Here you will find tales of voyages past and present on our trusty Pacific Seacraft Dana 24, "Sockdolager," and more recently, our Bigfoot29 powerboat, "Raven," from Port Townsend, Washington, USA. In 2009 we sailed north from Puget Sound up the west coast of Vancouver Island to the Queen Charlotte Islands (now called Haida Gwaii.) In 2010 we went back to the west coast of Vancouver Island. In July 2011 we left the Northwest, sailed to Mexico, and in March 2012 we crossed the Pacific to French Polynesia, then on to the Cooks, Niue and Tonga. We spent several months in New Zealand, and in May 2013 loaded the boat (and ourselves) on a container ship for San Francisco. In June and July 2013 we sailed north along the California, Oregon and Washington coasts, and in August we arrived home. In October 2016 Sockdolager found new owners, and we are now enjoying Raven, a unique wooden 29' powerboat. We are currently cruising in Canada and Alaska, and hope you enjoy reading about our adventures as much as we enjoy having them. (And there will be more.)



Tuesday, August 7, 2018

Salmonchanted Evening

Jim as a sea otter. 

“You might want to make a note for the blog,” said Jim as we left Craig, Alaska, on Prince of Wales Island, bound for another spell in the wilderness. “Five fishermen have warned us about Skookumchuck Narrows—but maybe you should wait to see if we survive it.”

“Roger dodger, my codger.”

Actually, our biggest fear was not tidal currents but uncharted rocks. The charts aren’t always accurate, especially about depth, and the cruising guide says surprises exist and to watch out.

Raven anchored at Port Refugio, a good harbor.

Also known as Tlevak Narrows and nicknamed Skookumchuck by fishermen, this passage is easy enough if you go through on slack tide, so we did. But the critter action! Oh my. It was so distracting we could hardly steer straight. You try keeping your boat on course in some narrow channel when a whale surfaces 50 feet off your starboard bow, while nearby another whale is bubble-feeding on schools of herring hippity-hopping out of the water like showers of little silvery arrows, as eleven eagles (Jim counted) sit on a branch of a big overhanging tree watching you watch the whales stirring up the herring. It felt like a Friday night in junior high school at the McDonald’s parking lot.

We are mighty glad the whales and eagles were finding enough to eat, because the fishing wasn’t that good for us humans. We had no luck catching salmon, shrimp or crabs, but did catch a couple of rockfish. Even commercial fishermen were having a hard time; everyone said the salmon run was late, that because of the hot dry weather they were waiting for rain to swell the streams they needed to swim up in order to spawn. Who knew salmon did that?

Trolling back and forth in the Strait, we caught nothing. “We’re throwing everything we’ve got into this effort,” said Jim, “I have a diver, a flasher, and a hootchie down there.”

“How about a kootchie? What fish is going to want a hootchie without some kootchie, too?” (And was I right? Huh? We caught nada.)

Um, Sweetie, we've gotta get the milk thing under control since we turned the fridge down to nuclear winter.

To make conversation (as if we need a prompt, nyuk nyuk) Jim pointed and said, “We’re passing the Petrel Islets.”

“In the anti-universe they’d be the Petrel Isn’t-lets.”

We anchored in a couple of nice coves going down the strait, including Breezy Bay, where Jim paddled the kayak and I rowed the dinghy up a tidal stream past a couple of sandhill cranes standing on a sandbar. They watched us warily.

Nice to see sandhill cranes here! Port Refugio.

The good news about rowing is it’s fun and feels good. The bad news about rowing is that you go forward while facing backward, which renders you unable to see what’s ahead. From his kayak Jim said, “There’s a bear right in front of you.” The best news about a rowboat is that you have brakes. We held a silent staring contest with the bear, which it would have surely won had we been ashore.

Karen spun around. "Did you say 'bear in front of me'?"

We decided to try a remote tiny anchorage further down the strait that has a difficult rock-studded entrance, called Ham Cove.

