker in, only to close behind him and trap him for a long time. Tidewater glaciers are wonderful places to explore, but they can also be deadly. Thankfully Dave has had enough wilderness experience to know not to push his luck. We set up camp, then launch our kayaks and head to the glaciers. After all the miles in a boat loaded heavy with gear it is fun paddling a light kayak for once. First we paddle to the Coxe Glacier. A gray stream pours out from a turret on the right side of the glacier. A strata of black ice reveals where the glacier has been grinding away at the bed rock below. Columns of ice lean precariously over the stream. The face of the glacier is ragged and torn. Yet the face changes dramatically where the ocean meets the sea. The glacier face here is smooth and a deep blue color. A thick band of calved ice floats below. To the left of the glacier is a mass of black rock which split the ice field above to form two glaciers. Barry Glacier is next, far more impressive and active. The glacier enters the bay at a right angle, so the face stretches over a mile into the bay and collides with the base of the next glacier, the Cascade. Most of the ice in this bay is calved from the Barry Glacier. A mass of ice bergs and brash ice floats in front of the ice wall. Dozens of seals lay on the ice sunning themselves. Occasionally a ^Ñberg will roll and sets the ice chattering as the waves grind ice against ice. This is a very active, noisy glacier. The glacier cracks like the sound of a gun, sending a mass of ice plunging to the sea. It roars as the ice tumbles down the face of the glacier. The waves roll through the ice, flipping icebergs like they are Poseidon^Òs bathtub toys. Seal moms and pups disappear and reappear to climb once again on to the new top of the iceberg. What a tough way to raise a kid! The ice flows counter-clockwise in this bay and we both make a couple circuits with the ice. Finally hunger calls and we return to camp to eat. We eat dinner under a blue sky with the roar of glaciers providing dinner music. After dinner I begin to wonder why this part of Harriman Fjord didn^Òt have its own name. It is too unique and beautiful not to. So I christened it God^Òs Bay, a place where, when God was creating the world, God spent a little extra time making it special. During the night the glaciers continued to crack and roar. I am reminded of growing up in West Virginia. On hot summer nights I would lay in bed and watch through the window as lightning lit up the sky. Within in seconds the roar of the thunder would shake the house. Both fear and joy danced in my mind. As I lay this night listening to the glaciers no fear fills my heart, just joyful memories of yesterday and dreams of tomorrow. The morning sky is cool and gray. Yesterday^Òs warm sun hides behind the clouds, so both of us grab extra clothes to keep warm. We eat a warm breakfast of oatmeal and raisins, each of us drinking an extra cup of hot tea. We launch and head down Harriman Fjord. On our way two bays, Serpentine and Surprise, offer side trips to view the tidewater glaciers for which they were named. As with many of my kayak trips, there are places I wish I could stop and explore. There are only so many miles I can paddle in a day, so I have to pick and chose. We roll past Serpentine Bay, viewing its splendor from a distance. Surprise Inlet though is too tempting to pass up. We are rewarded by a breath-taking sight. Between tall snow-laden mountains a large ribbon of ice snakes down the valley with a black streak running down the middle, dividing the glacier. Thick clouds hide the mountain peaks with a hole in the cloud framing a distant peak, revealing the slopes whereon this glacier had begun its centuries-old journey to the sea. Rolling on we gazed upon waterfalls escaping from cloud-veiled hanging glaciers, tumbling down the mountainside. For most of the day we can see the Harriman Glacier in the distance. Over a mile wide and several hundred feet high, it sits imposing at the head of the bay. The map shows a small campsite at the southeast foot of the glacier. We have paddled a lot of miles and the air grows colder. Thankfully the map is right. It is a rocky and silty beach, but it will do. Once again we elect to set up camp and eat before exploring the glacier. The glacier looms like a solid wall above the water, silent and still. We paddle across in front of its^Ò face and wait for this giant to awaken. Half-way across we see a small moraine of black gravel and rock. Just beyond it lays a large ice cave. Born out of the friction between ice and bedrock the gray silt laden water gushes and boils madly out of this dark hole. Ice bergs drift in front of the glacier. I see castles, dancing sea serpents, trolls peering over boulders, and ice whales frolicking. Sadly as adults we throw away our sense of imagination and wonder, calling it but a thing for children. Out here it is rediscovered and reemerges from deep down. Now if we let it, our imaginations play like children upon the ice. Fantastic creatures with twisted faces, mysterious beasts emerging from old mythology, angels dancing with wings unfurled. The unleashed imagination creates and laughs at the wonders it sees. Such joy revives the souls. We call a rocky beach home for the night. It is cold and lumpy, but the roar of the glacier throughout the night makes us forget the discomforts and count our blessing for being able to be in so wondrous a place. The next day the clouds hang low and the wind is silent and still. No wake