THE SOUND OF SILENCE Petersburg Creek, Alaska With a crisp 'click' I fasten the last buckle on my rear hatch. While adjusting my PFD I mentally go through my paddling check list. VHF radio, survival kit, compass, water bottle, lunch, paddle float, pump, paddle, and snowshoes. Satisfied, I glide my kayak down the snow covered boat ramp and launch into the cold waters of an Alaskan winter. I am wary of the danger ahead. Not so much the weather though I am no fool, the gray Alaskan brooding winter sky demands my attention. The danger I am leery of prowls the harbor in search of food and mischief. Bubba, a massive bull sea lion calls the harbor and cannery dock his home. In the summer he feasts like a king dinning on the gurry of the cannery and the unintentional generosity of the sports fishermen who clean their catch at the dock. Under the warm summer sun, fat and sassy he often abandons his ritual of gluttony to follow me as I leave the harbor often rising beside me to burp and growl to see if he can startle me. Maintaining my cool remains a challenge as this massive bull lurks only a paddle length away. Fortunately under the bounty of the long summer sun his growl proves worse than his bite. Now with winter's shadow upon the water hunger stirs deep in his belly. The cannery has shut down and the sports fishermen have migrated south. His mischief has turned malicious as he struggles to survive. Just this past week he tried to jump into a boat as a fisherman was unloading a large halibut. Bubba's sizeable fangs barely missed the fisherman's thigh. I have no malice towards this creature. These are his waters and he struggles daily for survival. Yet I have no desire to be the meal that gets him through the day. I paddle no more than fifty feet when I see him surface near the entrance to the harbor. Back and forth he prowls as I move out toward the currents of the Wrangell Narrows. I reach back and feel for my hand pump, my first line of defense. Myth says hitting a shark on the nose will deter his attack. I am hoping sea lions feel the same about their snouts. The wacky swirling current of the Narrows grabs my boat and tosses me sideways and demands my attention. With an eye to the current and an eye to Bubba I begin to work my way across the Narrows. Bubba surfaces 10 feet in front of me and gives me a cold stare then moves on. I paddle on leery of his intent. Snow swirls and twirls down from above. It began three days ago and has ceaselessly covered the land in a three foot thicket white blanket. Each paddle stroke reminds me of all the snow I have shoveled this week out of our drive way, off the church roof and for an elderly widow. My upper back muscles ache and I can only hope I am wearing enough clothes beneath my dry suit to allow them to warm up and ease up on the pain. I focus on a single flake as it appears overhead in the sky and waltzes down. It sways from side to side before joining the thousands of others clustering on my deck. I watch as my yellow deck slowly turns white. Then as if to demonstrate its power the snow begins to turn my black hatch covers gray then white. My hood slowly slides down over my eyes from the weight of the snow. A quick flick and I can see again. I line up my bow with the government dock across the Narrows and make a quick compass reading. 270 degrees due West. I mentally do the math and make note to follow 90 degrees East if my return must be made in blinding snow or darkness. The snow picks us and I watch as the mountains around me disappear. Soon I am completely surrounded in a swirling world of white. I listen for boats cruising home unaware of my passage. Thankfully I only hear the silence of the snow falling. I ponder this unique sound of silence, the falling of the snow upon waters. Strange instead of making a sound the thousands and thousands of snow flakes seem to steal the world of all her sound. The sounds of the city and the sounds of the rushing waters all disappear in the falling snow. Flakes land upon the water and for a magical second remain then like a ghost disappearing turns translucent and dissolves into the sea. Funny I should feel chilled by the cold of the falling snow but caught up in the wonder of the moment I feel the joyfully warm. I enter the mouth of Petersburg Creek, my favorite haunt on winter days. I am greeted by an Old Squaw duck that flies quickly across my bow. Graced out in his winter plumage of cream white feathers flowing from his head all the way to the tip of his long curving tail feather, he sails through the snow flakes and disappears into the whiteness. Long before human calendars the Tlingit used the appearance of birds to tell the season. Magpies of the land signaled fall and Old Squaws upon the water proclaimed deep winter. Long V's of Sandhill Cranes flying Northward decreed spring's welcome arrival. For me I consider the Old Squaws old friends upon the winter waters. I hug the shore and pass wooden dock that leads up to