[Paddlewise] The Loon Sings In The Rain (long)

THE LOON SINGS  IN THE RAIN

DUNCAN CANAL

Kupreanof Island, Alaska



            The rain falls, cold indifferent and eternal. It plays out on the
land, the sea and my hood like a saxophone constantly playing the blues. Wet
and soggy, we who call this rainy place home have been singing the blues this
summer. The old timers of Southeast lament "Rainiest summer I can remember".
The weather service seconds their lamentation making it officially the wettest
summer since 1973.

            I look down the Wrangell Narrows shrouded in fog, pierced by rain,
and embraced by a cold wet hand. I turn and pull back my hood to look back at
Martin. He paddles oh so slowly head down to the rain and fog. This is not how
I wanted this trip to start! Too much depends on it. My son Martin will enter
his senior year of high school this fall. Next summer he will need to get a
job at the fish cannery to earn money for college. This may well be the last
lengthy sea kayak trip we will take together for a long, long time. These
trips upon the waters together have forged a deep bond between us. The wonder
of mountains reaching into the sky, the joy of paddling with the wind, the awe
of discovering new bays, the roar of calving glaciers, the power of bears
roaming the beach, the surprise of whales rising from the deep, the mysteries
of coals dancing red hot in the campfire, and the whisper of God in the midst
of wind and waves.

            Most importantly I want this trip to bring about special moments
to discuss father and son things. Though I will miss him dearly I know it
will soon be time for him to walk out the door into his own life, to set his
own course and head to the horizon without me. I know I will be both sad and
proud in that day to come. In many ways as I planned this trip, as I measured
distances on maps and charted courses, deep inside I planned and calculated
something far more important.  The sharing of life lessons. Just like I have
taught my son the ways of a paddle and boat; efficient strokes, bracing,
paddling in rough waters, and navigation. I also have used these trips to
teach my son lessons about life. Ethics, values, respect, love of the
wilderness, care of the oppressed and the poor, and faith in God.

            I sense this is a critical and fertile time in Martin's life to
plant seeds of wisdom. I fear too much rain may flood the seed bed. I fear too
much rain may dampen our spirits and thwart the mood of our conversations.

            Martin pulls along side. How you doing" I ask. He merely grunts.
Already I can tell he feels discouraged by the rain.

            Out of the fog a loon calls. An eerie yodel rolls through the fog
and across the water. We drift and listen in the rain. I ponder silently. "I
have entered your world my friend. I have brought my son here many times to
hear the mystery and melody of  your voice. To share the wonder and awe of
your voice upon the waters. Sing to us, my friend, sing to our life and to our
souls. May your voice guide of journey and my son's tomorrows."

            The loon sings on in the rain.

            Thankfully the tide rolls with us and we ride her strength down
the Narrows to Burnt Island. Here Keene Channel splits off of the Narrows and
bends toward Duncan Canal, a twenty some mile long bay that knifes into
Kupreanof Island. Shallow and graced with wide mud flats Duncan offers its
waters to small boats. Tugs with their barges, ferries and cruise ships
stuffed with tourists never dare to venture into these shallow waters. A
perfect place for sea kayaks.

            I turn into Keene Channel along the North side of Burnt. Martin
follows my route. Hmmm I think, he could have chosen the south route, a
different path than I. Maybe one day he will.

            A host of dark eyes follow our progress. A colony of Harbor Seals
call these swift waters home. I watch as several follow close behind Martin.
He quickly turns to look at them knowing they will panic and submerge at his
glance. Martin watches as one cuts under his boat.

"Dad, a silver seal!" He smiles in excitement. Wonder triumphs the rain.



            We paddle and thankfully Keene Channel provides a distraction in
the midst of the gloomy rain. Keene Island compress the waters the channel
into a swift tidal river. In the  shallow and rocky stream bull horn kelp
flourishes. Tangled and whipped by the tide the kelp fronds grabs at our boat
robbing us of the speed given by the tide. Rocks lurk under the pulsing
waters. The crunch of fiberglass, barnacles and rock sickens. The deep gouge
of plastic aches. We scout out the narrow channels through the kelp and stone,
sometimes successful and at other times not. With a thunk that I feel up my
spine my kayak plastic Necky Looksha IV grounds to a stop on a nasty craggy
rock. Damn! I should have seen that. I falsely blame the water spots on my
glasses. I wiggle back and forth, back paddle and bounce till I free my self
from the rock. I crave deeper waters.

