A 100-Day Journey to the North

Through the Inside Passage,
over the Chilkoot Trail by portage,
and down the Yukon River to the Bering Sea

Copyright © 1988 - 2024 Ray Jardine

Map

Map (Open with google Earth or CalTopo)

Part 2: Prince Rupert to Skagway

Part 2: Prince Rupert to Skagway

Day 30

May 24

In the initial 29 days we have paddled and sailed our two-person kayak 570 miles from Anacortes, Washington to this town of Prince Rupert, British Columbia. The weather has been boisterous, with lots of rain and stormy seas. Our bodies and minds are toughening to the rigors, but some of our gear is not handling the cold downpours very well. So here we shopped for items that would better our endeavors. We bought:

• A pair of fisherman's boots for Jenny, of the type the local fishermen wear. These were a couple sizes larger, so that she could wear her neoprene diver's booties inside for warmth.
• A pair of rugged rain pants for Jenny, of the type the fish cannery workers wear.
• A bright yellow Sou'wester that matched the new rain pants topped off Jenny's new wardrobe. Perhaps now she would stay dryer and warmer.
• A hatchet and folding saw, to make kindling for our campfires.
• A tarp twice the size of the one we had been stringing between trees to keep our camp and gear dry.
• And most importantly, a small, hand-operated bilge pump.

We became friends with John and Lee, the crew aboard Katzenjammer. We had met them at several stops along the way, and the trend would continue just about all the way to Skagway. So we seem to be cruising in parallel. And not only that, but it had been a scant two years since Jenny and I completed our voyage of sailing around the world in our own sailboat, and we were missing the comradery of our cruising friends. We know a lot about sailboats, and love talking about them. And as for John and Lee, they are doing their trip alone, because there were not many sailboats at the time, doing what they were doing. So despite the colossal difference in boats - their sailboat and our kayak - we feel like we're buddy boating.

Prince Rupert, Map

Day 31

May 25

We rose at 4:30 am and lugged our gear in a light rain, making two trips, two blocks to the Yacht Club's dock. We set off at 6:00. The harbor was calm as we paddled past a large freighter at anchor. We made our way out the Matlakatla Channel where, after a few miles, we were given a good anxiety rush. The channel appeared to dead end. Coming around the last bend, however, we were treated to a view of the open ocean. We rounded the point, and with renewed confidence followed the coastline to Port Simpson. The coastline was low-lying with many long beaches of sand and gravel, and many rocky offshore navigational hazards.

The light rain ceased and a black squall passed overhead, bringing strong southerly winds. We made our way across the three-mile gap of Big Bay to Burnt Cliff Island, with increasingly rough seas and a 20-knot wind from astern. The clouds gave way to a partially sunny sky, but the wind persisted. It was obvious our time afloat was limited.

We followed the coastline to Port Simpson, and at one point the wind was so strong we "sailed" at speed for a mile bare-poled without taking a stroke. We decided to take a chance and cut directly across Port Simpson Bay, negotiating two miles of rough, open water. The waves were breaking on the port quarter, and with the strong wind, and our best paddling efforts, we maintained what must have been our best speed ever. This was bold sea-kayaking, not a day for the faint-hearted. We rounded into the lee of Birnie Island Map, where in its shelter we stopped for a few minutes to eat sandwiches.

The next one-and-half miles were the roughest paddling we had yet experienced on this trip. The seas were coming from the southwest at an average height of five feet - not swell, but chop. The conditions were so boisterous that I felt I must paddle alone, in order to maintain equilibrium. So as we rounded the broad headland of Flewin Point, I asked Jenny to lay low in her cockpit to improve stability, while I maneuvered us through the largest of the waves.

One rogue monster appeared at some distance, giving me a few seconds to figure out what to do. I turned the boat stern-to, and soon the steamrolling wave pitched the Tub's stern sharply up. Its foamy crest pooped the afterdeck and climbed into our laps, and moved on, leaving us wallowing - and none the worse for the roller coaster ride.

We press ahead under full power on the main engine while the secondary engine lies low, and eventually round the corner into the welcome protection of a large bay at the northern end of Tsimpsean Peninsula Map. Under power of both engines, we paddle to the back of the bay, looking for camping. But the tide was out, and had exposed a wide tidal flat. This would have required a difficult carry. I made a brief search ashore while Jenny held the boat against a foot-high surf.

We paddled back out of the bay and around the corner to a narrow channel, where we came upon a couple of small power boats tied to a decrepit wharf. The people hailed us, so we paddled over to say "hi." They were Canadians who lived far inland, they said, and kept their boats in Prince Rupert. They asked where we were going, and when we replied "Skagway," one of the wives exclaimed, "Oh no! Not in that!" Her tone sounded rather condescending, and when I asked if they had heard a weather forecast, they laughed mockingly. They invited us aboard for a beer, but we politely declined.

Looking for a little solitude, we paddled the short distance into Work Channel.

Portland Inlet lies just ahead, and we could not safely cross it in such weather. So we paddled across Work Channel and entered a small, protected cove. Landing ashore, we found good camping in the gravel above high tide line. Our prospective tent site was a bit too sloped, so we excavated a level spot, hoping the tide would not come up quite that high.

We were lying in the tent when their came a clatter of heavy steps on the gravel. We looked out to see a young buck curiously investigating our empty chili cans. Soon he was joined by a mink who comically stuck its head far into one of the cans, much to our amusement. They were both quite unabashed by our presence, but eventually wandered back into the rain forest.

We had paddled hard for eight hours with only one short shore break.

Day's mileage: 26, Total: 595

Camp 31, Map

Day 32

May 26

After a night of rain, we awakened at 4:45 am, and packed the kayak in a drizzle. Our blue food bag had gone missing. We found it twenty feet away, ransacked. Gone were the three apples. Totally destroyed was our five-dollar block of cheese. And the bugger had even eaten one of our candy bars. It served us right for trusting the wildlife to keep away from our food.

We set off at 5:30 into a calm, protected channel. Aside from the rain, the day looked like it would be a halfway decent. But as we paddled out into Portland Inlet, facing a four mile crossing ahead of us, we determined otherwise. The wind had freshened from the northeast, creating a nasty chop. One mile out into the channel, the seas had become so rough that we considered turning back. But the further we went, the conditions began to lessen - every so slightly - so I figured we would be OK.

Cranking the oars as hard as our arms could, we made it into the lee of Tracy Island Map on the last of our go-power. It was by far the trip's roughest open water crossing to date.

How does one spell boat stability? Low tech, flat bottomed, and beamy. The boat leaked like the proverbial sieve, and its speed was no contest for a hard-shelled kayak - meaning we must pay the price in muscle power to keep it moving. But with its 37" beam, it can handle some remarkably rough conditions.

We made way along Wales Island, then while crossing from its NW tip, we entered Alaskan waters! Passing north of Sitklan Island, we reached Tongass Island - and there decided we'd had enough hammering and would find a camp. But the wind seemed to be lessening, so we decided to keep going.

We crossed the open passage of Nakat Bay, two-an-half miles wide, then rounded the exposed Cape Fox in an increasing southeasterly. The menacing whitecaps were tossing the kayak around violently, and a big swell was bashing against the rocky cliffs and rebounding back out onto us. Several times I asked Jenny to stop paddling and to lie low, while I swung the stern into a big oncoming wave.

But it was the "exploding rocks" that tended to ravel one's nerves. When an exceptionally large swell strikes a submerged rock, the result can resemble a bomb going off in the water. The coastline here was riddled with such rocks; and they often stood well off shore - meaning that sometimes we had to paddle far out into the storm-tossed sea to circumvent them.

The conditions were so exceptionally wild that Jenny later said she was scared half out of her wits with all the violent motion, strong wind, white caps, exploding rocks, and big surf on the cliffs. I had paddled extensively in conditions like these, and I was confident in our abilities. I felt safe, and knew that as long as we remained vigilant, we would be fine.

The wind increased, and we soon realized the need to get off the water. Fortunately the coastline was irregular, and offered many opportunities to pull out.

We steered for a gap between two small islets, and behind them found a small enclave - at the back of which we landed. The shore was composed of large, slippery rocks that made unloading difficult. But at least there were no bear tracks - although there were many tracks of deer.

We established camp by pitching the tent, then stringing-up our new tarp and hanging our wet gear under it. I went to fetch some water to be filtered, then we crawled into the tent and reveled in its dryness and warmth of our big sleeping bags.

