It has been a while since shared a story and since my attempts to publish my book have so far fallen short, I thought would share a trip report from a couple summers ago. Actually it covers two trips to the LeConte Glacier with my son. We plan another trip to the LeConte this July. Hope you folks have some great paddling trip this summer. Bob Ice World LeConte Glacier A cold rain falls from a gray gnarly sky at we settle into the Dawn Treader. We backpaddle away from the shore, trying to dodge rocks hiding in the murky water. Slowly we turn north along the shore. Our paddle blades disappear quickly into the gray silty water. This soup of ashen water blends on the horizon into the gray on gray sky. We feel wrapped in a wet cold blanket of gloom. Not the way I want this trip to begin, especially since this trip means so much to me. Why? I only need to look at the front of the kayak for the answer? My 14 year old son Martin Luther paddles steadily ahead. Raised in the rain country of Southeast Alaska he shrugs off the rain as a part of life. Still I am concerned the weather will wear on him and turn the trip into a bad experience, one I fear will taint his enthusiasm for future trips. Already we have compromised our route. Rather than putting in at our home in Petersburg we have shortened our journey by a day and dodged troubling winds by driving the muddy road to the end of Mitkof Island and putting in at Blaquierre Point. Hopefully this effort will put the strong winds forecast for the week at our backs. Time alone will tell. We fall into a good rhythm as we move out into the tidal currents. The flood tide moves us along quickly up through Dry Strait. At most tides this sprawls out as a tidal flat of gray silt born in the glaciers of the interior and deposited here by the outflow of the Stikine River. Only kayaks and a few small power boats brave these ever changing channels of silt. None dare run a falling tide as to run dry means hours of gloomy imprisonment. Still despite the weather and the silt that clings to our paddles we paddle with an unquenchable excitement. The big trip has begun, the one my son and I have talked about all winter. Our goal is the LeConte Glacier, mile wide tidewater glacier that snakes out of the ice fields of the Alaska - British Columbia border along a fjord of its own creation to meet the sea. Often we have seen grand icebergs floating in front of Petersburg calved by the glacier. We have dreamed of watching them crash into the sea at the foot of the glacier. Now we are on our way. Yesterday was father's day, and today I paddle with my son. I watch him as he paddles in the front of the kayak, a young boy who stands at the edge of manhood. His body grows fast and he takes great pride in the fact that he has grown taller than his father. He has also begun to form his own ideas of the world, not merely accept mine blindly but by making and testing his own. Once I led him in life, making decisions for him, now the time emerges when he begins to make so many of his own decisions and now I can guide but not force. I watch him paddle and look at the horizon ahead shrouded in fog and wonder what the future will hold for him. I laugh and remember the first trip I ever took with him in a kayak. It was in this very boat, a three cockpit Eddy Line Grand San Juan. He was three years old and we where paddling amid the mangrove islands of the Everglades in Florida. Quite a different scene than this. My wife paddled in the front and Martin sat in the middle, his head verily above the cockpit rim. When a little rain fell he scrunched down beneath a blue nylon spray skirt with only his blue cap sticking out. A rather funny sight from my point of view in the back of the boat. As he grew and we moved about a bit together we paddled the tidal inlets of Kootznoowhoo Island and the wave swept islands surrounding Sitka, and the sparking waters of Prince William Sound. Awhile back he chose a name for our boat, The Dawn Treader, from one of his favorites books The Chronicles of Narnia. In the story by C.S. Lewis the crew of the sailing ship Dawn Treader, sojourn to the waters of the end of the world in search of the place called Aslan's country. They sought adventure as do we this day upon the sea. We watch as and eagle glides above the water followed close behind by her young. They search the water for the salmon heading toward the Stikine to spawn. With her every move she teaches her young how to fly in the winds and to fish the sea. In these water the Tlingit taught their young to paddle their great cedar canoes. Children grew up sitting in the middle of the canoes watching their father and their uncles paddle the long voyages upon sea. One day when the seas were calm enough and the boy no longer a child he was handed the paddle, placed by the side and took his first paddle strokes amid the men of his tribe. As he grew older and stronger more and more miles of sea touched his paddle blade. Larger waves and stronger winds he paddled till one day, now old and wise, he handed his paddle over to a child of his own tribe who sat in the center of the canoe. Farther north for countless ages the Aleuts taught their sons to paddle kayaks made of skin and bone. To paddle to feed their families, to survive storms, to roll and roll again in raging seas. A skill that made living in this harsh unforgiving waters possible. They made small kayaks for their children and towed them into the deep water. Then through a watchful caring eye the boy grew in strength and skill till he was ready to join his father on the great seal hunts upon the lonely sea in the midst of wind and wave. I too have taught my son the way of the kayak. How to paddle and brace, how to wet exit and read the sea. Today we journey together in the same boat, as there remains much I feel I still need to teach him. Yet one day soon such a trip as this we will make in separate boats and that will be a grand day. I hope this trip can be a time for Martin and I to bond closer together as a father and son. One day he will leave the nest and go off to make his own life, walk his own path, paddle his own kayak. These moments together in the midst of the vast sea are the times for me to share the things I value most in life love of nature, faith in God and passion for adventure. Another reason brings about this trip at this time, tomorrow I turn 50. Yes the big 5-0! Half a century! The way I figure it if you are going to hit 50 then do it in style. Also for someone like me for whom paddling has been such a big part of my life what better place to contemplate my half century mark than at sea in a boat. The current wastes no time in moving us through the Dry Strait and soon we emerge from between islands and view for the first time LeConte Bay. Immense icebergs stand guard at the mouth of the bay. Since we are still six miles away I can only guess at the size of these monsters of ice that sit like imposing sentinels. I wonder, will they let us pass? Sometimes icebergs choke up the bay so much that ships neither big nor small can find a way through. Would we be blessed to make it up to the face of glacier or turned away by cold daunting fortress walls of ice? Ever so subtly the water has changes color, the gray now has transformed into an moldy blue. We have met the tide flowing in from the other side. Thankfully we are nearing slack tide and we continue to gain ground. "Dad, seal! " I follow Martin's eyes and see a Harbor seal off to our left. His dark eyes stared a us as if to ask are you friend or foe. We quietly paddle on knowing that he will follow for many a mile. As we continue to paddle north we