disturbs the surface of the water. We paddle upon a mirror which reflects the world around us. Mountains lie in the sea. Glaciers flow down the mountain into the sea and continue the journey upon the upside down mountain below. The day is cold but the visions are warm. Once again we camp at the foot of the Coxe glacier. A soft rain begins to falls, disturbing the surface and erasing the reflections of the glaciers. The memories remain though, safe from the rain. Rain pelts the tent as we awake. We don fleece and raingear and set about breaking camp. As I carry a load of gear down to the beach I pass the stranded icebergs and listen. As icebergs melt they sizzle as air trapped for centuries escapes. Mixed with the sizzling is the sound of the melting water and rain running in small streamlets down the face of the iceberg. Slowly it dies after adding its^Ò own music to the wilderness. Its life began in the silence of a falling snowflake. For millennia it lay silent, coldly still. Then in a furious roar it launched into the sea. Now it softly sings a dying song upon the sand. We fight our way out of Barry Arm, for though the wind was to our backs the tide is against us. The waves are chaotic and choppy. Soon we are both wet and paddle at a faster pace just to keep warm. Rounding Pakenham Point we have our first look up College Fjord. Somewhere in the low clouds glaciers lay hidden. We face a decision . With the steep mountainsides there are few campsites in the fjord. According to the map the next campsite is 8 miles away and we are tired from our battle with the tide. Also, even though we know we will be paddling with the tide, the wind is against us. So we elect to camp for the night. Pakenham Point is a small isthmus that sticks out about half a mile into College Fjord. Like using bleachers on a parade route, we sit and watch a whole host of animals float by. First a group of harbor seals gathers off the point to watch us. Their large dark eyes just above the water stare at us, curious to see if we are friend or foe. No sooner had they left than a family of sea otters comes by to fish for their dinner. One little one squeals in protest as momma dives down to fish, leaving him alone on the surface. Then as quickly as she disappeared, she surfaces again with an urchin in her paws. She rolls over on her back and the little guy scrambles up on her belly for a share of the feast. Eventually the falling tide takes them away, but it is not long before we see a pointed nose break the surface. A sea lion is making his rounds. Then he too disappears with the tide. We had arrived on this beach after the tide had begun to ebb. I carefully check the high tide mark to make sure the site will not flood during tonight^Òs high tide. Tonight^Òs high tide at 2:30 am is to be the highest of the trip. We set the tent up as high as we can, but the pickings were slim. It is going to be close. I awake at 1 am to check and the tide is several feet from the tent. If the wind picks up out of the east we will be in trouble. I know sleeping is out of the question, so I make a cup of tea, wait and watch. At 2 PM the tide is about three feet from the tent but vertically only a couple inches below it. Dave awakes briefly and asks how things were going. I tell him that if I say "let^Òs move" that I will not be joking. Time seems to pass at glacial speed. Finally at 2:30 PM the tide is only a foot from the tent. I listen for boats out in the Sound, fearing even the smallest wake. Finally the water begins to recede. Eventually I crawl into my sleeping bag to catch a few hours of sleep before morning. The next morning I awaken to hear Dave exclaim "Wow, it got close!" He had his head out of the tent and his big foot touches a piece of seaweed that marks the high tide. The sky is still heavy with clouds but they have lifted somewhat, allowing a view of the bottom of the glaciers. A dozen miles into the wind later we come to gravel moraine long ago created by the Wellesley Glacier. According to the maps there are no more campsites north of here, so we set up camp and watch as the clouds rise and fall, giving up glimpses of the glaciers ahead. A parade of icebergs floats by with the ebb tide, giving our imaginations fertile fields in which to play. Our plan for the next day is to paddle up to the glaciers at the head of the fjord then return to this same campsite for the night. The winds have dropped so we decide to make a lot of miles instead. First though we paddle up to College Point. Here the Dora Keen mountain range drops to the sea, dividing the icefields. Left of the point the Harvard Glacier meets the sea. A mile and a half wide, it rules both land and sea. To the right of the point sits the equally impressive Yale Glacier . Both glaciers were named by the Harriman expedition of the 19th century after the ivy league colleges that several of the passengers called their alma maters. With many miles to go we reluctantly turn and paddle south. We camp at Coghill Point. Thankfully we find a good spot on high ground, so I can sleep without worrying about tonight^Òs high tide. Clouds still hang low as we welcomed the morning. We load our boats and head down Port Wells . In mid-afternoon we turn down Ester Passage and the world changes before our eyes. After days of paddling wide fjords, the narrow confines of this passage are a welcome switch of scenery. We enjoy the close, intimate shore line and gaze side to side at nearby trees and brush. Once again we watch perched eagles watch us as we paddle close