a cabin. Sadness touches my heart, the old Goose is gone. A large domestic goose used to live here honking in protest each time I paddled by. I am not sure what happen to him. Old age maybe or predator attack. All I know is that I miss him letting me know this was his water. Out of the snowy water a seal rises to watch with deep eyes as I pass. He navigates the shallow tidal water in search of the food that will keep him alive and warm in these frigid waters. A flock of Canada geese glide down the creek and land gracefully at the waters edge. They strut along the beach nibbling at beach grasses before they become covered by the rising tide. A trail of tracks in the deep snow tells the story of a deer that wander out of the woods to the waters edge hoping to find something to fill his empty stomach. Through winters long march these beasts of the sea, land and air struggle each day against the wind and cold to survive. Without hundreds of dollars of gear I would not last a night. They on the others hand survive with only what God gave them, feathers, hair and blubber. Instinct, sight and senses. I admire both their strength and beauty. The snow picks up even more. The flakes grow larger and fall with greater momentum. As the snow hides the world around me for an incomparable moment I am utterly alone in the universe, No sound, no land, no cares, just my boat upon the water. The world as I love it most. A black Raven cuts in front of me and breaks my mystic contemplation. He glides toward the forest and drops down on a ragged limb. He quickly shakes his tattered wings to throw off the snow. He prefers his black coat to be unspoiled. Part deity and part trickster the Raven of Tlingit legend once flew the skies not with feathers of black but with plumage as white as the snow that falls from the Heavens above. Then in a story that would take hours by the campfire to tell the Raven tried to steal the sun and the stars from an old man who kept them locked away in a bent wood box. Caught in the act the old man grabbed the Raven's feet as he tried to fly out of the smoke hole of the hut. Refusing to give back the sun and stars in his beak the smoke of the fire charred his feathers black. Now the raven shakes off the offending white snow. He prefers his image as the trickster and enjoys hearing the legend of his mischievous deeds. He launches again and with a raucous call takes to the sky and flies not bound by ice nor wearied by the snow. . His flight draws my eyes toward the sky. Blue sky slowly spread its wings and hovers down through the world of white. Somewhere up there the sun reaches down with golden fingers and parts the frosty clouds and peers down on the world. The snow slowly diminishes and the blue flourishes and reigns. The world basks in splendor around me. Diamonds appear in the snow sparkling in their dance to celebrate the sun. Snow weights heavily upon the bows of the spruce and hemlock. They stand like gray haired old men holding within in their branches the wisdom of the ages. All at once a spruce bow at the top of a trees shakes off its burden of snow and creates an avalanche of snow cascading down the side of the tree. The whole tree shakes for a moment then settles back into it's winter slumber. The mountains tops boast heavy layers of snow upon snow. Old avalanche scars flow down the mountains. Spring time will see their violence and splendor. The blanket of snow that covers the ground rolls and inundated with the contour of the land. In places a wall of snow lines the shore where the tide has cut a swath along the edge. Patches of pale slush float here and there, born of snow that fell on the shallow islands during the low tide then were lifted off by the rising high tide. Most are slush pads of soft snow but some hide menace and threat. Beneath the soft snow lies hard crunching pieces of sharp ice that have broken loose from farther up the creek. For now the ice flows sparse and allows easy passage but a look ahead reveals the party will soon be over. Ahead where the creek begins to narrow and shallow, the ice gathers in strangely shaped clusters. I scout out leads as I approach. Maybe twenty five yards wide the first ice jam of mostly slush proves easy to pass through. The sharp bow of the boat cuts easily through the soft snow. However the biggest mountain to climb lies ahead. Where the creek turn slowly left the ice piles up on a barely submerged Island. The big gray granite rock that marks the deep passage gathers ice about it like a beaver gathers wood for a dam. I wander back and forth in the open water scouting out the easiest route. I am not sure one exists. Finally I pick a spot and nudge the bow of my boat in. Thunk! Great, slush covered ice. I am stuck fast so I wiggle my boat back and forth. Finally the ice breaks and slowly parts. I use my paddle to get purchase on a crack in the ice and struggle another three foot forward. My bow rises up out of the water. I wiggle and pray