Hours paddled: 8

Day's mileage: 20, Total: 615

Camp 33,34: Map

Day 33, Layover day

May 27

The alarm sounded and we wakened to a pelting rain. Jenny egressed from the tent and started getting things ready. Today, I was not so enthused. The heavy rains, our having over-exerted yesterday, the fog, and our exposed position - they all had added up. And besides, this morning I felt we were rushing through life too much, striving to finish the journey as soon a possible. So why not take the morning off?

Our layover morning eventuated into a layover day. The day was quite pleasant, and devoted entirely to "campin' out" and resting. Our layover day in Prince Rupert had been hectic and busy, with little time to ourselves.

Rain showers came and went throughout the day, but ever so slowly we were learning how to deal with the incessant precipitation. The problems lie, not in the wetness of the environment, but in the softness of us city folks who came here with limited skills for dealing with nature on its own terms. Yet every day we seemed to discover new methods. Our rain forest camping skills were evolving from necessity, and our bodies and minds were toughening to task. Always there is so much to learn when we put ourselves into situations lacking the securities and comforts we are accustomed to.

This morning we set about building a campfire. But it was not like our usual hour's effort of huffing and puffing on a smoldering bit of bubbling kindling that produced mostly smoke. With our new hatchet and folding saw, we found the driftwood wet to the core. Sawing and chopping it up to produce kindling from its insides proved of little avail. Eventually, however, our fire reached critical mass, which is to say, with much effort we made it big enough to burn on its own accord.

How does one produce a fire here quickly? Those secrets these woods have not yet divulged to us. The Indigenous peoples of the Pacific northwest coast knew the secrets. But modern man comes here fairly a dimwit. So we have to reinvent the ancient wheel.

I searched the forest for pitch sticks, but to no avail. These trees are mostly cedar, and pitch sticks usually come from pine, fir, and other harder woods. When an old tree dies and remains standing for many years - slowly rotting away to a heap of humus - the resin sinks to its base and congeals onto pitch wood. When the detritus is ripped away, the pitch wood may be found inside. This is a magnificent implement for fire building. When shaved into thin slivers it will ignite as if impregnated with kerosene, which it practically is.

It finally dawned on me that we should not burn all of the kindling, but instead put some of it near the fire for drying. And then take it with us, in the kayak, for starting our campfire at the following evening's camp. This was a revelation!

The nearby creek flowed ebulliently into our little bay. Its waters were of a deep root beer color. The colored water was everywhere: in the creeks and streams we've seen along the way, in every little rivulet, and even the tiniest spring. We even found it in a cup this morning which Jenny left overnight hanging on a cedar. The coloring comes from tannins, leached from the cedar trees (wood, bark, and leaves). The tannin runs right through our water filter. Te color made the water unappealing but didn't seem to affect our health, so we have learned to ignore it.

We found evidence that someone had been here before. Embedded in one of the trees was a miner's hammer, a gold-panning type of implement one might use to break out an interesting specimen. Its wooden handle was rotted at its base, and its head was quite rusty.

Our campsite had a pleasant ambiance. The surrounding forest was not so terribly dense, and we could easily walk through it. This was due to the big cedars shading the understory and retarding its growth. By this we suspected that the impenetrable nature of the forests might be the byproduct of indiscriminate logging.

We observed a deer this morning across the small bay. She had come to investigate the tidal flat at low water, and didn't seem to mind our intrusion. Often a flock of half a dozen Canadian geese would fly through the area, honking noisily. They were not happy with our presence. The tidal flat seems to be their haunt. We had scared them away when first landing the kayak, and they have returned many times to see if we have left.

The banks of the creek are lined on both sides with lush green grass, which from a distance looks like it would make good camping. But on closer inspection, one finds deep, soggy tussocks. The grass harbors an abundance of flowers - Shooting Stars mostly which grow five or so to a stem, and show their deep purple petals. Amongst the Shooting Stars we found Indian Paintbrush, and a yellow Buttercup-like flower.

Our newly acquired tarp, bought in Prince Rupert, is larger (8'x10') and well worth the extra weight. We pitched it downwind of the campfire, just out of range of any shooting sparks. Beneath the tarp are three or four clotheslines, tied tightly between trees. From these we hung wet clothes, gear bags, life jackets and other sodden gear. This proved a marvelous system for drying things in the fire's warmth.

Day 34

May 28

Jenny put the coffee on at 4:15 am. During a temporary lull in the rain, we loaded the kayak in what was normally a bay, but in this morning's low tide, had dwindled to a creek. The wind was calm and the sea almost so, except for a two-foot swell rolling in from the southwest.

Contrary to the way we had paddled this coast two days ago - having to stand far off - this morning we stayed close in, and even paddled behind many of the rocks and small islands for the protection they offered. We reached the light house at Tree Point Map, then made our way north along the irregular coastline. Throughout the morning, the conditions remained good, save for a bit of rain here and there.

Crossing Foggy Bay, we exit Dixon Entrance, the third and final open stretch exposed to the Pacific Ocean. The further north we traveled, the less the ocean swell.

We kept up a steady pace in excellent conditions. But as we crossed Boca Channel Map, a blow pipes up out of the northwest, so we hunkered down and paddled hard for the far coastline. Ironically, as we drew near shore, the wind eased and the seas went flat.

We pulled into a small bight and landed. We had been in the boat for seven hours, and the crossing of Boca Channel had been a struggle. So the hot brew Jenny prepared was much needed. We set off again on mirrored seas, and paddled at half speed with sore arms and hands. In another three miles, at Black Island Map, we struck out directly across Behm Canal, five miles to Point Alava. It was a beautiful afternoon on the water. The sea was flat, the air still, and the sun even came out for awhile. We saw two whales at a distance, blowing columns of steam into the air. The seabirds seemed to be enjoying the fine afternoon as much as we were. They were out on the water in great numbers; sea gulls, cormorants, grebes, loons, wood ducks, oyster catchers, and a small swimming bird we hadn't seen before, resembling vaguely an avocet. And of course the Bald Eagles were well represented. One is chased by several gulls.

As we neared Point Alava the sky darkened and a southwest wind began to blow. We had in mind to go further, but the wind picked up with such intensity that it soon became urgent that we find a landing. The coastline obliged our needs, and we pulled into a nice, protected cove. By then the wind was positively howling and the seas were strewn in white caps. I searched-out a campsite while Jenny fetched water from a small creek. We then carried the boat and gear higher up, and established camp. The blow was perhaps thirty knots, and lasted throughout the evening. Strange how suddenly it began, and how long it persisted. We counted ourselves fortunate to have completed our crossing before the gale's onset.

Hours paddled: 10.5

Day's mileage: 31, Total: 646

Camp 34,35: Map

Day 35 Layover day

May 29

Strong, gusty wind, and frequent downpours throughout the day and night.

Day 36

May 30

The wind blew a gale during the night, and our tarp fluttered and flapped - and a few times threatened to rip to pieces. 3:00 am the wind slackened and a heavy rain set in. We rose at 6:00 am, and although the seas were fairly rough, we decided to give it a go. We packed up in a light rain and set off at 7:30 am.

Making our way out this little bay proves no easy task. The chop was head-on, and the off-lying rocks were a gunnery range for the oncoming seas. We slogged along the coastline in strong winds and four-foot white capped seas, coming at us from the port quarter. Negotiating the channel at Cone Point, Map we slugged our way across Thorne Arm in what feels like 30 knots of wind and up to six-foot seas. Frequently we have to stop and turn tail to the larger waves, as this is our most stable position. All the while the rain pelts down, necessitating our pumping the bilge every fifteen minutes. The conditions were wildly unpleasant, to say the least.

We followed the coast a few more miles, and as we crossed the next inlet across Coho Cove, the seas slackened, being protected by Bold Island. From Mountain Point, Map the next five miles of coastline were lined with houses - the outskirts of Ketchikan. The adverse current made progress frustratingly slow and arduous. And we had paddled so hard during the morning, sparring with the cantankerous seas, that our arms were giving out. We could go no more than five or ten minutes at a time before urgently needing a rest.

Reaching the city limits we passed by the Coast Guard Station, and were suddenly confronted with a rescue skiff roaring out of a blind corridor. Surprise! The helmsman saw us, cut the gas, and barely avoided running us over. We later we learned that a fishing vessel had sunk ten miles to the south, apparently just after we had paddled through that area. And then came the news of a drowning.