            A number of cabins line the shore on both sides. Some are for
summers residents and others live here year round navigating the shallow rain
and fog each time they head into town and back for supplies. A life style few
will know and perhaps more should.

            We pass DJ's cabin. 81 years young she spends much of her summers
in her little cabin reading books and watching the world float by on the tide.
She and I have become dear friends. I find her smiling face in my congregation
a constant blessing. I plan to paddle down on her birthday in August to visit
for a little bit. Luckily on her birthday the tide falls till noon making my
trip down and back the swift Narrows a lot easier.

            Martin and I pull into the Forest Service cabin at Beecher pass. I
send Martin in to fire up the wood stove while I haul gear. A week before this
trip when the long range forecast said rain, rain, rain, I added this cabin
and the one at Breiland Slough to give us shelter from the wet and cold. At
the moment I am glad for my wisdom.

            Soon we are in the cabin and I am heating up water for tea and hot
chocolate. The wood stove pops as the heat from the flames awakens it from its
cold slumber. Martin lays stretched out on a bunk engrossed in a Dune novel.
The cabin is rustic with a couple wooden bunks, a table and two benches.
Others travelers have left odd collections of souvenirs such as matches, empty
water bottles, baby wipes, a six months old news magazine, mostly full mustard
and ketchup bottles and a half dozen tide books.

            The cabin registry tells tales of wet days, sunny family outings,
successful hunts, good fishing and quiet thoughts. One entry though is a tale
of woe and salvation.

            "I looked out at 2 in the morning and my boat was gone!" Despite
using two anchors the tide had stolen their power boat in the night!  Luckily
they had a "plastic kayak" with them so he headed out to a cabin they had seen
coming in. In his words "I was treated to an egg sandwich and coffee by a
wonderful lady at 4 o'clock in the morning!" Using her cell phone he got a
hold of the Coast Guard who found his boat. DJ's act of kindness saved him
from his nightmare.

            As a pastor I hear the critics rage again Christians as being a
bunch of hypocrites. DJ's willingness to be a Good Samaritan to a stranded
stranger in the middle of the night stands as witness to the real heart of
many people of faith.

            Soon the chill leaves the cabin and we begin to shed wet clothes.
Quickly the stove does its job too well or shall I say we fed it too much and
we need to step outside to cool down! A blue spot peers through the clouds and
sunlight bathes the sea. I would have preferred this when we were on the water
but beggars can't be choosy.

            The evening becomes a graceful waltz of rain and clouds, blue sky
and sun. We wander in and out of the cabin down to the beach to celebrate in
the dance and whims of this marvelous creation we call earth, sea and sky.



            A gray mantle of fog and mist gives birth to the morning. Though
the rain holds back we soon find ourselves just as wet from mist and sweat. I
wear my rain hood trying to hold the cold away from my wet hair and neck.
Though it lies before me I can only wonder what Duncan Canal must look like.
Embraced by the fog anything beyond a few hundred feet lies cloaked in
mystery. Twenty two miles lie between us and Salt Chuck our eventual hopeful
destination.  Within our physical limits yes, but I have no desire to push
myself or Martin so hard and so far. The tide will runs against us for several
hours and I am sure the rain will sing its cold song upon our bodies. We plan
on running just 10 miles then looking for a camp site.

             "Ah the best laid plans of mice and men."

            We reach the 10 mile point and so does the rain. Our hoods drawn
snug, our collars zipped tight and our hands wrapped in neoprene we gaze
hopeful at the beach asking only for a flat spot above the tide.

            No such luck. For miles a rocky barnacled beach blends into a wave
of wet chest high sala grass, eventually morphing into a snarled tangled
thicket of Alder and Devil's Club. What few opening lead into the woods reveal
an undulating rotten log covered forest floor, scars from earlier days of
clear cut logging. I find them more depressing than the rain. No place for a
tent and seemingly no place for man nor beast. We paddle on.