see ahead another tide line formed by the collision of tides. A long line of black headed Bonaparte Gulls string out along the line catching small fish momentarily churned up by the current. As the tide lines evaporates at one end the birds fly back up to the top and begin to fish again. "An arctic tern", I call out excitedly. "Yeah", Martin has spotted it at the same time How many miles in this delicate looking birds life has it flown? How many seasons from here to the Antarctic and back? Such small thing can bring about such great inspiration and wonder. Ahead a small creek flows off the mountain into the sea, Ideal Cove. We turn and find the deep channel the creek has carved out of the tidal flats. I wonder how extensive these flats will be tomorrow morning. This week boasts some of the lowest tides of summer and our kayak is a heavy old beast. First the dinner tarp then the tent our normal routine for camping. Hot chocolate and tea warm our bodies and spirits as dinner cooks. We sit under the tarp as a gentle rain falls and the tidal flats begin to rise like a slumbering dragon. Martin ventures out into the rain to explore the emerging tidal pools. Bullheads, hermit crabs, sea snails and other exotic creatures call these brief micro pools home scurrying about for food left behind by the tide. Eventually I call out "Why don't you come in out of the rain?" "That would be too easy" is Martin's honest reply. Ah the foolish but happy spirit of youth. Now the sky grows dark and somewhere above the clouds the sun sets on my first half century of life. I crawl into my sleeping bag and ponder how many nights in my life I have slept in a sleeping bag with only thin tent walls protecting me from wind and rain and bears? I awake with a jolt to the sound of crashing waves and the thud of fiberglass upon rocks. I know immediately that once again I have misjudged the height of the tide. I scurry out of the tent with my flashlight and see the boat at the edge of the surf. Where are the waves coming from? Somewhere out there in the darkness a big berg has rolled and generated these small but powerful waves. No time to wonder. I awake Martin and we quickly drag the boat up over a big log to safety. Without complaint he craws back into the warm world of his sleeping bag and drifts back to sleep. I stand for a moment upon a log at the edge of the surf pondering what an interesting and unique way to hit 50. Rain dancing upon the tent fly serves as our wake up call. I lay there for a few moments trying to gauge the intent of the rain. Slow and steady, a sign of an all day rain. I roll over and fall back to sleep. Today the tide offers a long wait before paddling. As we emerge from the tent we are greeted by a large barnacle covered tidal flat. My back aches at the thought of carrying the heavy Dawn Treader, across the always slippery and sharp expanse. Farther out the gray gloom tidal flats of the Stikine river loom. Five miles across and extending four miles out into Fredrick Sound the flats lay like the plains of Mt. Doom from Tokien's, The Lord of The Rings. Alas patience is a virtue in this land of tides and mud. To paddle now and go around the flats would be a journey of eight miles. To wait for the flooding tide will cut the trip to six. Oh what a difference a tide makes. It will be at least 1:30 before we get the 10 feet of tide we need to make the crossing so we pass the morning reading and exploring the tidal flats. The fog hangs heavy all morning lifting a only little as we prepare to cross. Our destiny lays hidden in the grayness. The winds lay calm and the crossing remains quiet and peaceful. The water once again turns the color of gloom gray. We aim for Camp Island as it emerges from the fog. Thunk! Oops! We have run aground. The gray murky water covers the colorless silty bottom and we are for a moment stuck. We climb carefully out of the boat cautiously testing the firmness of the mud. Surprisingly the bottom proves firm and even. Still I warn Martin to watch for boot sucking mud and the "just deeper than the top of your boot" hole. We slowly begin to pull the boat across the flats. I stop for a second to take a picture as Martin continues to walk ahead pulling the boat by the bow painter. I look up to see a "miracle". Martin walking on water! I knew he was a good kid but not that good! Actually the sea performs a wondrous illusion. Being surrounded by miles of quiet gray water that hides the mud below and no surf to give a clue as to depth, Martin with his boots only slightly under the surface gives the appearance of a miraculous event. I call out to him and he turns and sees me also walking on water and laughs at the moment. Not bad when your teenage son thinks you can walk on water. Ahead a long line of icebergs mark the channel into LeConte Bay. As we approach we realize we are about to paddle into a very risky piece of water. Just beyond the end of the tidal flats the channel deepens quickly and the tide rushes madly into LeConte Bay. Several big bergs, each several times the size of our house sit firmly grounded to the bottom and fight the tide. Some are deeply undercut in front and their back sides form vicious back eddies. This suddenly becomes more like whitewater paddling than sea kayaking! Other small but no less intimidating bergs roar by like runaway freight trains! Add smaller but menacing boat smashing ice chunks cruising through and things get real exciting very quick. I call out paddle commands as we fight our way across. "stay alert!" "paddle hard!" "Stop, let that berg pass!" "eddy line" "we have to hold this ferry angle" "lean left" "back paddle" "brace! "thunk!" "sorry I couldn't avoid that one!" All at once Martin calls out "Dad! Blue Shark!" "What?" I look up to see quickly emerging from behind a giant grounded berg a triangle shaped chunk of blue ice that cuts across our path. Hell bent for LeConte Bay it cruises in front of us daring us to get in its way. We instinctively back paddle to stay out of its deadly path. I hear the music from Jaws inside my head! Sometimes my imagination gets the best of me. Finally we find an open spot in the iceberg parade and run with the current. We fly along at several knots, exhilarating in such a slow heavy boat. In the distance we hear a disturbing sound. A mournful moan drifts over the ice. We look and look and finally Martin spots a seal on a distant berg. Why does she moan? Does she lay injured, or separated from her pup? We don't know but we find the sound haunting. As we paddle on we hear a couple more seals moaning. The mystery remains. We round Indian Pt. and head up bay. We sail in the midst of a kingdom of cold and ice. Fortress sized icebergs in shades of white to deep blue grind and bump their way up bay. Countless smaller bergs follow like an army marching to war. The bergs grate and clatter as the tide throws them about. They pop and sizzle as they expand after years of being crushed by the weight of ten thousand years of snow. Fascinating ice shapes float upon the tides. A giant blue frog sits upon a rock waiting for a fly to buzz by. A two humped camel rocks back and forth like as it wanders upon desert sand dunes. Ancient Tlingit adorned in their tribal hats ride upon a great sea serpent. A swan gracefully sits upon a rippling pond. Two hooded kayakers guide their double kayak amid the bergs. A three headed hydra lurks for prey. "Crack!" like a rifle shot a big berg to our right calves off a tall spire of ice. Then as the berg begins a slow death roll the calved spire thrusts up like a whale leaping from the sea. The wave sends the ice a chattering as it approaches our boat. We turn