We entered the marina at 1:00 pm and found "Katzenjammer." We tied the kayak to John and Lee's dock, and knocked on their hull to say "Hi." They quickly stirred and invited us aboard. We must have looked like a couple of drowned rats, and felt like them too. We were exceedingly wet and cold, and in need of a warm motel room. So we settled instead on an invitation aboard for dinner.

We searched the south end of town on foot, and took a room at the Gillmore Hotel for $56. After hot and reviving showers, we put the same cold and wet clothes back on, returned to the kayak, and paddled it back to the cruise ship passenger unloading dock - the closest access to the hotel. After carrying our bags to the hotel, I paddled the empty kayak back to Katzenjammer's dock, while Jenny washed a few clothes in the sink.

We had arrived on Memorial Day, when most of the stores were closed. Nevertheless, we enjoyed a most pleasant evening with John, Lee, and their friend Jim.

Hours paddled: 6

Day's mileage: 18, Total: 664 

Ketchikan, Map

Day 37

May 31

Our hotel room was quite small, but dry and warm for which we were extremely grateful. As usual we had strung a few clotheslines and hung all of our wet gear to dry, which left very little room to move about. For some reason, whenever we came into the room from outside, it smelled like campfire smoke...

We slept-in until 6:30 am, packed a few things, then walked for half an hour in a drizzle to a grocery store at the north end of town. there, we read in the local newspaper that a halibut boat sank yesterday by Annette Island. That was just after we had been through the area.

At a grocery store we bought a few items of fresh food, then footed it to the post office, and collected our two resupply parcels and various letters of mail. From there we called the hotel's courtesy van, which returned us to the hotel. We sorted our provisions, enough to see us all the way to Skagway. I fetched the kayak, and paddled it around to the cruise ship wharf, while Jenny lugged our tonnage overland to meet me.

We set off at 11:00 am in a healthy Ketchikan downpour laced with a smattering of hail. The seas in Tongass Narrows were nearly flat, so with a light wind astern and a bit of favorable current we made good progress. The marine traffic was heavy, though, and we had to keep to the side of the channel in order to keep out of the way of the floatplanes, represented here in surprising numbers. The coastline was populated all the way out to Point Higgins, where we had intended to camp. But with the good conditions we decided to press on across the western Behm Canal.

A short ways into the six-mile crossing of the western Behm Canal, a capricious south wind freshened and churned the seas into hissing, lashing commotion. At that point we had little recourse but to press on, thankful at least that the two-hour downpour had ceased, and that the clouds had given way to blue sky.

The Sea Tub was made with extruded aluminum gunnels, into which connect the deck and hull fabrics. When bying the boat, we figured this would be an advantage in loading and unloading the boat, since the foredeck can slide back to permit access to the boat's interior. What we didn't figure is how badly these seams leaked. Presently, waves are breaking against the boat every few moments, and water is percolating through the deck seams.

We wonder how we ever got along without our bilge pump. I sit on my foam pad and part of my life jacket. So the bilge holds about two inches of water before I'm sitting it it. When things start feeling extra wet down there, Jenny stops paddling and mans the bilge pump, pumping several gallons back out into the sea where it belongs. In rough seas or rainy weather we advance only a mile between pumping sessions; which means the Tub gets about three gallons to the mile.

We were both soaking wet after a most arduous stint of paddling and fending off white caps. Reaching Caamano Point, I had a mind to continue along the coast a ways, and asked Jenny what she wanted to do. "Let's pull in behind this point." She replied "My boots are full of water." Well, that seemed a good reason, so we pulled in and found protection from the wind in the flat, calm bay. Remarkably, the sun was still shining, so after landing ashore in the rocks and unloading the boat, Jenny spread our things out on the rocks to dry.

Meanwhile, I paddled the empty boat across the small bay to investigate an old cabin. The cabin was abandoned and had a wooden floor and wood burning stove, and a bit of a leaky roof. After exploring the area, I returned against a stiff headwind to Jenny's camp, where we heated a couple of cans of beans on the stove for supper.

Hours paddled: 5

Day's mileage: 16, Total: 680

Camp 37, Map

Day 38

June 1

It hadn't rained much during the night, and with a thinner cloud layer the sky became light earlier. We rose at 4:00 am in a drizzle. The rocky shore made loading the tub a bit of an undertaking. We set off at 5:00 and paddled out into a low chop, with light breeze from the south.

We followed the coastline, cutting a few shallow bays and indentations, making way along the eastern side of Clarence Strait. As we were putting Ship Island Map astern, suddenly a big killer whale surfaced, perhaps one-hundred feet on the port bow, exposing not only its tremendous dorsal fin but half its colossal back. There was no mistaking these creatures, with their gleaming white and black markings. It blew a blast of spray, sounding like a steam locomotive letting off steam, then submerged.

A few moments later the creature reappeared, along with three others, including a "small" calf about the size of our kayak. The whales were steaming south, closely following the coast. We realize we are in their way, so started paddling hard for shore. But the orcas turned out and gave us a wide berth - except for one brute that passed beneath the surface twenty-feet away, churning the water around us into boils. The encounter left us momentarily dumbfounded. The fact that the folks at Sea World have tamed a couple of killer whales detracts nothing from the grandeur of these magnificent creatures when seen at close range from a fabric and wood-framed kayak.

Fifteen minutes later we saw what looked like a sailboat in the distance ahead. It disappeared, and surfaced again, and we realized it was another killer whale. Its large dorsal fin seen head on, looked from a distance like the mast of a boat. Soon we had four more bounding down onto us. Apparently they knew we were there; perhaps they knew what we were, and wanted nothing of us. They continued making their way south, and lost from sight, all to soon the show was over.

Seven hours into our day we reached Lemesurier Point, Map our 21-mile mark for the day. The seas were calm and the sun shining, so after a ten minute rest we struck out across Ernest Sound. This was our longest open water crossing yet. Eleven miles - and it was something we would not have considered in suspect weather.

Between sessions of drizzle and rain, the sun came out - and we felt warm while paddling for the first time in weeks.

Two hours after setting out, we passed by Petersen Island Map , then without stopping we continued another two hours and landed on a small island Map for a short break.

Reaching Canoe Passage, we landed ashore on a beach of pebbles in a mere six-inch chop. We spread our belongings to dry on the warm rocks, turned the kayak over and glued a patch over a small hole. While Jenny fixed supper, I pitched the tent.

It had been an enjoyable, if arduous day. The fine weather had made all the difference.

Hours paddled: 10.5

Day's mileage: 32, Total: 712

Camp 38, Map

Day 39

June 2

We awoke at 3:00 am - it was just getting light and it felt like we should be getting up. Something seemed odd. The alarm sounded at 4:30, by which time it was quite light. Then we remembered changing our watches to Alaska time, so now we must set our alarm for 3:00 am.

It hadn't rained during the night, and the conditions looked good. What a pleasure to pack a dry boat, with dry gear. We set off at 5:00 am and while rounding the corner and entering Canoe Passage, we were met by a fierce headwind. Odd, because the early morning hours are usually calm. We paddled close to shore, taking the occasional wave over the bow. And as usual in strong headwinds, I received cold, salt water showers from Jenny's paddle. This went on for nearly an hour. Then the wind abated, the seas soon calmed, and we proceeded with a great deal more interest. Jenny even made a welcome brew in the cockpit.

As the channel narrowed, the water became mirror-flat, being protected by the flanking steep hills. Reflected was the image of a snowy peak in the background, and the green grass in the foreground. The water was strewn with pink jellyfish, typically three inches in diameter. We had to be careful to avoid getting a paddle caught in one of the wispy, six-foot-long, poisonous tendrils. The presence of these creatures made me suspect we might be paddling into a dead end, as ahead we couldn't see where the channel led through.

We continued - dubiously, but reveling in the magnificence of the place. Seabirds were well represented, and a deer stood at water's edge watching us unconcernedly. Mink foraged at low tide, feeding on urchins, mollusks, bivalves - presumably. One mink looked the picture of contentment. Shiny wet, it had just emerged from the water with the tail of a small fish hanging out of its mouth. And speaking of small wildlife, our resident stowaway scurried across my leg. A daddy-long-legs spider had taken residence aboard the Sea Tub, where no doubt it hunted for tiny insects.

The setting was calm and quiet, and scenic beyond measure. As we pressed on, the water began shoaling, eventually to a depth of only one-foot. We quickened our pace, hoping to beat the tide. We were going through this quarter mile stretch on a minus three-foot tide.