I climb out at one place and wonder back and forth amid the tidal grasses.
Maybe, just maybe I think at first, but I can't get a clear clue on how high
the tide will reach in the night.

            "Sorry" , I tell Martin, "I just don't trust it."

            He doesn't say a word but his frustration and misery can be read
on his face.

            On cue the rain picks up. I begin to chill as the rain worms its
way through my layers of nylon, neoprene and fleece and touches my skin with
sharp icy fingers. I sink deeper and deeper into my own misery and the color
of my mood matches the color of the clouds.

            Beneath my rain soaked hood and mood I hear a song of the
wilderness and life upon the sea. Slowly the eerie trembelo of a loon's song
penetrates my gloom and I am reminded that this moment is what I make of it. I
can fall into gloom and cold, misery and melancholy or as the loon I can sing
in the rain. I can find abiding reasons to be thankful that I am here. Ways to
appreciate the wilderness even though it drips wet and cold. I can find ways
to enjoy even this day. The loon chooses to sing even in the rain, I too can
make that choice.

            Martin pulls up beside me, his hood pulled so tight I can barley
see his eyes.  The rain runs off his paddle jacket like little streams
cascading down a mountain side

"Could be worse, could be raining" he says with a wet shrug of his shoulders.

I laugh outside and warm inside. He is holding up better than I thought he
would.

            As we paddle on we see couple deer grazing on the beach. Day and
night year round they endure the rain and the wind. Our Bambi soft and cute
descriptions of deer do not do justice to an animal whose strength and
endurance leaves us to shame.

            We paddle past a small point. I peer through rain soaked glasses
at fortress walls of Alder and Devil's Club. Will these walls even come
tumbling down? Then suddenly  I see an opening wide enough to drive a truck
through! I climb out of my boat and amble up. I discover to my delight that
yes, you could drive a truck through here. This is an old forest service road
built so logging trucks could access the beach! Low and behold the road, now
abandoned, will provide plenty of flat ground for our tent and tarp.

            In less then an hour we are sitting protected under our tarp
eating dinner, drinking hot chocolate and watching the rain. I tell Martin
about hearing the loon song in the rain and about how proud I am of him for
holding up.

            We then discuss our options. If there is a point to turn around
and go home it is now. Out of the wet cold ceaseless rain and back to dry
clothes, house, bed ect. Driven batty by the rain, many eclectic thoughts and
old movie lines pop in and out of the discussion>

"Never make a big decision when you are down, or in our case when it is
raining".

"The bright side is will be staying in cabins most of the rest of the trip"

"It can't rain forever .don't tempt it."

"Could be worse, could be raining"

 "Failure is not an option"

"Don't Panic"

            In the end we decide to continue on. It's why we came.



            During the night the wild howls and the rain pours testing the
resolve of our decision. By morning the wind lets up but the rain continues in
its dark quest to flood the world and our spirits.  We paddle in the Reign of
the Rain. Launching at low tide we weaved around mammoth tidal flats. Luckily
our beach drops off quickly and we are spared a long carry. Thankfully we are
given a gift of grace as the incoming tide rolls and carries us onward. We
enter the North Arm of the Canal, a narrowing passage that leads to Salt
Chuck. After being in a wide shallow bay we welcome the embrace of a narrow
deep channel. The tide takes hold of us and flings us along. I glanced at my
GPS and with and easy cadence we are cruising at 5.2mph! We enjoy watching the
beach zip by but inside I make a mental note. Getting out of here will be by
the grace of the falling tide only!

            My maps show a tidal falls at the head of the arm. Friends have
told me hair raising tales of motoring up and down the falls. Scary stories of
rocks dodged, and standing waves! I look about at nothing but flat calm water.
Lucky timing! We hit at the magical time just after the tide has flooded over
the falls and before the current begins to make waves.

"Martin you know the falls I told you about?"

"Yeah"

"You're running them!"

"Ha!"



            Salt Chuck Forest Service cabin offers welcome shelter from the
rain. The old wood stove had been replaced with an oil stove and unfortunately
what little oil left in the tank burns for about five minutes before giving up
the ghost. However the tin roof and rough cut  walls of this cabin will keep
us dry for the next two nights so we didn't bemoan our fate. We grab the tent
and tarp and hang them from the rafters. Slowly they drip dry on to the cabin
floor.