to meet it and ride up over its energy and power. We are reminded that we are strangers in this ice world. Fragile and frail in the midst of these ice giants. LeConte Bay snakes up a seven mile fjord before finding the foot of the tidewater glacier. Of late the LeConte Glacier has been retreating, vigorously calving numerous icebergs into the narrow fjord. The extremely high tides of the last few days have packed the ice tight. After only two miles we meet a wall of imposing ice. We dare not venture any farther. With two hours of flood tide left this ice will pack tighter trapping any who dare venture in. Just a few years ago a couple of kayakers were lured into the ice pack and spent four days sitting on a rock ledge waiting for an escape route. We were hoping to make it to Bussey Creek but it looks totally iced in. Somewhat disappointed we turn back toward Indian Pt. We move over to the North shore and catch a back eddy to avoid the iceberg laden current. An eagle sits atop a berg and silently watches our passing. We wonder how it can endure such a cold perch. At Indian Point we find a small campsite as the rain picks up. An old cabin sits nearby and though in great need of repair it offers emergency shelter for those stuck on this side of Fredrick Sound. We chose our yellow bright tent rather than the dark confines of the old cabin. By late evening the tide has turned and created massive tidal flats in front of our camp. Dozens of bus sized icebergs sit orphaned on the mud. We walk among these cold giants amazed at the art work of wind and tide upon the ice. The colors of the icebergs vary from pure white to dirty gray to deep blue. Each color tells the story of the journey of the ice down the fjord. Huge gouges lay in the mud evidence of the bergs being plowed by the tide across the flats. Rain falls from the morning skies as we crawl out of the tent. Martin I sense begins to get discouraged and I silently consider cutting our trip short. I don't want to quell his enthusiasm for these trips. We launch and once again head around Indian Point and try for the Glacier. "A Chimera" Martin calls out pointing to a bazaar shaped iceberg. "A what?" "A Chimera" He goes on to explain that it is a mythical beast with three heads, a lion, a goat and an eagle, and a snake for a tail. After hearing his description I am glad this one is made of ice. Alas the tide once again herds the bergs into a pack that dares our entry. I check my GPS and we are about as far as we got yesterday, a full six miles from the face of the glacier and four miles from even being able to see it! A sinking feeling grown in my stomach that seeing the glacier this trip it is not meant to be. We return to camp to find fresh deer tracks by the cabin. All the grounded ice berg have been resculptured and after dinner once again we explore the art museum on the mud flat gallery. That evening at camp we decided to cut the trip short. We doubt the ice will clear enough to let us up bay plus I wonder to myself how much the rain and cold is effecting Martin. Once again rain greets our morning. We load up and chart a course for home. At some point we have to cross Fredrick sound to get back to Petersburg. Originally we had planned to run along the Horn Cliffs and cross at Moonshine creek a four mile open crossing. I worry about the wind building making the cross too real of an adventure. We decide to return to Ideal Cove. This southern crossing of Fredrick Sound should prove safer since the wind has little fetch to build up waves. We pull out of Indian Pt. and for a while ride what remains of the ebb tide. Once again we run the gauntlet of the icebergs. We run with more savvy this time following a large iceberg that clears our way of the smaller yet troubling ice chunks. I keep looking over my shoulder making sure no bergs lurk behind trying to sneak up on us. Clear of the ice gauntlet the growing tidal flats force us to paddle a more northerly course. A wind begins to blow to our backs, a rare treat. Yet half way across the Sound our rare treat begins to show smile on us. The wind picks up and the following seas begin to build with foreboding quartering waves. We alter our course to run with the waves. We pick up the energy of the waves catching a small surf here and there. Dozens of birds bob up and down amid the waves. We paddle past murres, murrelets and gulls who survive amid such chaos. I watch two murellets. No bigger than a robin yet they live and survive amid waves that must seem towering and massive to their small eyes only an inch or so above the water. Yet survive well they do. Despite being encased in fiberglass, and armored with poly pro, neoprene and coated nylon, we humans are so fragile upon this sea. Waves that reach not the height of our eyes can place us in such peril. This cold ice laden sea which these birds immerse themselves in would quickly drain the life giving heat from our bodies if we were to capsize. We paddle on reminded that we pass by the mere grace of the sea. A trio of arctic terns fly over gazing into the water for small fish. Suddenly a larger bird flies by only a few feet from our heads, an eider! The first I have seen in a long time. Soon the Mitkof shore line looms out of the fog and we turn north along the shore. The waves continue to build and we need to seek the safety of solid ground. We find an unnamed creek on the map and pick up our paddle rate to get there quickly. The creek flows deep at its mouth allowing us paddle up it for a ways to avoid the waves that break on the barnacle beach rocks. The winds pick up and by dinner we are huddled under the rain tarp wonder what we did to deserve this. Martin surprises me when he talks with enthusiasm about future trips. His enthusiasm is not as rained out as I thought it would be. We decide we will try again for the Glacier later in the summer hoping for better weather. "Good morning rain" Once again our old wet friend wakes us with his dance upon the tent fly. Thankfully the wind still sleeps and the water lies flat and gentle. We paddle toward Petersburg looking forward to warm showers and dry beds. The rain lets up and our conversation drifts here and there. Fog pockets grace the water and one especially thick patch of fog reminds me of an old Twilight Zone episode. Martin quickly reminds me that the Twilight Zone show creeps him out. "Yeah" I start in, " but there was a Twilight Zone show where an airplane flew into a fog bank and came out in the year 65 million BC and they were trying to........." Whoosh! The ocean explodes! A young humpback surfaces and blasts an furious exhale not 30 feet from us. Martin nearly ejects straight up out of the kayak! "Where did that come from?" he exclaims between gasps for breath. All I can do is laugh and turn the kayak around to watch the whale swim on down the shore line. Despite the rain and cold, and the "thy shall not pass" walls of ice that kept us from seeing the glacier, I watch my son's face as he watches the whale and I know deep inside that the trip was worth it, the journey indeed time well spent. "There and back again, a Hobbit's holiday" Bilbo Baggins Two months later we stand at Sandy beach looking up at a clear deep blue sky. What a contrast to our first trip which was a wet cold saga under unyielding gray sky. We break out in a sweat as we carry gear down the beach. Mid 70's may not sound hot to some but for we who live in Southeast Alaska this is a heat wave! As we drove up cats paws of wind danced throughout Fredrick Sound but with each load down the beach the water grows calmer and calmer. Too good to be true or hopefully a good omen that we will make