The low tide afforded a opportunity to view the fascinating seabed at close range. Among the eel grass and a variety of kelp were large clam shells littering the bottom, and two types of star fish: extraordinarily large pink ones, and bright red and many-legged ones.

Once through the passage, we made our way back out to open water, only to meet with the stiff headwinds again. We proceeded across open water to Bold Island Map , then made our way into Zimovia Strait. For the next several miles we held close to the shore, battling headwinds and head-seas. The tide was behind us, but we couldn't venture out into the channel to utilize it. So every mile made good was hard won. Our shoulders ached and our hands were sore. Such is the lot of the long distance sea kayaker. We skirted Whaletail Cove and crossed the channel, still in headwinds.

Then came a most unusual sight: another kayaker headed our way.

We hailed each-other, then land ashore for a chat. Mares said she lived in Ketchikan and was paddling solo from Wrangell to home. We chatted for an hour, and learned quite a bit about the area. Having seen two grizzly bears a few days ago on Dry Island, she advised us to carry a firearm; but admitted she was more afraid of guns than grizzlies. She was paddling a fiberglass kayak, and complained of how badly it leaked. We could certainly relate to that problem.

She was eager to press on, so we said goodbye and she paddled away to the south. We remained there and cooked supper so that we wouldn't have to cook at camp. We set off again into stiff headwinds and paddled three more miles before making camp on Turn Island.

The entire day had been rainless, the first in over a month. We were sunburned and it felt marvelous.

Hours paddled: 9

Day's mileage: 24, Total: 736

Camp 39, Map

Day 40

June 3

The night was rainless, and the wind calmed. We rose at 3:30 am to find a near-full moon just above the mountain top, with its golden reflection shimmering on the glassy sea.

We shoved off at 4:30 while playing unwilling host to a hoard of vicious no-see-ums. As we paddled away we left the buggers behind, and I happened to notice our stowaway scurrying across my leg. A big Daddy-Long-Leg spider seems to have taken up residence aboard the Sea Tub, as mentioned, where perhaps it sleeps somewhere in the hollow gunnels by day and forages by night. How long it will survive is unknown, as we are certainly not careful when packing and unpacking.

The fourteen-mile run to Wrangell (Rang'-gull) went without incident. The wind was light and variable, save for one fifteen minute interval of white capped following seas, brought on by a nearby intense rain shower which overtook us with its deluge. We both felt tired this morning, and out of energy. We had planned to make Wrangell a pit stop, and then press on a few hours later, but we decided the captain and first mate could use an afternoon of much needed rest. So when we pulled into town at 9:00 am, we checked into the Stikine Inn.

Wrangell was not the typical cruise ship town, but it did have a few gift shops proffering the usual trinkets to tourists, who come here mainly by ferry. The economic mainstay is timber and fishing.

Easing our anxieties about bears, and taking Mares' advice, after weeks of deliberation we bought a shotgun and a small box of rifled slugs. The salesman said that in the entire state of Alaska, not one person has been defensively mauled by a grizzly in the last thirty years. We didn't agree with that statement, but neither did we argue the point.

Hours paddled: 4.5

Day's mileage: 14, Total: 750

Wrangell, Map

Day 41 Layover day in Wrangell.

June 4

We walked to the beach to see the petroglyphs, and generally took it easy all day.

Day 42

June 5

We were up at 3:00 am. The tide was high so we carried our things to the nearby dock, then retrieved the Tub from its cubby hole beneath the Hotel's bar. We loaded-up and set off at 4:15 into what was to be a rainless day. The sea was a bit choppy, as we paddled the four-mile stretch of open water to Kadin Island.

We chose this route because the tide was high. A low tide, or even a medium tide, would have dictated the longer route around Mitkof Island.

The water was silty with glacial till spewing from the nearby Stikine River; the underwater visibility was about zero. So we didn't see the submerged rock until we had slammed into it - and then slid over it. I scanned the shore for a landing, but didn't see any immediate possibilities. We checked the bilge and started pumping. After a few minutes the bilge didn't seem to be filling much faster than it normally did, so we proceeded ahead. This was the first time we had hit a rock, and fortunately it did not puncture the hull.

We crossed to the north end of Rynda Island, navigating shoal water, which again because the tide was high, didn't bother us. However, while crossing the final channel to the eastern edge of Mitkof Island, we encountered a strong adverse current. We paddled like mad, steering for Blaquiere Point, but the current vectored us south. So by the time we reached the island, we were 3/4 mile south of Blaquiere Point.

We struggled against current and headwinds for hours, making our way slowly through shallow Dry Strait. The adverse current was running at two knots, and paddle hard as we did, our speed over the bottom averaged one knot. The current seemed to be the effect of the Stikine River's outflow, for as we made our way past the delta, our speed gradually picked up, and soon we had the current behind us.

We paddled past a fishing boat which was apparently stuck aground in the muddy shoals. A minor miscalculation, no doubt. Its engine was running but we saw no one on deck. Most likely the skipper was waiting for the tide to lift them free.

We also experienced a grounding, suddenly coming to an abrupt halt as the Sea Tub's hull met the muddy seabed. The swell bounced her off and we were free in a few moments - without having to step out. Even though running aground in shoal water presents no problems for a kayak, navigating shallow tidal flats is still uncomfortable - especially when the wind is fresh and chop abounds, and when high ground is so far away that its essentially out of reach.

The wind freshened from the northwest, and we hugged the shoreline as close as the shallow bottom would permit, ever vigilant to the threat of crashing into one of the barely submerged, barnacle and bivalve encrusted rocks. Nine miles from Petersburg we began encountering beach front houses, which meant the camping possibilities would be decreasing. This, and the rough head seas and headwinds, suggested we pull into a small indentation on the coastline and look for a campsite. A quick check of our tide book pages indicated tonight's high tide would not be very high. So we opted to camp on the gravel amongst the big drift logs.

The sun was out in its full glory, so we spread things out on the cobblestone beach and relaxed in the warm afternoon sun. The scenery was spectacular with craggy mountains thrusting above pervasive snowfields. Timberline in this region was only 1,500 feet. Across the strait was the entrance to LeConte Bay, wherein lies the LeConte Glacier - Alaska's southernmost tidewater glacier. Far out in the straight were a few icebergs, reminding us that the sea was growing colder the farther north we traveled. Because of this we were increasingly reluctant to use the sails. We feel much more secure under paddle power alone. The two-part mast lie lashed to the deck on the starboard side, encrusted in salt. The boom with the mainsail wrapped tightly around it was lashed to the port gunnel. These sailing accouterments seemed little more than part of the deck.

Hours paddled: 8.5.

Day's mileage: 23, Total: 773

Camp 42, Map

Day 43

June 6

We were up with the alarm at 3:00 am, and set off 45 minutes later. The sky was clear, and the seas practically calm. Contrary to expectations, the few houses we had passed the day before proved to be the only ones along the coast, nearly all the way to Petersburg. We would have liked to visit Petersburg, as we had heard good things about the place, but we hadn't long been out of Wrangell where we had luxuriated away enough vacation time for awhile.

We decided to cross Frederick Sound early, while the weather was still calm, in spite of the extra distance that would entail. To our dismay, only minutes after pointing the bow toward the far shore, the wind kicked up out of the northwest, and encouraged us to turn back in, and follow the western shoreline.

In an hour the wind mitigated to a breeze, but remained stubbornly on the nose. Still quite early, we passed by dozens of runabouts with fishing poles draped astern. In contrast to the many commercial fishermen we've encountered all along the way, these folks were out for sport and pleasure, and no doubt to bring home the salmon. A mile inside of Frederick Point the wind and sea calmed, so we followed the rhumb-line six miles across the bay to Sukoi Islets Map . We pulled in and Jenny got out for a shore break. I remained aboard, an act I was later to regret, for it was to be a long time until our next landing.

Something curious caught our attention. A lone sea lion frolicked about nearby, and we began to wonder if it was the same one we had been seeing all morning. As the day wore on, we were to see a lone sea lion everywhere we went. We're not sure, of course, but it seems like this sea lion had been following us all day. On the long, open crossings we would turn around and look astern and there it would be swimming along behind, sometimes watching us intently, other times foraging underwater. Even as we write this later at camp, the creature stays near. We could see it swimming in the bay, occasionally looking shoreward. And whenever I whistled, I often caught its attention. Sea lions normally congregate in small packs, and we wonder why this one was alone. They migrate northward through these channels at this time of year, such as we are doing. Perhaps the Sea Tub, which makes no noise and moves slowly but steadily, has been taken for a better companion than none, for the day.