Otters in their kelp spa outside Ham Cove (some are splashing)

We have no idea how it got that name. Just outside the entrance, not far from a bunch of otters lounging in kelp, another whale, a small humpback, surfaced; honestly, it’s either been like the cetacean welcoming committee has been working overtime this summer, or whales just love cove entrances; regardless, we are loving every minute of it. Easing between the whale and the (charted) rocks into Ham Cove proper, which doesn’t show any rocks on the chart, we nosed into the little side anchorage that’s just big enough for one boat. Several species of birds were busy diving for something in the water. As we glided forward toward the middle, a seagull landed on the water right in front of us and was obviously not going to move. That’s odd, I thought, and turned slightly to go around it. Suddenly Jim, who was at the bow, turned back toward me pointing straight downward, with a shocked worried expression. “ROCK!” he said. I looked down, and we were right on top of it. Our worst nightmare came true, but there were no scraping sounds or bumps yet, so I threw the engine into reverse and looked down at the rock, which had appeared from nowhere and resembled granite with its little bits of gray and white, slightly stripey, which caused me to identify the rock as a very fine specimen of gneiss (weird things run through your head when you’re on a rock.). And then, like something biblical, the rock parted. It flowed around the boat. It was not lava from some underground volcano, no, it was, as the song goes, a genuine shoal of herring, or maybe baby salmon, so thick and all lined up that it resembled a solid mass of rock, and it scared the living bejesus out of us. We anchored in 30 rockless feet of water in Ham Cove’s center.

The best anchorage (if you can stand the terror) is the blue cove to the right of the island.


Sunset, Ham Cove

Whew. Let’s try to relax. “I’m going to put the pot out,” said Jim, “and see if I can catch a ham.”

We explored a large shallow lagoon with two waterfalls.

This is good bearbitat. Back lagoon, Ham Cove.

The next morning there was one small, very happy rock crab in our trap, which we could almost hear giggling as it slipped out through the bars and plopped into the water. But our ham steaks that night were delicious, so who cared, and the ham-lentil soup later still makes our mouths water. We confess, though, that a nice crab dinner would have been great in Ham Cove.

One rather unpleasant incident—as we motored south along the east coast of Dall Island, a speeding boat appeared on the horizon, probably coming back from fishing off Cape Muzon, which juts into the North Pacific. It seemed to be heading straight toward us at a very high rate of speed, so we made a 45 degree turn to starboard to let its captain know our intentions to pass port to port. But as it drew near it turned toward us, and now we could see it was moving at around 40 or 50 knots. Since we had no sea-room on our starboard side and wanted to make our intentions crystal-clear, we did a 135-degree turn to port while the speeding boat was still a mile away, which put Raven, doing her full 6 knots, at a 90 degree angle to their course and heading away from them. With the speed they were going there’d be no room for error in a close pass, so we wanted to make our intentions clear that we were giving them right-of-way regardless of the law. Our wish to avoid them was obvious.

But again they turned toward us, and now we knew it was deliberate. They were making their intentions known that they would pass very close to us at a high rate of speed. It’s very intimidating, so we got out the binoculars and barely managed to read the large lettered name and see an image of an anchor on the side of the 30 or 35-foot aluminum hull as they roared past at close to 50 knots with a boatload of waving passengers, some of whose blurred faces appeared to be laughing. A boat that size going that fast, with passengers aboard to boot, has no business intimidating a smaller, slower boat.

“Norma J, Norma J, Norma J, this is the motor vessel Raven.” 

No answer. I tried radioing them again. Nothing. Now it’s a given that charter fishing vessel captains usually keep their VHF radios on, so since they weren’t answering and since we were somewhat steamed by their behavior, I put out what’s pronounced as a Pawn-pawn radio warning call but is spelled Pan-pan. “Pan-pan, pan-pan, pan-pan, this is the motor vessel Raven, southbound in Tlevak Strait off Reef Point. The charter fishing vessel Norma J just forced us to take emergency evasive action and behaved recklessly, passing too close to us at around 40 or 50 knots. We advise any vessels north of here to be on the lookout and to avoid this vessel.”

Not long after that, the Coast Guard called us, asked for a description of the boat and details of the incident, and said they’d investigate it. We later got a garbled phone message from them, but we’ve been mostly offline and unable to re-connect. It’s not a good feeling to have some fast boat bearing recklessly down on you while you’re doing everything you can to avoid a collision, but there is something you can do about it; the Coast Guard can help, because anyone who takes out passengers for hire must have a Coast Guard captain’s license, and the agency takes safety very seriously. Even if it’s a private boat presenting a threat to life and safety, if you can get its name or registration numbers to report you have an avenue of redress.