            Tonight while I lay in my warm dry sleeping bag up in the loft the
rain dances on the metal roof and brings back warm boyhood memories. On many a
night West Virginia's hard summer's rain pounding on our roof drummed me into
sleep. Then with a blinding flash and earth shaking boom the storm would rip
me from my slumber. In fear and excitement I would watch the night sky light
up with fire and rain. Thankfully here in the North I can listen to the rhythm
of the rain with out the flash and crash.

            In the distance I hear the roar of the tidal falls. Slowly they
reach a crescendo then taper off as the tide rises and falls to a music of its
own. Eventually all falls silent, the rain ends, the tide covers the falls and
even the Raven sleeps in quiet slumber. One sound echoes ever so faintly
across the night draped water. Some where upon the dark water the Loon sings
to the world of night calling to her mate, calling to my soul.

            The next morning brings a day of just ambling and rambling around.
No place to go except where I wish to explore. I paddle about Salt Chuck
exploring the stream at its head waters. I am troubled by what I don't find,
salmon. By this time of year the pinks should be moving in yet so far the
stream flows empty. This time two summers ago we had a freak dry spell. Many
of the creeks ran dry and the salmon could not reach their spawning grounds.
Normally those salmon born from that spawn would be returning. Empty creeks
are not a good sigh. Also we are finding few if any berries of any kind. That
one I haven't figured out. I worry about the bears. Without the berries and
fish it will be a long stressful winter. Few cubs will survive the hungry
cold. Nature with its beauty and wonder plays with harsh yet necessary rules.

            I paddle down to check out the falls. The rising tide nears the
top of the falls. Like water going over a dam as the waters rise above the
rocks the current picks up speed. Soon a wave forms heading into the bay. So
this is the wave that strikes fear into the hearts of power boaters. I laugh
and think "give me a kayak any day!"

            After dinner I browse through the guest register reading the
ponderings of other rain bound inhabitants. A brag on one page about "bagging
a bear" touches off a debate about hunting that lasts through a year of
entries! My favorite entries are of fellow sojourners who fall in love with
this land despite the rain.

            The next morning in a gentle rain I paddle down to the falls. I am
surprised by how far the tidal rapid extends! Granted it 's low tide but still
I didn't expect to see a couple hundred yards of rapids and shallows. Lots of
kayak grabbing rocks lurk in the waves. Not a place I want to try to maneuver
a long narrow sea kayak. I scout both sides and decide on the right side. The
left side has a ninety degree turn between two rocks that I am not sure the
kayaks will fit through.

            As I paddle back to the cabin I plot our escape. To save us a long
back straining portage we will need to let the tide rise to cover most of the
shoals. However once the tide tops the falls the current will begin to race
in. We need to hit the top of the falls while the portage is managable and
before the tide tops the falls. Then the race will be on to get to the end of
the narrow channel before the tide picks up speed. Timing will be critical.

            Two hours before high tide in the midst of a light rain we paddle
down to the falls. We line and right side of the shoals and run the last bit
of the rapid. Gentlemaen start your engines, the race is on! If we can put
four miles behind us we can escape the Narrows before the real tide rush
begins!

            It takes a bit but I notice something is missing. Then I realize
with a laugh that sometime while we were lining the kayaks down the shoals it
actually stopped raining!

Our weather prayers are being answered.

            We move with a steady pace down the narrow North Arm. A mile to go
and we will have made our escape!

            A movement on the left shore catches my eye. Brown and shaggy,
sleek and gracefully a lone wolf moves along the tidal grasses. I turn and try
to catch Martin's eye. Too caught up in his thoughts he doesn't notice me. I
look back at the wolf and he stands with his yellow eyes staring directly at
me. Well so much for stealth.

"Martin, wolf!

            Even with Martin's sharp eyes the motionless wolf blends so well
into his world that Martin has trouble finding him. The wolf resumes his
wanderings and we both watch as he trots along. Now I notice his black ears
and a black tail that stand out from his brown coat.