Oddly, the current was against us throughout the day. No doubt we crossed the split point at low water. This, combined with persistent headwinds of varying intensities made for a most arduous stint of paddling. From Sukoi Island we crossed to Point Agassiz Map , paddling for all we were worth in a steep chop, and by the time we reached the far shore we were quite wet from the wind-flung spray.

Once every few days a fleeting favorable wind would spring up, suggesting we step the mast and hoist sail to lessen our labors. But we are not fooled; and sure enough, the fickle wind veers back into our faces. We have found that the boat is least stable when pointing hard to windward. This is when the windward hull of a catamaran takes to the air, and when the lead ballast of a monohull really comes into play. With neither outrigger nor lead ballast, our stability is limited, and we feel much more secure with mast stowed and only paddling. Perhaps if we were in tropical waters we would feel differently.

The farther we go, the more scenic the surroundings. Here we are treated to expansive vistas back into the hinterland which terminate in lofty, glacier-clad peaks beneath a brilliant blue sky.

The five miles to Wood Point Map was challenging because of the huge, rocky tidal flat and innumerable off-lying rocks.

But while cutting Thomas Bay we found ourselves in a dicey situation. The ebbing tide was throwing a strong current over the shallow mouth of the bay. This strong flow, combined with a brisk nor'westerly, was generating a gnarly field of overfalls frothing in whitecaps and roaring like a big set of rapids. We paddled as hard as we could, traversing a hundred yards up-current of the overfalls while pointing the bow well into the bay - and ferry gliding across. All the while the current was slowly pulling us toward the chaos. We persisted, paddling hard for an hour, seemingly inching our way across the face of the over-falls, while slowly loosing ground. Once past the worst of them, we ease off and allow the boat to be swept into the standing waves. But by then we were nearly across, and the waves were not breaking.

Still in fresh headwinds, we encountered a large area of dense kelp. We had paddled through a lot of kelp on this trip, but nothing like this. The tide was well out, and the long fronds were floating on the surface like innumerable king-sized rubber hoses. They were so dense we sometimes couldn't dip our paddles into the water, but had to scrape the blades over the surface, banging across the rubbery kelp with each stroke. At one point it stops us altogether, and requires a concerted effort to break free of its grasp.

At Point Vendeput Map we found more vast, rocky tidal flats, preventing our landing or going anywhere near shore. There was nothing for it but to press on, tired though we were. The wind slackened, fortunately because we were navigating a lee shore. The bottom was largely sand with a bit of grass and the occasional barnacle encrusted rock. Once, in about four feet of clear water, we paddled directly over an extraordinarily large Dungeness Crab. It stopped and watched us pass overhead, then resumed its ambling over the seabed.

On the water's surface we watched the endless activities of the sea birds: Wood ducks, cormorants, sea gulls, and terns were constantly flying and landing, chattering amongst themselves. loons sat pretty on the water, giving their unique calls, then diving. There were a few species we couldn't identify. And of course the ubiquitous Bald Eagle. Occasionally we see these magnificent birds swoop down on the water, flare with talons extended, intent on grabbing a fish, then dejectedly flying away - for usually they are unsuccessful. With a seven-foot wing span, these birds are so slow that the fish usually escape.

And here once again, our sea lion friend is within whistling range.

We paddled five more miles intent on pulling out for a rest, but finding only inhospitable coastline; our sea lion companion always within whistling distance. Finally at 2:00 pm our arms had become so tired from battling adverse current and headwinds all day, that the boat felt leaden and we could hardly move it at a respectable clip. When at last we found a pull-out protected by a small promontory with a nice cobblestone beach. I had been sitting in the boat for ten-hours without getting out.

The day had been sunny, but not hot - due to the wind blowing in our faces. But once ashore we were treated to day's luxuriant warmth and before we had finished unloading the boat, Jenny was already working on her all-over tan. With this warm, sunny weather we have entered a new realm in the Inland Passage sea kayaking experience: enjoyment.

Hours paddled: 10

Day's mileage: 27, Total: 800

Camp 43, Map

Day 44

June 7

We awakened at 3:00 am to the sound that makes the sea kayaker want to go back to sleep: surf. The sky was smeared in a greasy altostratus; and a southwest wind was sending chop into our heretofore protected bay. The conditions weren't bad enough to stop us, however, so we packed up and set off at 3:45 am. Even at this early hour the sky was light, for as we progress farther north, the daylight is beginning earlier.

The wind piped up behind us, and soon we were bounding along on a three-foot breaking swell. We crossed Farragut Bay with a fairly strong wind abeam, taking a few dollops onto the deck. Three and a half hours into the morning, we pulled out for a brief shore break, then set off again. The winds were strong and seas fairly rough, but with a favorable current behind us, we made excellent progress. At one point Jenny fired up the stove and made coffee. A hot brew is an indescribable luxury in such situations.

We rounded into the lee of Cape Fanshaw Map to find calm water, but the wind was fresh out of the southeast, so as we made our way out to Storm Island increasing our fetch, we picked up a rough chop which stayed with us all the way to the cove on Whitney island. We rounded the outside of Foot Island Map where we encountered an incredibly dense batch of kelp. As we attempted to paddle over it, it brought us to a standstill. There was so much of it that it was floating several inches out of the water. We scraped at its surface full power and managed to scoot our way over and through it.

We continued a few more miles in a light drizzle to Robert Island where we landed ashore at 12:15 pm and made camp. The ground was not is not covered with moss, as in the rain forests farther south, but in conifer needles. The trees were primarily sitka spruce, fir, and alder. The beaches were festooned in large horse clam shells, up to five or six inches across. Standing on the tidal flat, one looked out across hundreds of water jets squirting three or four feet into the air, the effects of the bivalves aspirating. The intertidal zone was also replete with millions of shiny blue-black mussels, and unfortunately one could not walk ashore without crushing a few with each step.

We continued our exploration of the island's shoreline and found tracks leading up to small trails through the grass and back into the brush: sea otter's dens. At the eastern tip of the island we found three or four dilapidated, caved-in log cabins. At some point in time, someone came, saw, conquered, went away - and the place was forgotten.

We had traveled about the same distance as yesterday, but with the wind, seas and current behind us, today's run was was much easier and quicker. We have several hours this afternoon to rest.

Hours paddled: 8

Day's mileage: 26, Total: 826

Camp 44, Map

Day 45

June 8

Ten hours of good sleep makes it somewhat easier to rise at 3 am. We loaded-up and set-off at 3:45. The sea was fairly calm, the sky leaden, and the wind light. Paddling around the west side of the island we found many off-lying rocks. They stretched too far out to paddle around, so we made our way cautiously between them.

In the process we passed by half a dozen seals - a little smaller than the sea lions, yet still quite seizable, and gray in color. They were trying to get some shut-eye, lying on barely submerged rocks with their heads and tails arched into the air. As we approached they all looked our way, then quickly dove into the safety of the sea. We stopped for a moment and waited for them to reappear, but when they surfaced they were fifty-yards away. They were definitely afraid of us, for some reason. These might have been the same rascals that had roused us from sleep, the previous evening, when they decided to splash around zestfully in front of our camp.

We made our way across Port Houghton to reach distant Point Hobart Map . A medium wind sprang-up from the south, whipping up the seas and bringing light rain which persisted throughout the morning. We made a beeline across Hobart Bay, running before the wind and seas, then followed the irregular coastline another five miles. It was something of a non-morning. The sky was dismal, and the sea a little choppy, but not enough to get the adrenaline pumping. Admittedly, all the scenery was beginning to look the same, and the routine of crossing three-mile wide bays in succession was growing a little thin. Then, for something different, we crossed three-mile wide Windham Bay. Variety is the spice of any expedition, and we were looking forward to our upcoming portage of the Chilkoot trail and subsequent float down the Yukon River. Jenny attempted to enliven the morning by singing Girl Scout songs, most of the lyrics of which she could not quite recall.

A pair of young otters were swimming for shore when we happen along. Ten feet from us, they crawled out onto the rocks, one of them with a fish in its mouth. We watched them for several minutes. They looked at us occasionally but didn't seem concerned. Small incidents such as this enlivened our days, and were one of the many true joys of sea kayaking.