the ice breaks again. Not only does the ice rob me of a place to put my bow but it steals from my paddle as well. I search for cracks or gaps in the ice to slide my paddle into. Then gingerly I slide the tip of my blade into the water and hope I can get at least a half stroke. Sometimes I hit submerged ice inches below the surface or have the paddle suddenly slip out of a crack and skitter across the surface. "Patience", I tell myself, "patience". With a pace that would bore a snail I eventually manage to break through to open water. Unfortunately two boat lengths later I am back into the pack ice. Push, thunk wiggle, crack. Strange, I don't remember this in any of the kayaking how to books. To make matters worse this ice moves and slithers in different directions. By the time I reach an open lead it has moved off leaving me a path filled with ice. Finally I spy a long lead off to my left but I can't get to it. Hemmed in by the ice I can't turn the boat more than a foot or two. I can only go straight! Finally I emerge from the ice fields and glide once again upon the clear water. I set my paddle down across the deck to grab a sip of water. All of a sudden the paddle tips up and I grab it as it nearly falls into the water. A simple mistake I didn't center the paddle as I sat it down. I look at the ice in the water about me, a testament to it's terrible cold. Even with wetsuit gloves my hands ache at the thought of having to hand paddle back wards to pick up my paddle. Frozen hands out here could prove a fatal mistake. Though I love being out here this incident reminds me that the Alaskan winter offers fools little forgiveness for their mistakes. Now the water opens up as the current flow of the creek clears the way. Stomach growling from the hunger of the exertion of pushing through the ice, I approach my usual lunch spot. Alas my hunger will have to wait. Twenty feet of jumbled ice lays between me and the shore. Drat. I push on hoping I can find a spot to get out of the boat. The creek turns left and the bank begins to grow steeper as the water flows deeper. Thankfully, at literally the last place possible, the current clears a spot to crawl out of the boat. I pull over to shore and realize that this is not going to be easy. The deep snow hides the any sign of good footing. The icy water is at least three feet deep. I dig into the snow and find a six inch wide spot to step out unto. Unfortunately the snow is wet from the tide and my gloves quickly become soaked. Carefully I ease out of my boat trying hard not to fall into the water. My dry suit will protect me but I have no wish to get my head wet and spend the day with an ice cream headache. Standing in two feet of snow I carefully remove my snowshoes from the boat and strap them on. I quickly change to thicker gloves before my fingers stiffen from the cold. Now with some real traction I am able to pull the boat up onto the snow bank. Even with the snow shoes I am sinking in a foot or more. I walk around a bit getting used to the snow shoe waddle. If you have ever used snowshoes you know a strait gate will result in putting one shoe on top of the other catapulting one face first into the snow. The only thing harder than walking in snow shoes is getting them back under you when you fall. The wind begins to pick up and I don't want to get chilled. I grab my lunch and thermos and head for a cluster of tree. I plop down under a tree and take an awkward tumble. I forgot you can't cross your legs with snow shoes on! My thermos pours out hot steaming tea. I bought this old blue thermos nearly twenty years ago and after all these years it faithfully keeps my tea and honey hot and ready. Unfortunately the same cannot be said for my lunch sack. My sandwich feels like a rock, the bread is half frozen and the roast beef chews like jerky. Still it tastes oh so good. I lean back against a spruce and watch as the blue sky grows and the mountain tops gleam white upon white. In the midst of the blue an eagle circles in lazy spirals. Ah such a perfect day. Lunch over I strap my snow shoes back on and head across the muskeg. I will admit all this is a little crazy. Kayaking in a snow storm to get to a good snowshoeing spot. Yeah, you got to be a little crazy for doing this, but I enjoy being a little crazy. I couldn't enjoy life as much as I do if I always did the sensible thing. Small tidal streams cut through this muskeg. Lying hidden beneath the snow they pose a hazard for me. If I drop a snowshoe into one I will quickly tumble in risking twisting a knee or ankle. I proceed carefully. I spy animal tracks ahead. Sharp narrow hooves rose and fell out of the deep snow. A deer has wandered this way in search of food. Only mid November the winter snows have come early and deep. This will be a hard year for deer. I follow the tracks for a while. They lead me across a couple small streams and around a spruce or two. Walking in snow shores is not an easy stroll in the park, so