it up to the LeConte Glacier this time. By the time we finish loading the sea rests mirror calm. Martin climbs into his boat and I climb into mine. That's right his first big trip in a single kayak. I believe he is ready for this and I hope I am right. We head down toward Frederick Point where we plan to attempt to cross Fredrick Sound. There the open crossing spans the shortest, only four miles. I let Martin lead for a while so I can observe his technique. His arms are thin but long and he knows enough to use his shoulders and upper torso in his stroke. I am pleased he has learned well. As he passes a patch of kelp I see a seal raise up. The curious seal follows Martin unaware of my presence. I turn to pass the seal and he catches a glimpse of me and the water explodes as he dives for safety. As we a approach the Point we slowly turn east and begin the crossing. Admittedly I am nervous. I too often have seen these waters go from calm to wild in a matter of minutes. Though Martin has experienced the tidal rips of the Wrangell Narrows he has yet to encounter rolling breaking waves that the Sound can relentlessly throw. I watch the horizon for signs of wind but all remains calm. Growing up my parents constantly sheltered me from danger and risk. "Don't, you might get hurt", my Mom and Dad seemed to constantly say. Out of their sight I climbed cliffs, caught snakes and swung on grapevines over rocky ravines. Needless to say my first ventures on a river in a kayak were met with worried protest from my parents. When it was obvious that I was going to persue kayaking no matter what, Dad bought me a PFD meant for barge workers that proved much to big for wearing in a kayak. Ironically because mass of floatation in front forced me to lean back I usually wore it unbuckled rendering it unsafe. I decided long ago to raise my son along a different path. I took him camping in Brown Bear country when he was 8 months old and we haven't stopped our adventure since. Together we have rafted and canoed wild rivers in remote Alaska and the Florida Everglades. We have tracked moose, bear and wolf in the lush rainforests of Southeast and interior Alaska. Risky? yes. So why? From my own life I have learned that when we push ourselves, when we dare stand at the edge of risk we grow and learn. I have learned so much about my self amid the wind and waves of the sea. I feel most alive when I bounce along the waves of a river or paddle amid the waves of a rolling sea. The greatest joys of the heart I have experienced when I have encountered in the wilderness whales, otter, wolf and bear. Out here on the sea in a frail boat of ancient design I have heard the voice of God speak most clearly. This view of life, these life experiences are gifts I want to share with my son. The contrast overwhelms us. The last trip we experienced a gray on gray cloudy rainy world. Today the sun shines so bright that it hurts the eyes and the blue of the ocean blends with the blue of the clear sky. Martin in his red PFD and yellow kayak stands out in great contrast. We can see the mountaintops including the local rock formation known as Devil's Thumb (9077ft.) What a grand and beautiful world to paddle in. People wonder why we live in such a place that sees over 100 inches of rain a year and where the winter winds blow unceasingly. This magnificent day is the answer. "How you doing?", I ask Martin as I paddle up next to him. Though he paddles the faster of our two boats, an Arluk III, I still can catch him at will. I also know as he grows stronger those days are numbered and "wait up" will one day become my battle cry. I paddle a Looksha VI that I bought years ago for him. However, once he tried my Arluk III he bargains to paddle it instead. Smart kid. "Fine" he quickly replies, then after a long pause says "Are we getting there?" I know the reason for his odd question. This is his first solo long crossing. Up to now he has always had a shore line to measure his speed and progress. Now with either shore miles away his perception becomes tricked into thinking that he is getting nowhere. I explain to him what is happening and reassure him we are getting there. I do a GPS check and we are moving between 3 and 4 knots. "Watch the shore ahead and you will see details beginning to show up. Trees and rock will begin to stand out. That's how you know you are making progress." "O.K" "Dad, where are we headed? "See the "V" in the mountains. That's Moonshine Creek and we should be able to camp there" "Why is it called moonshine creek?" "Who knows probably some old prospector had a whiskey still up the creek." "Whatever." Along the far shore we watch a parade of icebergs rolling North with the tide. Born at the face of the LeConte Glacier before us flows a sculpture of wind and waves, a sculpture of fantasy and imagination. A tail of a great white whale rises out of the sea. A polar bear pulling itself up on an ice shelf watches us intently. A seahorse floats amid a coral reef. Wonders in cold ice. Moonshine Creek tumbles off the Horn Cliffs, rattles across the growing tidal flat and blends with the salt laden waters of the sea. As we approach, the bottom in the disguise of barnacles covered boulders rises up to meet us. I reach back and pull on my deck line to raise my rudder. Kersplush! I jerk my head around to see the splash of a seal directly behind my boat. I swear the rudder nearly hit him in the noise as it flipped up! That ought to cure his curiosity for a while. The beach pans out as a sea of green seaweed with gray barnacled rocks poking through here and there. Tall light green beach grasses mark the limits of the upper tide. Beyond this lies a wall of alder. By the creek a dark hole appears in the alder. I stoop to enter and find an old fire ring and a couple drift logs arraigned as seats. The tides will be high tonight but this site should stay high and dry. I cannot help but wondering if once upon a time an old moonshine still set here far from the peering eyes of the 'revenuers'. After dinner Martin and I wander along the rocky shore. A strange rock attracts our attention and wandering up we are greeted by an odd sight. Two skulls perched upon a rock. A fresh deer skull sits beside a whitened weathered bear skull. Predator and prey lay side by side in death. As night gathers we watch the Southeastern sky, the clear night offers a once in a life time opportunity. The red planets Mars hangs in the heavens. The ancient companions Mars and Earth are both on the same side of the sun, a stone's throw apart in their orbits. The last time they were this close the Neanderthal walked the earth. What I wonder did they believe these lights in the heavens to be? The eyes of other beings? Campfires of distant tribes? Ancient mysteries without possible answer. Now the moon rises to the south, brilliant orange and silent as it climbs above the mountains. The calm sea welcomes the moon's reflection upon the waters. The reflection lays like a blanket rolled out upon the water inviting us to walk up to the moon itself. So wonderful the night when the heavens touches the earth and calls out to the soul. I awake to a quiet world. No rain patters, no wind swishes in the trees, no waves crashing onto shore. Am I dreaming or are things just going that good on this trip? I crawl out of the tent and stoop through the alder and walk out on the beach under a brilliant blue cloudless sky. "Morning has broken" goes the old hymn and a glorious morning it is. As we paddle we joyfully weave in and out of the ice berg parade. A Mexican cowboy in his sombrero rides upon a great winged falcon. A swan peers into the water for fish. A