by. With a close shore for reference, we are once again conscience of our speed and progress. Dave find a salmonberry bush hanging over the water and plucks a golden ripe berry. The look on his face is of pure pleasure. "A bear!" Dave cries out. Up on the hill to our left, in the midst of an old land slide, a black bear grazes upon the plentiful berry bushes. We spot two more black bears in the next hour. Bears are a real part of life here in Alaska, not just out camping but even in our back yards. More than once I have found bear tracks in my yard and Dave had one chew up the seat on his airplane. Bear stories around the campfire are an Alaskan pastime. We will take the usual precautions tonight, checking for bear signs, cooking away from the tent, and hanging our food from the trees. To be safe I wear my running shoes to bed. In case we are chased I know I don^Òt have to out run the bear, just Dave! We enter Water Fall Cove. The sound of rushing water and the haze of drifting mist fills the air. This place is alive with waterfalls! We follow the course of the water down the mountain and discover a tidal flat of tall beach grasses below. We paddle into these grasslands until it becomes too shallow. Such contrasts we have seen on this trip -- from wide fjords to narrow passages, from being surrounded by white castles of ice to a green sea of grass folding over our bows, from strong winds which whipped the seas to white to mirrored waters which reflected the glaciers. What a wonderful place. Turning around proves to be an interesting affair, but eventually we manage. We scout out a campsite, but find the ground extremely soft and wet. Skunk cabbage and devil^Òs club are everywhere. We also find plenty of salmonberry bushes full of ripe red and golden berries. First things first. After eating our fill of berries we find a small piece of ground next to a small rock ledge. During dinner Dave begins to wonder if he is really ready for his wilderness race. He decides he needs to toughen himself more, so he sets up a bed under the rock ledge. He lays out several slabs of rock and uses his life vest for a ground pad. The next morning he does try to pretend it was comfortable, but says he managed to get some sleep during the night. The gray weather continues the next day as our route takes us back out into the open Sound. The sea has grown lumpy, but we are able to make good progress. We island hop until we reach a set of islands named the Bald Head Chris Islands. Weird name, but a beautiful place. We find a landing beach on the eastern edge and are able to set up camp by the ruins of an old cabin. We decide to hike around a little. The island is covered with beautiful tall grass, tundra cotton, spruce and hemlock. Suddenly a small bird whizzes by us and flies into a burrow in the ground. Puffins! We stand watching in amazement as other puffins fly in and disappear into the earth. We backtrack our way through the grass, so as not to disturb the puffins, and find a rocky point where we spend the evening watching them come and go. The next morning we load up the boats to begin our paddle home. Patches of fog hang over the Sound, so we pull in behind a rock to read the map and take compass bearings. A lone sea gull sits upon the rock and loudly protests my presence. Since this rock goes under in high tide I knew the gull does not have a nest here, so I ignore his indignation. Big mistake! Splat! Gag! I am covered in you know what -- all the way from the tip of my bow to the stern. Thank goodness I was wearing my hood. I cannot believe that much crap could come out of one bird! The bird lands back on the rock and squawks again. I surrender and retreat. I paddle back out into the wind and grab my sponge to try to clean up. Dave comes over and tries to wash down my back and the back of my boat. We paddle off into the wind. I am glad the wind blows some of the smell way. Dave paddles close and says, "I couldn^Òt believe what that bird did to you. I was so shocked I forgot to laugh." "Thanks!" I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. We had selected this route for a variety of reasons, one of which was to try and stay out of the areas effected by the oil spill. Dave, who had worked on the cleanup, knew of a couple of islands in this area that had been effected by the spill; he wanted to see if now, four years later, any effects of the spill remained. As we paddle up to one of the islands, we get our answer. Before us, floating bloated in the water, is a dead sea otter. Neither of us say anything for a long time. We both love the wilderness and enjoy watching animals in the wild. Now before us is the sad realization of the continued devastation caused by the spill. This is as sad a moment as I have known at sea. Though there is so much beauty here in the waters of Prince William Sound, because of the spill these waters will always be for me a sea of sorrow. All I can do is to pray to God for forgiveness for destroying God^Òs creation. We land on a small rocky beach and Dave begins to turn over the rocks. Below is a thick sludge of oil. A tale-tell sheen of oil trickles down the beach. "Let^Òs go," is all I can say. That night we camp on the west side of Ester Island, well away from the spill area. Our words are few because our hearts are heavy. In the morning the sad events of yesterday are replaced by a big decision. proved to be a fast learner, I am concerned about his lack of experience if the conditions were to turn rough. I had shared my concern with Dave the