            I wonder, is this a lone wolf without a pack to call family or is
he an uncle searching for food to bring home to a pack with a hungry litter of
pups? Only he knows. Eventually he disappears into the forest his secrets
intact. Martin drifts up and we celebrate what has just happen. Together we
watched a wolf, not in a zoo but in the wild. We both share a love of wild
creatures and especially the wolf who roams this land misunderstood and
endangered. Martin I might add has a love for dragons and dragon lure. Talk
about misunderstood and endangered! Hopefully we will not encounter a live one
of those out here!

            Tonight finds us back at our old Forest Service road campsite. We
figured with the difficulty we have had in finding campsites we needed to bet
on a sure thing. We hike a little bit to stretch our legs. The map indicates a
trail nearby called the Duncan Canal Portage which leads over to the Wrangell
Narrows. What I see on the map makes my back ache and my shoulders sag. Nine
miles of winding trail rising up and down over multiple 100 foot contour
lines! What sadist dreamed that up! To make matters worse next to it sits
Portage Mountain elevation 3577 feet!

             Sometime in the night I awaken to a flapping tent and the pitter
patter of rain. Groan! I curl deep into my sleeping bag and try to dream of
paddling in a dry hot desert. No luck, it rains in even my desert dreams!

            By morning the wind has fallen but the rain continues to reign.
We crawl out of the tent and gird ourselves for another rainy day. I flip my
hood up to keep my wet head from getting any wetter. I steel myself to endure
another day of rain.  While loading my boat I stand up to stretch. I arch my
back and find myself staring up at a big patch of glorious blue sky.

"Hey, Martin you gotta see this!"

            He ambles down looking around but not up. I point upward and his
face brightens as he looks up into the blue.

            As we load our boats the hole grows bigger and bigger. Finally the
sun pokes his face through the clouds as surprised as we are that the clouds
have let him through.

            We launch still wearing our rain gear just in case. After this
much rain we just don't trust the clouds. As we cross Duncan over to the West
side the sun begins to cook us good. Steam rises off my paddle jacket. Why am
I still wearing it? We raft up and strip down to one layer. The sun feels good
on our water logged bodies. Like a long lost love we welcome him home. Now I
am sweating, no complaints.

            With the reemergence of the sun our spirits resurrect as well. I
hear Martin singing as I drift and lay back soaking up a little more of old
sol. I can't help but think after all the days of paddling in the rain
especially the second day when a campsite eluded us that we deserve a little
sun. We paid our dues! We paid the piper! We were due!

            Paddling with long rest breaks to enjoy the sun we close in on
Rookery Island out in the middle of the Canal. With such a name we know we may
be in for something good. As we near the base of the rock begins to move. Gray
and mottled shapes begin to wobble and slither to the sea. With a flurry of
splashing they tumble into the sea and disappear beneath the waters. All lays
quiet for a spell. Then deep dark curious eyes rise out of the water and
stare. 30 - 40 harbor seals at least! We quickly paddle on allowing them to
climb back up on the rocks and enjoy the sun.

            A number of pigeon guillemots bob amid the waves peering below for
the bounty of the sea. I imagine in their own way they too celebrate the sun.

            We now paddle in the realm of the Castle Islands.  Big Castle
stands like a monolith rising out of the sea.   I study the map looking at all
the inside channels the islands offer. For now we plan to head to the cabin at
Breiland Slough and save exploring the Castles for tomorrow.

            It takes some searching but we finally spot the cabin. Built back
in a little bit only a F.S. trail marker gives a clue to the location of the
cabin. As we pull in we both notice a huge up turned stump on the beach. We
amble up to discover a clump of stumps whose roots nature wove together.
Unlike deciduous trees of southern forests the spruce of Alaska have no tap
roots. In order to with stand the fierce winds of this land the trees
intertwine their roots with other spruce. This stump laid over somehow on its
side has the roots of at least four trees tightly woven together. I study the
roots and decide even if the roots were soft and pliable I doubt I could
untangle them.

            I pop the hatches on my boat and begin to hang gear on the stump
pile to dry. Soon a wisps of steam rises off clothes, gear bags, and out of
the hatches. We both strip to our shorts and let the sun dry out of bodies. It
feels good to sweat in the sun.