Griffin searches the sea for it's mate upon the wind. An ancient dinosaur with its scaly back lays across the ice enjoying the sun. "Dad, Swiss cheese" Before us a bus sized berg sits full of holes. This berg had once been a part of the Glacier which tore at the mountain collecting rock on it's way to the sea. Once freed of the Glacier it floated and rolled exposing the rock to the sun. The sun heated the rocks which melted pockets into the ice. Rolling over from time to time it exposed more surface to the sun, speeding up the pocketing effect. As we near the mouth of the LeConte Bay a strange wave moves beside us. At first I think seal or sea lion but this is a different sort of wave, stronger and from a larger animal. A whale? We watch as what ever it is moves steadily on. No whale surfaces leaving us to guess something else. "Martin, that may have been a salmon shark" I have only seen one before so I cannot be sure but we have been seeing more and more salmon jump as we near the Bay, this I think is a good guess. As we move closer to LeConte the bergs get bigger and bigger. Several of the larger ones are grounded on the bottom with the incoming tide swirling about them. We run a channel between the grounded bergs and the shore. Going with the last of the rising tide we pace with the free flowing ice chunks. We weave our ways carefully watching our back lest we get rear ended by a ton of angry ice. We round Indian Point with our hopes up high. Two months ago we twice met a wall of ice and were turned back. Will the ice let us through this time or will we again be frustrated. Rounding the point and rejoice to see the left side of the Bay sits relatively clear of ice. With any luck it will hold like this for a day or so and we can make it up to the face of the glacier. "Where are we heading ", Martin asks. See on the left where the mountain slants down. That is Bussey Creek and we should be able to find a camp site there." Last time we couldn't get anywhere near Bussey Creek but this time the ice bergs are packed to the right side of the Bay leaving us an open lane to the creek. The tide begins to drop as we near the creek. Still we have to guess where the creek channels through the emerging flats. Finally we hit the shallows and I climb out of my kayak to look for a camping spot. A trail leads through the high sea grasses into an opening in the trees. "Chuk, chuk" I yell as I walk through the opening, a notice to any bears that I don't care to be eaten. My eyes are greeted by a beautiful campsite. Lots of flat space for a tent and our dinner tarp. A pile of firewood left by former campers and a wooden bench made from a 2x 8 inch board and some cut logs. Square in the middle sits a large boulder, ages ago dropped and abandoned by the retreating glacier. Blackened in front by a fire ring, placed there to reflect the heat of the fire, I wonder how many kayakers have huddled behind this rock seeking warmth and shelter from the cold winds of the glacier. I am also aware that the same may happen to Martin and I as we camp here. As I walk back to the boats now stranded by the tide, I say to Martin, "check it out, worse campsite I ever saw". Martin walks up to check it out and I hear him laugh as he enters the site. By evening we look out on a huge tidal flat that will be even bigger tomorrow morning. My back groans in protest but there is nothing I can do to persuade the tides to change their course. Though the expansive tidal flats mean work for us they mean bounty for others. Three shape emerge out of the tidal grasses and wander along the creek toward the edge of the water. River Otters! A mother and her two young. black as coal. In all my life I have never seen otters with such black coats. In this land of ice and cold this black fur absorbs precious heat and aids their survival. In this beautiful but hostile place they need all the help they can get. After dinner I wander up the stream to get fresh water for tomorrows paddle. I see a familiar splash in the rapids above. Spawning salmon. As I get closer I see the tell tale humped backs the male pink salmon. Blotched white by the sun the males shove each other about jostling for the best position behind the females. They fight and splash their way upstream exhausting themselves in a final push to make it up to the spawning ground to began the circle of life once again. On my way back I get a full look at the extent of the tidal flats. The minus tides of this week are one of the largest of the summer and stretched out before me lays several aches of mud, rock and barnacles. In six hours the sea will shrink it to a bare strip of sea grasses at the foot of the forest. Six hours beyond that the flats will return. A cycle as old as the moon and the sea itself. Half way back to camp I see a familiar waddle in front of me. A porcupine heads along the stream intent on reaching the edge of the sea. Why I wonder what it seeks there? Many of these living pincushions live in this part of Alaska, protected from predators by a fortress of barbed quills. Their love of salt is legendary and many an axe handle has fallen victim to their nocturnal gnawings. I make a mental note to put our wooden paddles out of hungers way this evening. By morning the tidal flats have grown into tidal continents. Our only salvation is the creek that runs through the midst of the landscape of boot sucking goo. We carry the kayaks down to the stream edge. Since Bussey Creek will serve as a base camp for the next couple days we leave much of our gear standing and our food hung from a tree. Lighter boats are a welcome treat. The ride down the creek proves shallow and tricky. Twice we have to climb out of our boats and walk the boats through small rapids. The long narrow sea kayaks are out of place in this small winding stream. I watch Martin carefully making sure he does not get caught sideways at the wrong time and place. Finally we reach the sea and deep water. At last our boats feel at home. A few clouds roll in and the air cools. As we leave the cove of Bussey Creek even cooler air meets our faces. Born amid the ice fields of the glacier this cold wind forces us to quickly zip up our fleece and close up our paddle jackets. Before us loom the creation of time and ice. Gouged and forged by the eons of ice the 3000 foot Fjord walls rise vertical out of the deep sea. Small scrubby spruce and hemlock find footing in the cracks and paint the rock in patches of dark green. Here and there streams carve their courses down the mountains. Ahead on the Northern face two stream rage down the mountain each hurling waterfalls again and again over ledges and through cracks. Like two runaway trains on a they collide, merge and plummet together down the last 100 feet and into the sea. A few massive bergs sit like monarchs in the water attended by smaller bergs, calved from the bergs themselves. We must be careful at this point lest our enthusiasm get the best of us and the bergs and the rising tide conspire to trap us in. Suddenly a large berg to our right cracks and plunges into a death roll. A warning, about getting to close to the lethal bergs. More bergs roll. Each without sign or warning. Though beautiful beyond words this remains a dangerous and foreboding place. Remembering last time when we twice encountered impassable walls of ice we see that the left side of the fjord remains clear. Joyfully we head up bay with a spring in our paddles and our hope held up high. Once again we are caught up in this magical land of ice that speaks of other worlds and great mysteries. An ice blue pyramid drifts by and I wonder what cold pharaoh lies within soon to be freed