night before and he felt he could handle it. Is he too confident or am I being overprotective? I am not sure. Still I reserve the right to make the final decision. The seas are again lumpy and the wind will quarter us out of the southeast. As we head out I keep a watch over the wind, the waves and Dave. Thankfully the conditions remain steady and Dave has no trouble. The crossing should take about two hours, but nature has a pleasant surprise for us. "Whoosh!" Humpbacks! Up to this point we had not seen any whales. In fact I had almost given up on seeing any. Then, out of the blue, six humpback whales sound a hundred yards to our left. We sit for a long time watching the whales feed. They raise their tails high in the sky, then dive to the depths below in search of krill. Then they lunge to the surface, their mouths gaping open as if to swallow the entire sea. We forget about the wind and the lumpy seas. "Thar be whales here, matey!" That is all that mattered. Eventually the whales move off and I begin to paddle toward Entry Cove. After a while I look back to discover that Dave is far behind. I wait, hoping nothing is wrong. When he finally catches up to me he simply says, "That^Òs the first time I^Òve ever seen whales." There are wonderful moments in seakayaking, but perhaps the best is giving someone a chance to experience something for the first time. The first feel of a wave beneath the hull. The exhilaration of being one with the sea. The maiden sight of a whale or sea otter. For Dave this moment had finally come. His dream of seeing a whale had been fulfilled. We paddle on, but the memories remained sacred. For the longest time the far shore stays distant, never seeming to come any closer. I have experienced this phenomena before and learned to be patient. Eventually I notice a few details begin to appear more defined. A small beach begins to appear and I can pick out the details of a tree on a small rock island. More rocks along the shore come into detail and soon the scenery begins to loom into view. We have made the crossing! Once again we can place a shoreline to our side and judge our speed. In a way this is now a familiar shore, since we had paddled past it on our way to Harriman Fjord. In another way it is new. Now the tide is low and this shore takes on a whole new look. The sea arch! I had totally forgotten about it! Thousands of years ago the pounding sea found a weakness in this rock and over time slowly carved out this arch. Now it is ours to enjoy. Water drips from the moss above, forming a mystical entrance into this magical place. I paddle through and listen for the change in sound as the rock surrounds me with an echo of the sea. I now am hidden for a moment from the sun, the darkness allows me to see below the surface of the water into the world beneath. The barnacle covered bottom is close and I choose a careful route. Beside me some sea stars cling to the side of the arch, hanging on until the welcome waters of the tide return. Then it is over , I am through. I turn around to take a picture as Dave comes through. His face is that of a child who has discovered Narnia or other magical land of the imagination. Now the rain begins to fall and the clouds reach down and rest upon the water. The sea grows strangely quiet and the wind disappears. We paddle on in silence, neither wishing to disturb the deep thoughts of the other. We paddle up to Dead Tree Beach and set up camp. The rain feels harder and colder. The evening wind picks up a little, so we grab our gear bags and dig out our last pieces of fleece. Tomorrow this trip will end, our boats traded for cars, our paddles for pencils. This last night upon the sea is filled with a mixture of celebration and sadness. We remember and celebrate vision of glaciers and parades of ice berg sculptures. We have shared berries with bears and watched whales frolic in the sea. Sea otters and seal have watched us watch them. So many good memories, so many unforgettable miles. We have paddled the sea and by grace prevailed. Yet sadness is not far away. We can see the lights of Whittier, the end of the odyssey and the final moment of the journey. Though cold and weary I want to turn around and paddle back into the sparkling waters of the Sound to discover other glaciers, other wondrous sights. Yet that would have to be another time, as family and work call us home. The last morning is a gloomy morning. Rain, fog and a brisk breeze build lumpy trailing seas. I tighten the hood of my anorak and just paddle, stroke after stroke into the gloom. The wind pushes more and more clouds into Whittier, piling the layers of the fog thicker and thicker. Eventually we arrive at the ferry dock, wet and cold. We haul our gear up the rain slick rocks and watch as the ferry maneuvers to dock. Then, like the leviathan of old, it opens its^Ò huge mouth and swallows us whole. Postscript: This trip took place back in 1993, four years after the spill. Today according to the Sea Life center in Seward oil still remains under the rocks and on the bottom. The sea life populations including orcas, otters, birds and fish have not yet returned to their former numbers and mutations still occur. No matter what Exxon says, the spill is still effecting the Sound. *************************************************************************** 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/ ***************************************************************************
This archive was generated by hypermail 2.4.0 : Thu Aug 21 2025 - 16:33:32 PDT