            Above us lots of old man's beard hangs from the trees. I feel I am
standing at the edge of Fanghorn forest from Lord of the Rings. Before me
stands a gathering of Ents.

            "What mysteries have you seen old man?" I say to Tree Beard, the
Shepherd of the forest. "The retreat of the glaciers and the rising of the
land? The birth of the wolf and bear? How many generations of eagles have
hatched amid your limbs? What tears have you cried? Did you mourn when we cut
down your trees. Did you replant the trees when we left it barren and
ravaged?"

            The old man's beard lichen ripples in a puff of wind. I ponder
such an answer.

            We take to opportunity to build an evening fire. Not so much for
the light or warmth but just to celebrate an evening without rain. Martin
reads while I stir the fire and meditate upon the dancing coals. Now the trip
really comes together and the hardship getting here becomes worth while.
Martin and I talk about father and son things, his future and life itself.
Somehow the fire become the magic catalyst for deep conversation.  Eventually
the fire cools, the conversation wanes and the sun disappears behind the
mountains. Martin drifts back to the cabin and I wander down to the beach.

            Once again a loon calls across the water. So melodious and pure a
song I sit spell bound and listen. Suddenly a raven somewhere on one of the
islands squawks so raucous and loud that I jump and the loon falls silent. The
loon regains her voice and begins to call again. The raven once again protests
with his rasping voice. I listen to this conversation trying to interpret the
voices. Then it hits me. The loon's voice sings of  wilderness pure and
unspoiled. Life in the midst of wind and waves. The raven however in Tlingit
stories often takes human form. I listen as the Raven's voice mimics the noise
and destruction of humankind. He calls and rasps with the whine of motors, the
tearing of chainsaws and the roar of the chariots of war. The loon cries out
'let me sing and live out my days upon the sea!." The Raven  responds "let me
tear the land and spoil the sea." I strolled back to the cabin wondering how I
could change the conversation and allow the Loon to sing on.



            The dawn's first light tiptoes into the loft where I sleep and
gently pulls me out of my deep slumber. I look out the window to see the
Castle Islands silhouetted against the morning sky. Drawn into the day I
wander down to the beach and stand underneath a cloudless bright blue sky.
Loons call back and forth across the still waters. Loons of the dawn call all
life awake. They pray the darkness of night to flee and the call forth the
first light of the dawn. "Lead me beside still waters, restore my soul" calls
the ancient Psalmist. Morning dawns as an answered to prayer, a morning
destined to lift the spirits.



            Martin prefers a day to rest and I choose to explore the Castle
Islands.

            I paddle across to one of the smaller islands to a gray cliff
rising above the falling tide. A weird collection of anemones hang like tears
from the cliff. Thumb sized rust colored blobs droop down on stretched
membranes the width of pencil leads. Some stretch as much as six inches below
their anchored base. I gentle touch one and it quickly retracts into a crack
in the rock. A solitary star fish hangs in there amid the anemone. I look in
the water and a cluster of big white anemones flower below.

            The water floats like a mirror. The two dimensional world
magically becomes three as the sea reflects the image of the islands. Island
seem to float beneath the sea. A gull flies a few feet above the water looking
down at her reflection flying upside down in the water.

            I circle the Islands and head toward a huge fortress wall rising
out of the sea, High Castle Island. The forward wall of the Castle shows the
scars of its rise out of the sea and into the fierce winds and waves of the
storms of winter. I imaging that I am looking at the face a gnarly battled
scared old mammoth. He peers through the bush looking for others of his kind.
Alas none rise to challenge his rule.

            I wander in and out of passage ways between the Islands. Some
pathways are blocked by sand gray tidal flats. Others run fast with the
flooding tide. Rounding a point I discover craggy stone pillars rising out of
the tidal flats. Survivors. When the glaciers receded the land began to
rebound. As rock and stone rose they met the reborn sea. The ceaseless ebb and
flood of the tide wore at rock and triumphed to reduce stone to sand and then
mud. Yet some rock prevailed and rose above the tide. These solitary pillars
became victors over the sea. As if to taunt the sea many now sprout small
trees and ferns from their peaks. Still the tide relentlessly seeks out weak
spots in the rock. Many of these pillars grow thin at their base. Will the
land rise above the tides and spare these pillars or will the sea claim the
rock and stone for its own. Time alone will tell.