The windswept archipelago called the Barrier Islands are a wild place we’d been looking forward to visiting, because they’re in an official wilderness area west of Cape Chacon, right at the edge of Dixon Entrance and the open sea. They didn’t disappoint, and just outside them we caught the exact type of fish that a fisherman in Craig had recommended for his recipe to make “poor man’s lobster.”

A twelve-pound red snapper! Also known as a yellow-eyed rockfish, these fish can be legally caught in Alaska but not in Canada.

Both New Englanders originally, he and I had lamented how long it had been since a real Maine lobster had graced either of our plates, so here’s the recipe: Take a red snapper, which has firm flesh in wide flakes, and boil lobster tail-sized chunks in straight seawater with a lot of sugar mixed in, enough to give the broth a simultaneous salt-sweet flavor. The taste and texture will be something like a good old Homaris americanus, he said, especially if you dip it in melted butter. And it was! Totally delicious and a fun pretend, but nothing can replace real lobster. Except maybe a nice fat Dungeness crab. Boiled in salt water, crack the shell, pick out those gleaming chunks, dip ‘em in butter or Jim’s favorite sauce of horseradish mixed with ketchup, and oh man, am I making myself hungry or what.

Poor man's lobster. (in the bowl, not on the chair.)

With all the kelp in these islands it was hard to get the anchor to hold, even by carefully backing it slowly in, plus most anchorages in the Barriers were exposed to at least one wind direction, requiring you to move if the wind shifts. But we found a spot in an unnamed cove that was shallow enough where we didn’t have to put out miles of anchor rode, and thought, oh good, this is perfect. Jumping into the dinghy, we circumnavigated rocky, bird-rich Middle Island, 7 miles in all, but found on returning to Raven that the wind had shifted. Now there was the possibility of being put on a lee shore with a large fetch in a kelpy holding area, so it was time to move.

As we weighed anchor to find a safer spot for the night, a massive wad of bull kelp wrapped itself around the prop. The engine gave a shudder as the prop tore through it, but kept going. I mean, it’s a big 3-bladed prop and that was just kelp, right? Then we noticed a 15 to 20 percent reduction in speed and power, and a vibration that hadn’t been there before. Uh-oh. What just happened? Was there an old crab pot line down there? Worriedly, we went at reduced speed, 5 miles to another anchorage, found the kelp too thick for anchoring there, too, and finally succeeded at a third one.

The thing about some of these wilder northern anchorages is that the charts might say it’s 50 feet deep, which is reasonable for anchoring a small boat, but then you get there and it’s 85 feet, which is a bit deep because by the time you let out enough rode for that depth you’re at risk of swinging into the rocks that line the cove. When there’s that much kelp covering the bottom it’s hard to get the anchor to bite unless you’re on a much larger boat with a very heavy anchor on all chain. This is why so many fishing boats carry heavy, navy-style anchors; their weight sinks through all that kelp and in calm weather they can sit atop that pile of chain on the bottom. In smaller pleasure boats, the design of an anchor comes much more into play than does weight.

Check out the optical effects of fog! It's just off the ground so you can see trees, but is reflected in the water, where it meets.

Normally we drop, slowly back down, let the anchor settle in at low RPMs, and then very slowly increase the RPMs to between 1200 and 1500, depending on how much wind is forecast and how well we want to sleep. It takes a bit more time to anchor like this, but it gives us a good idea of the bottom characteristics and the grip our anchor has. We do have 4 anchors and a thousand feet of anchor rode aboard, one being a big Herreshoff-style monster weighing 60 pounds, but unless there’s a storm threatening, it’s a lot of work to deploy and retrieve. Other options might be sending a 25-lb kellet down the rode to increase the “scope,” or holding power, and we have a nice kellet aboard. Other options would include deploying a second anchor on a separate rode, or attaching a second anchor to the primary rode, but our rule is if we can’t get the primary anchor to bite and there are other anchorage options, we move on, and use these other devices only if we run out of anchorages. Because if you can’t get one anchor to bite, what good are two if it really starts to blow?