from his icy tomb. An immense iguana crawls up on a white landscape sunning himself beneath the glorious sun. A serpent with the head of a fiery dragon slithers amid a rocky ice desert floor. More fierce dragons appear here and there. Birthed from the glacier they gather to wreak havoc upon the world. Vikings ride upon dragon headed ship as if to do battle with the fierce monsters of ice. Many bergs will roll before the victory is won and if their be causalities it will surely be those of us how tread these waters in our frail boats. The fjord twists and turns, a testimony to the battle waged between mountain and ice. In its undulations it holds it secret from our eyes, the Glacier itself. The wind picks up and the air grows colder. We must be getting close. Slowly we paddle forward anticipating the moment we have long dreamed. At last the glacier emerges. Blue white thrusting through the rocks we see the upper ice fields folded and tortured as it falls down through the mountain. The ice grows thicker and more menacing. We maneuver through the ice fields concentrating on our path lest we foolishly venture too near a deadly berg. Then like something out of fantasy illumined white by the sun, the tormented face of the LeConte emerges. The birthplace of the icebergs large and small the ice wall appears raged and torn. Shades of deep blue immerge, the ice that has felt the full weight of the glacier for tens of thousands of years. We hear a distant roar, somewhere the glacier once again has given to the sea a part of itself. Long minutes pass when finally a small wave appears the final chapter in the birth of an ice berg. The rock nearest the glacier appears grayer then the fjord walls that surround us at the moment. Fresh from the battle with the ice giant these rocks, ages removed from the sun, lay pale and winded from the battle. Perhaps the answer is simpler, newly immerged from the ice blanket the lichen and fungus that darken canyon walls have yet to take foot upon these emerging rock. Once creating and dominating this fjord the LeConte now rapidly retreats from the warming earth and sea. Perhaps one day rock and moraine will emerge from beneath and no longer will its ice fall crashing into the sea. In this wondrous land the only constant is change. In the midst of such wonder simple human hunger calls. Yet amid towering fjord walls where can we hope to find land to get out of the boats? I wonder out loud if we will end up eating a floating lunch. We spot a small cascade in a tiny cove and decide to check it out. As we approach we notice a long sharp gouge in the rock wall. Five boat lengths long, strait as an arrow and parallel to the sea we ponder its creation. It looks recent and we can only guess at how ice and stone created such a thing. It serves as a reminder that this place of wondrous beauty was created in the fury of the battle between ice and stone. Amid a jumble of ragged rocks we find a place to crawl out of our boats and up onto the rocks. We then drag our boats up lest the calving glacier send a rogue wave our way and sweep our boats away. I do not favor a long swim back to camp. The sun shines bright on our lunch amid the rocks. The glacier about two miles off roars and bellows through the fjord and occasional small waves lap onto the rocks reminding us of the peril and danger within this ice world. I climb up to a small ledge and survey this kingdom of ice. The tide pushes relentlessly in and the ice packs tighter. What few open leads through the ice to the glacier quickly disappear. We could go farther but at too great a risk. We wisely retreat back towards camp not wishing to press our luck in so unforgiving a land. Approaching the bergs from a different direction I see new shapes lurking within. "Draco Pen Dragon!" I call out to Martin as I point to an iceberg before us. "Ha" Martin responds. With pointed edge hanging over the sea the berg resembles the pet Australian Bearded Dragon, Martin has owned for about a year. I cannot help but think he looks cold in his coat of ice and snow. Several immense bergs drift ahead of us. Either courageous or foolish I venture closer for a deeper look. A great leviathan with ragged spines beginning on his head and continuing along his back to the tip of his tail that switches side to side as he lurks upon the sea. Another berg large and rectangle brings to mind no beast of mythical creature but merely by its massive presence creates it's own lore. By far the largest iceberg we have ever seen and by its sheer size rules this kingdom of ice. Yet it's rule will be for but a short time. A force more powerful slowly tears away at it. The tide. The berg victim of its own bulk has grounded and now the waters of the tide swirl about it slowly melting it away. Already we can see that it is undercut. Large cracks have already begun to appear. Soon will split open and begin to fall apart. I sense we are too close so we pull away keeping an eye on the berg both hoping and fearing we will see its terrible demise. Seals have been our constant companion watching our every mile paddled. I paddle along side a berg and see one laying on the ice. I lays unmoving as I start to pass. Then I realize my foolishness. Instead of a seal I realize I am looking at a seal colored rock. Torn long ago from the mountain and polished by the ice its dark color has absorbed the sunlight falling upon this berg and caused the entrapping ice to melt away freeing it after eons from its prison of ice and darkness. Yet its' time in the sun remains but a short one. Soon this berg will roll in part because of the weight of this stone and plunge the seal stone into the cold murky depths of the sea. The air grows colder still and the world grayer as clouds move in and begin to block the sun. The wind picks up and pushed us along our way down the fjord. The chill wind to our backs eases our paddling but forewarns of foul weather ahead. We have been so blessed with wonderful weather this trip but I worry about what these ill cold winds will bring. Only time will tell, but again that is the way of the sea and the way of life. As I ponder the winds my eyes follow the path of a mew gull as it flies along the sea. As he passes before an Iceberg, I am startled by the image I see. Pale and ghastly Gollum sits holding the master ring, his "precious", little realizing how it has taken evil hold upon his life. Tired yet fulfilled by the day's journey we return to our camp at Bussey Creek. Dinner fills our hungry bellies and Martin's cup of hot chocolate and my cup of tea warm our bodies and spirits. The tide has turned and fallen quickly and left stranded like beached whale a maze of icebergs upon the vast tidal flats. We wander amid these dying ice beasts are they sizzle, pop and drip their last breath into the mud. One beast still remains powerful in statue, and ice polar bear standing on four thick ice legs peers out to sea in search of seals. He looks ready to dive into the sea for his prey. As Martin wanders in front of it I take his picture. He in turn takes my picture before the ice polar bear. A symbol that we share this journey together into this land of ice and imagination. Wispy clouds begin to cover the mountain tops, as we settle into our boats the next day. The storm I feared lurking over the horizon has held off for a day giving us a chance to cross back over to Mitkof. Martin quickly lags behind and I notice that he doesn't have the usual spring in his paddle. He stops a couple of times and lays back over the boat. He is obviously tired. I have pushed him nearly 10 miles a day, not much for seasoned paddlers but this is the first