A little further on we pulled into a small indentation for a break. The protection was so good that we were able to pull the boat a little ways out onto the rocks without having to unload. We had been nearly out of water all morning, as we had not been able to find a spring at yesterday's camp. We searched this area and found a small creek. The water was the familiar deep root beer brown; and as I was filling the bottles, I was thinking that no one in the city would drink such repugnant looking water. Even so, it is probably much purer than any city water, lacking the usual "purification" and "softening" chemicals. We filtered the brown water, an act which did not change its color in the least, but which made us feel much better about drinking it. Then Jenny fired-up the stove and made coffee.

We stowed the water bottles, filter, and stove, and set off. Just as we were paddling out of the bay, I turned and saw a bear on the gravel beach, not too far from where we had just picnicked. We swung the boat around and paddled back in for a closer look and a few pictures. It was a black bear yearling cub - coal black, except for its brown nose. I whistled, but it payed us no heed. No doubt mama bear was keeping cover in the bushes. So this was our first bear sighting of the trip.

We paddled several more miles, and soon began seeing odd white spots on the water in the distance. As we paddled on, finally there was no mistaking them: big (perhaps the size of a passenger ferry), and white in color but tinged in a beautiful emerald green-blue. Icebergs! They were two or three miles abeam, and even at that distance their size and color was astounding. They looked like perhaps the size of a ferry, but not moving. They were white, with a beautiful emerald green-blue tinge. This was a new element in our summer's adventures. They were coming out of the bay ahead, and I wished, aloud, that we could get closer to one of them, for a better look. Little did I realize that my wish was to be granted, the following morning.

The wind freshened and we trounced along, surfing for a few moments in the large waves.

We saw an object ahead, and couldn't decide if it was a boat, and iceberg, or what. As we approached closer, it changed its shape completely. This had us baffled. It was not white like an iceberg, but a shiny metallic color. We approached cautiously and curiously. It wasn't until we were fifty-feet away that we realized it was an iceberg. It had broken off, or rolled over, changing its shape. Its surface was highly irregular, and it consisted of hard, crystal clear, water ice.

A mile and a half south of Point Astley we pulled into a protected bay, and once ashore I found a good campsite just above high water. I also found large, fresh bear tracks imprinted in the beach sand. It was too much trouble to go somewhere else, so we made camp despite the tracks.

My pillow that night consisted of my jacket covering my loaded shotgun. Even though it was a little hard, it afforded a comfortable night's sleep.

Hours paddled: 9.5

Day's mileage: 28, Total: 854

Camp 45, Map

Day 46

June 9

We arose at 3:00 am to find the air pervaded with a misty drizzle. The cloud cover was low, and a light fog, gray and somewhat cold, was restricting the visibility to a few miles.

Jenny's morning routine was to step outside, have a look around, and tell me about the weather and sea conditions. This morning she exclaimed that an iceberg has planted itself squarely on our beach. I emerged and was astounded at the sight of a fifteen-foot tall, irregularly shaped, bluish-green, transparent, glassy, "UFO" space vehicle. The currents and ebbing tide had deposited it here during the night. At 3 am, my camera's meter indicated insufficient light for taking pictures, but I tried anyway. Well, Jenny reminded me, I did say that I wanted to see one up close. So here it was, at the precise place where we had landed. At no other time or place did we see another iceberg on a beach anywhere. This one was uniquely ours.

We set off at 4:00 am into a rather neutral morning. As we made our way along the coastline, the wind piped up, making a quick job of hashing up the seas. We set off across Holkham Bay toward the only hole in the fog. Through this hole we could see land, but were not quite sure what land. I told Jenny that if we arrive there in less than an hour, it was Harbor Island. If it took a lot longer, it was the mainland. The island or mainland is not our most direct route, but there are times when instincts say not to head into the fog, relying on instruments alone - and this is one of those times. However I take a compass bearing on the land, in case we lose it to the fog.

The channel contained many small icebergs and we steered close to a few of them, to get a better look. Because of their great depth beneath the water's surface, the portion above the water seemed to glow with an indescribable emerald blue-green color. The effect is caused by the iceberg acting as a crystal lens, collecting and amplifying the light beneath the ocean's surface. And of course the ice further absorbs the lower wavelengths of the visible spectrum, leaving the blue colors. The chunks are so large that they do not bob in the swells as the kayak does. Rather, the swell bashes against them. They seem almost otherworldly.

It took us a little under an hour to reach the land, so we knew it was Harbor Island Map ; and by then we could see the mainland another two-and-half miles across the same channel. The sea was fairly rough, but the south wind shoved us along. A strong current was carrying us deeper into the bay, so that when we reached the mainland, we were a mile inside the bay. Then we had to claw our way back out, tooth and nail, paddling hard and moving ahead slowly.

We rounded Point Coke where once again the current was behind us. The light rain let up, and as we were paddling along the coast we saw a puff of steam between us and shore. We waited in suspense a few moments, then a whale surfaced, exhaling its steam with its locomotive sound. It was small, as whales go, perhaps fifteen-feet in length. It had no distinguishable dorsal fin. Its color was light gray, and had that characteristic crusty hide.

The weather improved somewhat, although our strength did not follow suite. We had been paddling hard every day in order to keep this Sea Tub moving, so our energy reserves were not looking too good. The Sea Tub had a lot more drag than a hard shell kayak, so we must pay the price in muscle power to keep it moving.

Four hours into the morning we took a shore break and made a cuppa in the drizzle. The beach here was notable, consisting almost entirely of muscle shells.

We crossed the next gap and found rough seas for a while, then they calmed considerably. Approaching the other side, an hour later, we saw a sailboat pass us slowly by, far out in the sound. The boat appeared to be our friends aboard "Katzenjammer". As time went on, we saw them turn into an inlet ahead of us. The sun came out for half-an-hour before the clouds once again regained their stronghold on the sky. In another one-and-half hours we paddled past Limestone Inlet Map where we could see our friends anchored a mile inside the bay. It would have been a two-mile side trip to visit with them, so we carried on.

We proceeded along the coast, then, looking for a campsite, we entered Taku Harbor. At the back of the bay were several old buildings, one or two of which might have been inhabited. We landed ashore and I climbed into the forest and found an old graveyard. The ground was level, above high water, and would have made good camping; except the idea of camping in a graveyard did not appeal. the place was all run down and grown over; and the tombstones were half fallen over. The only legible one said that a lady had died at the age of 83, in 1917.

We put out again and crossed the channel, hoping to find a campsite on the other side. As we drew near shore, we saw a black bear moseying around on the gravel bar. He was a bit of timid fellow, and slowly wandered off into the dense forest. The place would have been a good campsite, but the idea of camping in the bear's territory did not appeal. So we paddled back out into open water and crossed the sound to Grand Island. The current was setting to the northwest at an incredible speed and nearly swept us past the island.

After a long day afloat we landed on Grand Island, on a cobblestone beach - only to be chastised by a pair of bald eagles nesting in a tree nearby. An eagle's cry sounds something like a wimpy seagull's - not what one might expect from a bird with a six or seven-foot wingspan. Nevertheless, for the next hour the eagles screeched at us continually. We were sorry to disturb them, but the day was getting late and we were in no mood to move on. We made camp in the forest a hundred feet from the nest. The birds were nervous about our presence, and from this we gather that few people frequent this particular beach. When we crawled into the tent they settled down.

Hours paddled: 12

Day's mileage: 30, Total: 884

Camp 46, Map

Day 47

June 10

We awoke at 3:00 am, carried our gear down the steep bear trail to the cobblestone beach. The eagles were perched in the tree above their nest, eyeing us distrustfully. No doubt normalcy will return to this cove as soon as we depart. We packed up in a light rain and set off at 4:15.

We made our across four miles of open water in flat-calm conditions. Rain fell lightly throughout the morning, and the low-lying stratus reveals only the lower hundred feet of the steep-to terrain. Today we navigated by cruise ship sightings, as boatloads of tourists head toward and return from Juneau.

We rounded Point Arden and and Jenny stepped ashore with a water jug in hand, intent on finding a spring. A few minutes later she stepped back out of the dense forest, and by the way she was carrying the jug, I could tell it was full. I had told her to bang the jug frequently to make some noise, but what I hadn't told her was that we were on Admiralty Island, which has the world's largest per square mile population of grizzly bears. We pumped a couple of quarts through the filter, besieged by hoards of voracious no-see-ums. Then we set off across a two-and-half mile strait, to reach the Gastineau Channel. Between stints of paddling we gulped the much needed water to rehydrate ourselves.