Two hitchhikers. They were so big we thought hummingbirds were landing on the boat. 

So, while a navigational chart up here will have a number like 50 representing an entire depth contour, the 50 foot part is meant to show the shallowest depth in that entire contour, which is usually right up next to the rocks. It’s not a bad practice to add at least 20 feet to charted depths when choosing an anchorage up here, and then another 15 or so for high tide because depths on charts are for mean (average) low water. On Raven’s bower anchor we carry 60 feet of chain attached to 300 feet of rope, which is adequate for most places.

Jim was in the water next morning at 7:15, something that for those of you who  know about his absolute love for and insistence on hibernatory late sleeping, would agree that under normal circumstances I should’ve been dialing the doctor, but we had miles to go and Jim had a new wetsuit bought expressly for an eventuality like this. So in he went, carrying a special rescue knife given to us by our friend Alex, (Yay! Thanks Alex!) and he found a few strands of shredded kelp but not as much as you’d have thought might be there to make a vibration. Perhaps the rest of it had fallen off in the night.

The sharpest knife in the drawer!

Just as Jim is a night owl content to snooze away a perfectly good morning, I am a lark who usually goes to bed fairly early. One evening Jim said, “You have decanted to bed.”

“Decamped, Sweetie.”

“Decanted. You have poured yourself in there.”

Relieved to find the engine working normally again, we threaded through the maze of islands to get around Cape Chacon, which has a bad reputation. With a good weather forecast to get past Dixon Entrance, you don’t tarry, or you could get stuck for a couple of weeks. To limit our exposure to sideways swells coming in from the Gulf of Alaska, (remember this is a powerboat without steadying sails) we decided to try the rocky shortcut called Minnie Cutoff, which was highly recommended by our fishermen friends.

The very narrow Minnie Cutoff, gateway to the sea from the Barrier Islands.

Now, normally one might look at it on the chart and go, nuh-uh, not there, but several had recommended it, so off we went. Until the very last part, which caused us to consider turning around, it was scenic and easy if you paid attention. But hoo boy, the narrow rocky “gate” at the far end was choked with thick kelp, which we now had good reason to fear given recent experience and the fact that we were in one of the more remote parts of Southeast Alaska. But we held our breaths and went for it, on the far right side where the kelp is thinner, right next to the rocks. Whew!

Nervously navigating through the kelp at Minnie Cutoff.

The reward on the other side was a whale surfacing right next to us with its mouth open. Yippee! A couple minutes later it turned on its back and waved its flippers! Holy kippered herring, Batman!

Cape Chacon; the fog parted for a moment to give us this glimpse.

Rounding Cape Chacon was easy though a bit foggy, and after passing Stone Rock (REALLY? They couldn’t have thought of a better name?) which guarded, wait for it… Stone Rock Bay, we anchored in Gardner Bay near the south tip of Prince of Wales Island with what seemed like the entire fishing fleet and four buy-boats.

Gardner bay fishing fleet worked most of the night.

Watching the seiners, trawlers and gillnetters line up to offload their fish until all hours of the night, we appreciated how hard these men and women work.

Some of the thickest fog we’d seen so far greeted us in the early morning, but fog sometimes makes for flat water, and with light winds in the forecast and the radar spinning we chugged east along the north side of Dixon Entrance to our final Alaskan cove, in Nakat Harbor. At the 3/10 mile wide channel just before our anchorage, four gillnetters had set their nets, blocking its entire width except for a tiny 50-foot channel next to the rocks, through which we slipped, wondering if it’s legal to block a channel like that.

Gill net across an entire channel except for a small opening.


Forecast: Pretty darned foggy.

Later on we would be sitting on a porch in Canada laughing and drinking homemade wine with a couple of gillnetters who’d explain this type of fishing to us. Bill raised his glass and said, “I wouldn’t’a let you through at all!” Des, a sailor as well as a fisherman, once had an engineless sailboat and described how he’d sail right over the tops of the nets. “They’d go nuts, of course, but there was nothing to tangle on them, and there was no other way through.” We decided that if there’s a fishing opener in Johnstone Strait when we’re trying to traverse it, we’ll just go anchor somewhere and wait for them to finish, because if you’ve ever been in Johnstone Strait during a fishing opener with a hundred gillnetters, you’ll know what we mean.