time he has soloed with a loaded boat. I realize I have to be careful at this point. I don't want to push him too hard and ruin the experience for him. I want to paddle with him for many years to come. Forcing him now to push to his limit may backfire in the long run. Also I remember that when we came here on our first trip how wild the ride was coming out of LeConte Bay crossing through the grounded bergs. Then we were in a double but today if we reach that point he will be solo having to fight the current and eddies on his own. Finally I decide that the risk is too great. After three miles we round Indian Point and find our old campsite in Indian Bay. Later that afternoon we think we hear voices and look out in the Bay and see five double kayaks passing by. They head to a campsite farther in the Bay. I walk out on the beach to wave and one of the paddlers calls me by name. Surprise! Then I recognize Eric one of the guides from Tongass Adventures, a commercial kayak tour company which operates a base camp in the Bay. I walk out to the edge of the mud flat and he invites Martin and I for dinner with his guests. Martin and I later hike across the mud flats and join the group around the camp fire. Glowing in the coals lays a King salmon wrapped in aluminum foil cooking to perfection. The other guide and chef, Francesca, prepares a wonderful meal of fresh green salad, a bean salad, and mashed potatoes. After several days of dehydrated food we feast on a meal fit for a king! After dinner we discover that all the guests are from down south and ask many questions about life in Alaska. Soon the subject turns to bears and the inevitable question of 'have I ever had problem with a bear'. Martin turns and walks away. He does not want to hear the story I am about to tell. "Several years ago I was camping on Admiralty Island to the North West of here. The Tlingit call the Island Kootznoowoo meaning Fortress of The Bear. The islands holds the largest population of Brown Bears in the world. In fact there are 2500 brown bear on the island and only 700 people. I made a mistake while eating dinner. Sitting cross legged on the ground awhile eating spaghetti I accidentally spilled some sauce on my sock. My mistake was that I just tried to wipe it off with a leaf and really didn't clean it well. I ended up going to bed with my socks smelling like food. I awoke it the middle of the night feeling a terrible pain in my leg. Being woken from a deep sleep it took a couple of seconds before I realized what was happening. A bear had wandered into camp and had sniffed the food smell within my tent. He had slashed through the thin nylon with his claws and stuck his head into the tent and bit down on my leg. Before I knew what was happening he drug me still in my sleeping bag out of the tent! I reached for my gun but it was already out of reach. The next thing I knew the bear started pulling me into the woods. Desperate I grabbed on to a small tree. The bear bit down harder and I screamed as the tree was ripped from my grasp. The bear then continued to drag me into the woods. It was at that point that I realized that the bear was pulling my leg like I am pulling yours......" It takes a few seconds for the guests to realize they had been had. Eric and Francesca laugh, I had pulled the same story on them a couple of weeks before. Martin reappears shaking his head. He has heard me tell this story several different groups. "How do you do it every time?" he asks. I just smile. The morning comes with a heavy dose of wind and rain. The rumored storm arrives with a vengeance. I check the weather forecast. 25 to 35 knot Southeast winds for the next two days. Maybe dropping to 20 knots after that. Decision time: stay put or run the storm. If I were solo I would probably run these winds but Martin does not have the experience for this. Thankfully we scheduled a 'weather day' into our plans so I let Martin sleep while I sit under the tarp and watch the tree tops dance in the wind. We spent the day reading, talking and exploring in the woods. Squared off stumps show evidence of logging years ago. Charred bark tells the story of a recent fire and twisted limbs reveal the cold howling winds of the Fjord. I step up over a small rise and stare into the eyes of a creature from Tolkien's's Middle Earth. I walk back to the tarp where Martin is reading and say "you've got to see this". Together we traipse through the woods avoiding the spiny devils club bushes and climbing over fallen tress. "There" I say as I point to an old gnarled stump. "An Ent" "Yeah" In the Lord of the Rings, the Ents are contorted ancient living trees which join in the quest to defeat the evil lord Sauron. Martin and I continue our explorations into the forest and our imaginations finding other trees twisted and distorted by the winds which remind us of the Ents of middle earth. I have always greatly valued imagination and beneath this canopy of spruce, hemlock and cedar nature provides the setting for my son and I to share this joy. Later Martin sits under the tarp and reads. He has finished two books of science fiction and starts a third. I on the other hand walk out to the point to read the clouds in the sky and the wind upon the sea. This weather has definitely settled in for a while. The clouds hang low and rush in shades of gray across the sky. The wind dances upon the water tossing whitecaps all about. Coming out of the Bay the waves are small and mostly harmless. By the time they reach Petersburg some 16 miles away they will rise to a height of six feet and toss boats about like a cat toying with a mouse. If these conditions don't easy up we will be calling this Bay home for several days to come. We have lots of extra food and our tent and tarp will hold back the rain so we will be fine. Early Friday morning I hike out to the point and feel the weather. The air feels cooler and the clouds hang lower but the winds are not as high as expected. We could make our move. We pack up and head out. Instead of paddling North as originally planned we aim due East to Blaquierre Point. A line of islands extend most of the way across offering breaks from the wind. Also by tucking in near the islands we can avoid the waves that will build farther North in Fredrick Sound. The huge mud flats pose a problem. In low tide they extend up to four miles out. We need at least 12 to 14 feet of tide to paddle the mud flats. Unfortunately this forces us to paddle into the fastest current of the flood tide. Knowing that we would have to cross the strongest current flowing into the Bay I talk to Martin about eddies, current undercutting grounded bergs, ferry angles any other dangers I can think of. I feel nervous for him and wonder if he has enough experience to know what I am getting him into. We paddle past the protection Indian Point and into a gauntlet of ice monsters. The fortress sized bergs sit grounded in the mud while the tide tries to shove them back up the Bay. The battle rages. The water piles up the face of the bergs and slowly undercuts the ice. Truck sized bergs afloat in the current zoom past bent on crushing us. The current rolls faster than I expected. I tell Martin to stay right beside me. We approach the current where the water has found a deep channel to vent its fury. The water dances in small pyramid waves as we enter. We eddied behind on big berg while a runaway train of icebergs roar by. We set a ferry angle and head across the gray swift current. I look to my left to see water piling up on a grounded berg. Martin caught now in the full force of the current is slowly being pushed toward the ice monster. "paddle" "I'm trying" "paddle