            Small fish seek out the shallows between the islands hoping to
elude the bigger fish, seals and porpoise. Loons follow to feast on the
bounty.  The songs of the Loon weave in and out of the channels. In rain and
sun and in feast and in famine the Loon sings.

            The incoming tide plays in the channels. Swirls appear and
disappear as the tide rolls over the undulating bottom. Back eddies capture
floating kelp. I play my boat in the currents. Some shove me sideway while
others push me faster through the channel.  After days of paddling a loaded
boat I enjoy the freedom to dance this empty boat amid the rips and swirls.

            Martin and I sit around the campfire celebrating the day and the
still cloudless skies. We laugh and reflect how the magic and joy of one good
day has over come the gloom of the others. We stroll down to the beach and
watch the as the sun sets upon a cloudless sky painting the horizon with a
soft yellow hue. A fitting end to a perfect day.

            The cold in the night brings me awake. Half out of my sleeping bag
I crawl in deeper. Without looking I know the chilling clouds have returned.
Oh well. We rise early. Today tide and timing are everything.

            We plan to ride the falling tide out of Duncan Canal to Beecher
pass. If we time it right we will reach Pearl Island in Beecher Pass at slack
tide and the ride the flood tide up the Wrangell Narrows.

            We move out under the cool cloudy skies.  Martin moves slow. I
drop back and remind him if we miss the tide we will pay a dear price. He
picks up his cadence and we get back on pace.  A stiff Southwest wind picks up
and quarters our progress. We don't complain, if this wind holds it will be at
our backs by the end of the day.  The waves begin to build as we pull into
Grief Island. We rest in the wind break and gulp down water and power bars.

            Back out into the waves we aim for the West side of Pearl Island.
I have paddled here on day trips before so I know a short cut through a small
group of Islands. Coming in from and angle I wonder if this isn't a big
mistake. The shortcut appears dry! Backtracking at this point will cost us a
mile or so of extra paddling. I swing around a small point and to my relief
see a ribbon of deep water leading through to Beecher Pass.

We arrive a few minutes early and find the current still ebbing out.
Thankfully we find we can easily push against it. We break for lunch and the
tide turns and begins to flood in. Perfect!

            Shortly after lunch we pass a strange marker. Rising out of a rock
a steel pole hoists a sign saying "Syd's Rock". The story goes that years ago
a local named Syd bragged about his knowledge of these tricky waters. That is
until the day he hit this rock in broad daylight! His buddies quickly erected
a temporary sign to proclaim the land mark and rub it in a little. Then the
Coast Guard came along and decided that the rock needed to be marked. They
took down the temporary marker and put up a permanent one and to Syd's chagrin
kept the name.

            By the time we reach Keene Island the kelp whips like a cracked
whip in the rushing tide. GPS boasts we are hitting 6mph! Homeward bound!

            I reflect on our journey. Despite  the worst weather ever it has
been a good trip. The cabins took the edge off the rain and the two sunny days
revived our spirits. Together we watched a wolf trot along the shore and we
shared conversations about life. Still I feel a sadness. This maybe our last
long trip together for a while. Soon he will leave the nest and head off to
make hit own path. Is there something more I want to say? A lesson the
wilderness has taught me that I can share?

            Out of the midst now hovering upon the water a loon calls. On this
trip the loon has sung in rain and sun, in wind and waves.  In her voice I
find deep wisdom. I know now what has been left unsaid.

            I paddle beside Martin and we drift with the flooding tide
together.

            "There is a life lesson you can learn from this trip."

            "What's that?"

            "In every life rain will fall but if you endure the sun will shine
again.

In work and in love and in all life you are going to have some difficult times
days when the rain falls. Every one has tough times, that is the way of life.
But if you endure the rain like you did on this trip eventually the clouds
will part and the sun will shine."

            As the Loon sings we silently we paddle on listening and
reflecting.
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