The main hazard in Juneau harbor are the float planes taking off directly toward us, and struggling to get airborne before roaring overhead. We exchange waves with one pilot as he clamors past, thirty-feet above and to one side. Landing at a small dock near the ferry terminal, Jenny climbs ashore and goes scouting for a room, while I watch the boat. She returns, and we carry our sodden gear to a motel. Lugging the empty kayak along the streets generates surprisingly little reaction from people, as though this is a common sight. The time was 10:00 am, and we had arrived Juneau with the whole day to see the sights.

Hours paddled: 5 Morning's mileage: 16, Total: 900

Juneau, Map

Day 48, Layover day in Juneau

June 11

We took a layover day. "Katzenjammer" arrived, and we spent some time with our friends aboard their 38 foot motorsailer. They were cruising the thousand mile Inside Passage, making their way to Skagway - same as us. Interestingly, we were keeping up with them. But they were taking their time, gunkholing the small coves.

Day 49

June 12

After checking the tide tables for the best time to depart, we sleep-in until 5:00 am, then carried our things down to the people's wharf. The ramp was inclined so steeply, the tide being at minus two feet, that we practically had to climb down it. Overseeing our Tub loading operations, a raven, chortles and mimics a cat's meow and the flushing of a toilet, sounds it probably hears often from its usual perch on a piling overhead.

We set off at 7:00 am into the calm harbor. Making our way along shallow Gastineau Channel several miles, we pass marker number-five and see that its zero mark, indicating the height of the channel's bottom at its shallowest, was eight to ten feet overhead.

To save us quite a few miles going all the way around Douglas Island, we had made several inquiries regarding the passage through this channel, regarding its navigability. We wanted to know how deep the deep it was. We called the Harbor Master, Coast Guard, and a local kayak shop. We even visited the local chandler, and studied the pilot book. No two answers agreed.

The lady at the kayak shop said we could paddle right through with no problems. At the opposite end of the spectrum, the pilot book said the channel dries at a tidal height of eleven feet.

Here at Channel Marker #5, we see that its marker agrees with the pilot. This means we need ten more feet of water in order to get though. No worries, the tide should rise another thirteen feet this morning, and we would just have to wait.

Several miles out of town we were paddling water no more than a foot deep, when we encountered a strong counter current. It was the Mendenhall river's outflow, and it spelled the beginning of a difficult morning. The mud flats were often soft like quicksand, so we couldn't get out and pull the boat. Instead, we had to seek out the deepest water, which was flowing the fastest against us, and paddle hard. The waterway snaked around the channel circuitously, increasing our distance perhaps twofold.

After a lengthy struggle we passed the river's mouth then we found a pool of calm water a hundred yards in length. At the back end of that, was water's end. This was near the channel's shallowest portion, still several feet above us. Nearby we could watch planes coming and going from the airport. There was nothing to do but wait. Meanwhile the no-see-ums besieged us in droves. To keep them at bay we used our netting hats for the first time, and these worked well.

As time went on, we began to grow concerned because the tide wasn't coming up very fast, and it didn't appear the channel would flood before high tide. I wasn't sure what recourse we would have, other than to paddle back to Juneau.

Half an hour later the water started rising; and suddenly we had current flowing our way - toward the dead end. This seemed weird. For the next hour we sat in the boat inching our way along. Finally we reached the shallowest point in the channel, and discovered that on a flooding tide, the current flows both ways toward the high point. Now we had strong current against us, in shallow water, so we repeated the same process as before - paddling hard, going anywhere but the desired direction, as we sought the deepest water, and hoping to make it through before the ebb.

Eventually we made it through, and paddled to the southern tip of Sphun Island Map , still laboring against a stiff adverse current. To starboard we enjoyed stunning views of the Mendenhall Glacier - far more spectacular than we had expected.

In retrospect, it would have been such a simple matter to ride the flood to the channel's shallowest point (adjacent the airport), reaching there at slack water, and then riding the ebb on out. However, this would have required daylight, so it would not have worked today.

We crossed Auke Bay, and near its far shore we watched our friends on "Katzenjammer" motor past. They had taken the long route around Douglas Island.

At the mouth of Eagle Harbor we passed two kayakers in a double boat headed the other way. Their awkward paddling suggested they were not on expedition. They must be out for the day, and they appeared to be enjoying themselves. We all waved to each other from a distance and continued on.

The sea was flat, wind calm, and the rain was holding off. Ideal conditions, which unfortunately we were too tired to take advantage of. We pulled out onto a nice cobble beach at the north end of Eagle harbor, and made camp. As we unloaded the kayak, the thought occurred to me that this was the first day of the trip with no bailing, no rain, and no chop. Perhaps with the mud sealing the holes in the boat's bottom, the kayak has taken in only a few sponge-fulls by day's end.

Hours paddled: 10

Day's mileage: 22, Total: 922

Camp 49, Map

Day 50

June 13

We were up at 3:00 am and set off at 4:00. The sea was calm and the wind light. The sky was full of stratus at 1,500 feet. We paddled around a huge shoal, the effluence of Eagle River - shown on the chart to be submerged, but actually well above sea level. It even had trees growing on it. Map We paddled along the long, beautiful sandy beach. The trees growing on the peninsula were young, and it was apparent that the entire area had recently been lifted, perhaps by the earthquake of 1958.

As we worked our way along the coast, we picked up an increasingly stiff nor'westerly which soon had Sea Tub's bow smacking into the chop. We coasted the outside of Mab Island Map then one mile further we stopped for a quick shore break. The tide was half low and the rocks were covered in muscles, shoulder to shoulder. They were so compact that most of them withstood our walking on them.

Because the muscles could puncture the kayak's hull, when landing for a shore break we usually have to figure out ways of safeguarding the boat. Sometimes we simply stand in the water and hold the boat out of harm's way. Sometimes we anchor it out with a rock tied to the painter (bow line). But in this case the wind was blowing directly offshore, so we simply chocked the painter into a crack in a rock, and allowed the wind to hold the boat a few feet offshore. We had to watch it carefully, though. Should the anchoring line become dislodged, we might find ourselves up the proverbial creek without a kayak.

We put back out to sea in greatly improved conditions, and made our way across the three-mile wide Berners Bay Map . We were mostly across when the northwest wind kicked up again, and this had us blazing paddles, making for the safety of shore, still a mile away. The tide was flooding and we expected to be set into the bay, when actually we were being pushed out. The water was glacial till, meaning that we were paddling in the strong outflow of at least one large river. And soon we found ourselves in a bit of a predicament. The river's outflow had shoved us half a mile out of the bay, yet the sea was kicking up from the northwest, making it imperative that we land soon. We could only paddle parallel to shore, directly into the wind and chop. Once past the northerly entrance to the bay, we reached a distinct dividing line between murky glacial till and clear sea water. And once out of the river's current, it was an easy matter to steer for shore.

The wind and seas calmed and the sun broke through the patchy layer of stratus, leaving us basking in a remarkable, glorious afternoon. The scenery was nothing short of spectacular, with glacier and snowfield covered peaks flanking both sides of the canal - making for as dramatic a view as any we have seen on the trip. We reached our day's twenty-mile point, and so went into gravy time. But by then the sun was out and the wonderful warmth made us a bit lethargic. This combined with the eight hours paddling behind us, made for a slower stint of paddling. lethargy on top of exhaustion is not conducive to good forward progress.

We picked up a light wind out of the south, which grew increasingly stronger; and soon we were trouncing around in the chop, but making good time once again. We stopped at a creek to fill water bottles, then set off again and rounded Point Sherman, hoping to make a landing in its lee, to make camp. But we caught the sight of two people sitting on shore, taking turns with their binoculars to have a better look at us. We exchanged waves and continued on, wondering how they had gotten there, as there was no sign of a boat. One mile further we came to a remote logging camp and we passed that by also. Another mile further, solitude restored, we pulled ashore and I had a look around and found the place to be unsuitable for our camping needs.

Late afternoon we pressed on for another half mile, then stopped again, and while Jenny managed the boat I searched for a campsite. This time the potential looked good. "It's nice," I reported back to Jenny, "but it will need a bit of work." I hacked. I sawed. Jenny drug away my spruce trimmings. Twenty minutes later we had carved a niche in the impenetrable forest. The ground was covered in a thick mat of dry needles, affording a comfortable bed. The surrounding thicket not only shunted the wind, but provided a measure of security from the bears, even if it was a false one. The grizzly tracks on the beach and the many game trails leading through the brush prompted us to keep the shotgun with us at all times.