harder" "I can't" "You have too!" I watch anxiously as he just clears the berg. My relief is short as more bergs come rolling through and the waves dance higher. Then things change unexpectedly, we find ourselves in the midst of following waves. Where are these coming from? I watch Martin getting surfed along by a series of waves. This is all new to him and he is on his own. So far he his reacting well, ruddering with his paddle to stay straight. Now I make sense of this. The tide flowing down the narrow channel has begun to overflow and pour out the side over a shall mud reef and these waves are the result. Strange. Finally the bizarre waves die beneath us and we can relax. "Good job Martin" "Thanks" Now we paddle toward a line of cars sized icebergs which mark the edge of the tidal flats. After all the excitement dies down we notice the fog and rain has settled in. I can verily make out Coney Island in the haze. It is the only landmark that I can see on our course. I sight a compass reading and stay the course as the fog grows thicker. "Where are we heading? " Martin asks. "Trust me" is my only reply. We take a break and drift a bit. Somewhere hidden in the safe cloak of the fog a loon calls out, another responds. We sit mesmerized by this voice of the wilderness. A lonely haunting call amid a world of gray. Despite the gloom of the rain and fog I feel warm inside. I am sharing this moment with my son. Together we sojourn upon the sea in fury and in calm. Now we hear the same voice, the same call of the wilderness. What ever the future holds for us as father and son, this moment will always remain. The loons fall silent and we paddle on. Gradually the wind picks up and the waves begin to slap at the boats. I look windward and see a dark line upon the water. Things are about to turn ugly. "Winds picking up, we are changing course" I call over to Martin. I aim for Pocket Island. Hoping for a wind break before crossing over to Ideal Cove. The winds abruptly slams into us. We crawl along the water trying to make headway. "How are you doing" I call to Martin "I don't know if I can make it!" he frantically answers "Just keep paddling" I watch him bravely battle with each paddle stroke. Finally we enter the windbreak of the Island. Martin drops his paddle to the deck and leans his long slender body over the back of the boat. I know he is tired but I also know that in pushing himself he has grow strength and in character. He asks if we can camp here but I am hesitant. I think we can find a flat spot but I doubt we can find a source of fresh water. I instead promise him a long rest then we will cross over to Ideal Cove. We have camped there before and there it has both water and room to camp. Plus if we becomes wind bound for a long time we can hike home on Ideal Cove Trail. "Dad, look!" To our surprise a rainbow has appeared over the LeConte Bay. Then the surprise continues as a companion rainbow emerges. A good sign we will reach our goal. Eventually the wild wind dies down a little and we pull out of the wind block and paddle the mile and a half to Ideal Cove without incident. On shore I immediately brew up a cup of hot chocolate for Martin to boost his weary spirits. As he crawls into his sleeping bag for the night I promise him he can sleep in tomorrow morning. We will need to wait out a high tide of at least 8 to 10 feet of water to cross the tidal flats of Dry Straits. Saturday morning comes serenaded by the wind and bathed in fog and rain. Alas so goes life in a temperate rain forest. First we must gauge the tide. This shore lays covered in gray brown barnacles, each sharp as a razor waiting to cut flesh or fiberglass. We take a guess at how high the tide will be when we finish loading our boats. We carry the boats down to a small mud flat in the midst of the barnacles of doom. Back and forth we carry wet rain laden gear. By now Martin his system down as to where things go and we finish the job with the water still 15 feet away so we goof off for a while waiting for the rising tide. Carrying fully loaded boat would be bad for back and boat. The tide rises to our liking and we head into the wind. As Dry Strait narrows the wind picks up strength. Martin's arms and shoulders quickly reach their limits. I coach him as much as I can on technique and he holds his own. We bounce from wind break to wind break taking longer and longer rests. My arms and shoulders begin to ache, my own endurance being tested by the funneled furious wind. After the wind throws a couple impressive cats paws at us we pull in behind a welcomed small point of land. Trying to encourage Martin to keep going I remind him of one of the lessons I have learned in my years of paddling "Remember Martin, the wind makes us strong". "That which does not kills us makes us stronger" he wearily replies. We confront the wind again and continue on. A strange line appears in the water. The collision of the tides. The flood tide flowing down Fredrick Sound flows aquamarine in color. Our long paddle blades stay visible as they roll through the water. Now like a line drawn in the sand, we cross over into a solid mud brown sea. The flood tide from Summner Strait has snaked its way up this pass and challenges the Fredrick Sound tides for dominance. Waves dance like colliding armies on the battlefield. Now we push against the wind and the tide. Thankfully the passage begins to widen and the wind looses some of its might. At last we pass through Dry Strait and enter the open waters of Summner Strait. Here the wind has had a chance to build the waves. Now three and four foot waves greet us on the port bow. Our progress slows as we fight the quartering waves. Eventually we put them to our sides and let them roll beneath us. Luckily they are not breaking and we enjoy the rise and fall of their passage. We near Blaquierre Point the end of our voyage. I look back at my son. His paddle stroke shows a weariness, rain drips off the brim of his hat. Yet his face says that he has grown on this journey. Matured in mind and strengthened in body. Well on the journey from child to man. Within the lines of his tired face and stringy hair shines the countenance of subtle joy and quiet triumph. For both of us this trip has been more than just paddling the miles, more than navigating the wind and tides. It has been about sharing a love of nature, faith in God, passion for adventure and the bond between father and son. I know in my heart it has been a journey well worth taking. "Dad look, a rainbow" I follow Martin's eyes and to the Southwest a brilliant rainbow climbs out of the sea and disappears into the clouds. Indeed, nature adds it blessing to our journey. *************************************************************************** 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/ ***************************************************************************
Yow! Rev, that is some powerful prose there! Best I've seen in a while. Really loved the coming of age theme, and the way you handled Martin's evolution. The kid is a really lucky guy. Keep it up! -- Dave Kruger Astoria, OR *************************************************************************** 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/ ***************************************************************************
> if possible i would like to forward your story to our group of winter > kayakers on lake champlain. we enjoy paddling in ice but nowhere as > exciting as in your tales. > thanks, david miskell you have my permission Thanks Bob *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
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