I need to stop and catch my breath. I follow the tracks with my eyes and about 100 yards off I see a gray brown buck standing in waist deep snow watching me with deep dark eyes. For a long moment we stare at each other. I make no move. I don't want to force the deer to run. He will need every bit of energy he has to make it through this long winter. Thrashing through the snow to escape my presence may make the difference between life and death in the late days of winter. He is not alone in his struggle. Few creatures saw plenty this year. The late spring made it a bad year for berries and the birds suffered want. The big salmon runs didn't show so the bears were not able to fatten up for the winter hibernation.. Now the deep early snow threatens the deer. Life in this wilderness can be harsh but it will continue on and find way to rebound from these harsh days. "Good luck my friend" I say quietly under my breath. I hope to see you in the spring. I return to my boat by a different path searching for more stories told in the deep snows. Soon I find a solitary line of tracks. Canis Lupus. In spite of large paws the wolf has sunk in deep as he too struggled with the cavernous snows. I have found his tracks here before. Solitary and alone. Is he a lone wolf without a pack or merely scouting out the prey to bring his hungry family here later? The tracks only tell his direction not his thoughts or fate. I gaze back at the tracks of the deer. Today they did not cross the tracks of the wolf One day they will and the fittest will survive, that is the way of this land. I move on toward my boat. Suddenly I am caught up in the moment The awe of the land blanketed in snow. The crispness of the air on my cheeks. The cloud formed by my hot breath colliding with the chill winter air. The crunch of the snow beneath my snowshoes. The craziness of sea kayaks and snowshoes. The joy of this life. In the midst of snow and cold I experience a sacred moment of thanks. "Thank you O God for this life I lead" I say with my soul. The tide has dropped exposing some beach making launching my boat a little easier. Still I manage to soak another pair of gloves and change once again to a thicker drier pair. I brought four pair just incase and now am beginning to wonder if that is enough. The falling tide offers me a gift; it has cleared the ice and spread it out in the wide passages. Broadened by the tide the creek resembles a slow meandering river. The tidal islands reemerge brown and cold. A pair of eagles perch upon the mud. One tears at a fish while the other watches silently. I paddle on hoping that the sea will provide them enough bounty for the winter. The wind begins to pick up from the North crossing the cold waters of the creek before assaulting me sideways. I turn and head for the North shore hoping to find a wind block. The snow returns and swirls magically before the wind. The winter sun nears the end of the days journey across the sky. I need to get home. I reach the mouth of the creek and am greeted by white capped waves tearing down the Narrows. This ought to be fun. The wind grabs at my boat as I start across. Here the Narrows make a broad sweeping turn with tide driven currents wildly rushing over shallows before plunging back into the deeper channels. The waters swirl and churn christened with wind hurled angry waves. The tide now ebbs full bore against the wind making the dance of the waves more furious. Wave slam onto my deck trying to climb over and take me with them as they dive back into the sea. I try to hold my line across the channel but struggle the whole way. The wind tries to weathercock my boat sideways while the swirling current grabs at my hull like a mad Kraken. I tilt my boat into the waves and make every other stroke on my right side a hard sweep. I am barely winning the battle. The rushing tide now threatens to propel me past the harbor entrance before I can make the crossing. A set of larger waves plow into me sending spray flying before the wind. The cold water stings my face. Thank goodness for dry suits. Thank the ancients for sea kayaks born for waters such as these. At last cold, tired and happy I reach the safe arms of the harbor. I slowly glide toward the boat ramp. All at once the hair stands up on the back of my neck. "Where's Bubba?" I look around and he rolls in the water behind me then disappears beneath the wind rippled surface. Only a few feet from the ramp I take a quick stroke, turn sideways and quickly scramble out of the boat. Bubba is no where to be seen, perhaps waiting for me on another day. I carry a load of gear up the ramp towards my car. A friend pulls up in his truck, looks down at the paddle in my hand and exclaims "Don't tell me you have been doing what I think your have been doing?" I can only laugh, smile and nod my head. Being a little crazy goes a long way. *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). 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