Our motto is that as long as things don't get much worse, we are fine.

Hours paddled: 10

Day's mileage: 27, Total: 949

Camp 50, Map

Day 51

June 14

We awoke at 3:00 am after a good night's sleep. Once again the conditions were benign at that hour, although the sky was full of altostratus. While we were loading the boat, the ebbing tide caught us unaware and grounded the boat. Still groggy, I gave it a hard shove to deeper water, and tweaked my lower back somewhat.

We set off at 4:00 am, again into an increasing nor'westerly which combined with the adverse current, soon had us crawling along, paddles a'flyin', and the chop sweeping the foredeck. Thus, we slogged along for the next three hours. Twice we stopped in the lee of a small offshore rock to rest, pump the bilge, chug a few long draughts of water, and dig out a snack from the day-bag. Progress was extremely slow and arduous. The coastline was a steep-to rocky escarpment offering few chances for a landing and even fewer possible camping spots. We were getting somewhat accustomed to this rough going, and as long as it didn't get much worse, we were fine.

"Wasn't it funny about that mouse last night?" Jenny remarked.

This surprised me, and I replied, "Did that really happen? I thought I dreamed it."

Jenny said, "The mouse crawled up onto the tent beneath the fly. You gave it a little whack, but the poor thing couldn't escape very fast. He crawled out and that was the last I heard of him."

"I don't know why, but I really thought I had just dreamed it."

Eventually we reached a rocky beach and landed ashore near the light, across from Kataguni Island. We anchored the Tub with a good sized rock tied to the bow line. Jenny whipped up a batch of blueberry pancakes and we rested for awhile. The tide came up unexpectedly swift, and although we had been watching the boat, I suddenly realized it had moved too far out. I waded nearly to my boot tops and reached as afar as I could with a paddle, and managed to swing the boat in. Once I had a hold of the washboards, it was a simple matter to drag the rock-anchor and bring the boat in closer to the shore.

We set off in greatly improved conditions. The headwinds had diminished to a gentle breeze, the sky was clearing, and with the change in tide we no longer battle the strong adverse current. The speed at which the conditions can change - from bad to good, or visa versa - was incredible. Often this happens with the change of tide. No meteorologist in his or her right mind would say that the wind changes with the tide, but we have seen it happen so many times that we could not deny the connection.

The sun appears, prompting us to shed a few layers of cold-weather clothing. The views were remarkable, with towering peaks all around, many supporting glaciers. Some of the peaks we paddled directly beneath were almost 6,000 feet in height. We paddled past a few avalanche gullies which sported compacted snow brought down during the previous winter. Had we wished to, we could have stopped for a bit of wellie-skiing, but we figured we'd be surrounded by more than our share of snow in a few days, on the Chilkoot Trail. Ahead we could see far up into the Chilkoot Inlet, at the back of which stood some remarkably high and snowy peaks.

With the prospects of finishing the ocean section of our summer's journey, we talk about our upcoming portage, and about reaching Bennett Lake and the headwaters of the Yukon River. We are not burned out from ocean paddling by any means. Still, we are looking forward to a lesser fetch, zero tides, salt-free water, and hopefully a drier, warmer climate. But we are going to miss our ever present companions the "sea doggies" (sea lions).

As we paddled along a particularly attractive section of smooth granite, across from the Chilkat Peninsula, we came upon a colony of sea lions basking in the warm sunshine. We approached, and as I sat taking pictures, we inadvertently drifted a little too close. The animals erupted into a cacophonous roar, and a couple dozen waddled, en masse, into the water. Then to our horror they charged. Bunched tightly together, heads and necks out of the water and mouths agape, they roared at us furiously. For a while I thought we had met our doom. Adrenaline surging, we paddled away full tilt, with the tight-knit band of sea lions chasing close behind. The noise they made, roaring together, was in of itself intimidating. And with their tremendous swimming abilities, they could have easily overtaken us, had they wanted to. But roaring furiously they let us pull ahead.

The encounter had been a good lesson. Apparently they were protecting their territory, their young, and their females. And we had threatened them. They could have easily submerged and left the scene, without making such a ruckus. And this is what I had expected. But instead they chose to stand their ground and prevail upon US to leave the scene. We paddled on, somewhat shaken. But then two or three sea lions took the situation in a whole different light, and sported around us playfully for another half mile.

The afternoon grew hot, and because we carried only cold weather clothing, I paddled without a shirt, and Jenny in her birthday suit. The next obstacle to negotiate was the Katzehin River delta Map . The river's outflow appeared to be doing a good job of filling the channel back in, at that location, and had shoaled it to within a quarter of the channel's width. We paddled three miles across open water as a short cut to the gravel bar. The local water was heavily silted from the glacial runoff. Underwater visibility was zero. The chart showed we were paddling in very shallow water, and we discovered how shallow when suddenly bouncing against the bottom. the tide was high, as we rounded the broad sand banks, resting area to a flock of several hundred seagulls.

With quite enough hours at the paddles for the day, we pulled into the eastern shoreline, on the furthest north gravel beach. Ahead we could see only inaccessible rocky coastline, so we figured we had better make shore while the making was good.

After landing I scouted the hinterland for a camping place. Behind a dense wall of spruce and alder I found the ruins of an old cabin, long ago fallen into a rotting heap. There were several old pots and pans and what-have-you lying about, but the best preserved relic was a white porcelain door knob, which looked brand new. It was affixed to a rotten piece of wood which was part of a door. I take no souvenirs. I also came across a good deal of mining paraphernalia half hidden in the foliage, suggesting that quite a substantial mine had once been in operation. I climbed the hillside a short ways only to find that whatever history might be rediscovered was lost to the impenetrable vegetation.

We set up camp as high as possible on the cobblestone beach. Jenny scraped a platform level by scuffing the gravel and stones away with her boots. The afternoon was still hot, so we took sponge baths in a nearby creek. But the weather in this area is unstable, unpredictable one minute to the next, and before long a squall hit with rain and cold wind and cloudy skies. It was so sudden that it caught Jenny running around, securing the tent and covering the gear still in her hot weather paddling attire.

Hours paddled: 10

Day's mileage: 23, Total: 972

Camp 51, Map

Day 52

June 15

Rain fell steadily during the night. When we awoke at 3:00 am, the conditions had calmed and the seas were flat. We snugged up our rain jackets tight against the no-see-ums and mosquitoes. These pests seem at their voracious best - or worst - when there is no wind.

We set off at 4:00 am and paddled into a substantial adverse current that retards progress and stayed with us throughout the morning - as did the rain. The tide was well out, and at times the current was so strong that we had to stay within a few feet of the rocky shoreline, paddling into shallow bays, and back out around always the next point of land.

At one point we happen upon a foraging mink. I whistle, and to our surprise it moseys toward us to the edge of a rock, from where it looks at us inquisitively; almost as though tame.

Four colossal cruise ships steam past in succession, and one merely huge one, all bound for Skagway, at northern terminus of the Lynn Canal - the continent's longest and deepest fiord. Going the other way was the yacht Katzenjammer, motoring past, heading home to Sidney.

Rounding the final bend, as indicated by the wall of cruise ships moored to various wharves, we found the waterfront thronging with cruise ship passengers. They were strikingly city-clean and neatly dressed. And we, straining at the oars, were dressed for the weather in full foul weather attire, from rubberized mittens to Sou'wester hats. To top off our seagoing costumes, our two-cockpit spray skirt sported lively yellow sponges strategically positioned where the skirt-zippers leak the worse. And no doubt we smelled like five day old fish.

We paddled behind the breakwater and found the marina half empty. We secured the kayak at one of the slips. Soaked-through and chilled, we wandered into town in search of hot coffee and the warmth and comfort of a motel. The town was thronging with cruise ship visitors. These people seemed to take the place seriously, but to us, the ambiance seemed contrived; like a Disneyland based on the theme of the Klondike Gold Rush.

We found the coffees, and our hotel room. Then we visited the Park Service Visitors Center, to see about permits. We talked with the head ranger. He expressed interest in our plans, and had not heard of anyone carrying their boats over the Chilkoot Trail, other than Kruger and Landick. After doing laundry we picked up our resupply parcels at the post office, then returned to the room to relax.

With the Inland Passage behind us, we feel more like seasoned kayakers. Now we are ready to face the next challenge in our summer's journey: portaging the Chilkoot Trail.

Skagway, Map