Fog sweeps in, Nakat Harbor.

After anchoring at Nakat Harbor, Jim said, “Well, we have rounded the three Great Capes.”

“Which are?”

Decision, Chacon and Fox.”

“I thought they were Cape Horn, the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Leeuwin. Like, capes of continents.”

“Well yeah, there’s those…”

Getting tired of fog shots yet? 

The fog was even thicker in the morning, you could barely see 30 feet, but with radar, electronic navigation aids, two sets of eyes and a slow speed (along with a clearing in late morning) we arrived at Prince Rupert in the afternoon and made a beeline to the Breakers Pub.

Willya look at that fireboat-style welcome! Prince Rupert rocks!

On our last night in Prince Rupert a couple days later we extended the World’s Longest Pub Crawl to include a place up the hill called Cargo, an excellent spot.

Here's another reason Prince Rupert really rocks. 

Prince Rupert was a good stop as always, but we missed seeing our friends Marty and Mae, because they’d sailed south to buy a new boat down on Vancouver Island. They bought a gorgeous big schooner, and Wild Abandon, their C&C sloop, is for sale. We will catch up with them further south. However, it seems that everyone in Prince Rupert is a friend of theirs, so they managed to take care of us despite not being there, because all we had to say to practically anyone was, “Hi! We’re friends of Marty and Mae,” and next thing we’d know we’d be on somebody’s porch drinking homemade wine. We visited with a whole bunch of friends of theirs at Dodge Cove near Prince Rupert.

Dodge Cove, a nifty place.

These included Marna, who lovingly maintains a forested trail, Des and Bill, the humorous gillnetters, Jeremiah, a logger who operates the sawmill and showed us his amazing floating and fixed homes and gardens, Gordon and Linda, who gave us more fishing advice, and a lady who offered us water to wash down the berries we ate on our hike. What a fabulous little community.

One never knows what one may find on the trails at Dodge Cove.

Stopping in Newcombe Harbor and then Monckton Inlet, we found a sheltered aquamarine cove and had it to ourselves until another friend of Marty and Mae hove into sight! We’d arranged to meet up with Alfie and Devlin on his C&C sloop named Moonshine, and both there and at Campania Island further south we all enjoyed each others’ company, including at a beach bonfire.


 And they confirmed that those Clydesdale-sized horseflies can bite right through blue jeans and fleece—crikey! Plus, there were wolf tracks all over the place, including right on our bonfire beach.

Wolf tracks right next to our beach bonfire.

When he’s not working at his regular job, Alfie runs the YouTube Channel LifeIsLikeSailing.com, and if you like the idea of cruising the northern Canadian coast you’ll enjoy its practical tips as well as video travelogues.

What a pleasant surprise to see the Pacific grace from Victoria at anchor!

We kept noticing an increasing burning rubber smell, and it worried us, so after we came to anchor at Monckton we opened the engine compartment and checked everything. Nothing was hot. We went over every wire in the boat, all cool and fine. We sat there wondering, why is it that we smell burning rubber and can’t find the source? Then a strong whiff hit me and I followed my nose… to my boots. “Oh god, you won’t believe this. I bought these boots in 2001, they’re all oxidized and they stink like burning rubber when the sun hits them. They didn’t do this last year. You’d think they’d last a little longer than that.”

As we cruised south, Jim said, “How many nights is it since Rupert, six?”

“I don’t even know what day it is.”

“Six nights outta Rupert,” he said, “what a great song title. Hey! We should write a song!”

“What’ll it be about?”

“I dunno.”

So I (K) began singing:
“I don’t know what this song’s about,
But we’re six nights outta Rupert,
The rain and wind makes us scream and shout,
And we’re six nights outta Rupert.
The searchers all say they’d have made Alston Bay
If they weren’t just five nights outta Rupert…”

Not her best musical composition, but good for a giggle.

Fog awaits us in the main channel. "Hope you like mashed potatoes!"

More salmon fishing, this time in Laredo Inlet, surrounded by Princess Royal Island where the white spirit bears live, which are a genetic variant of black bears.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Jim said. “And meanwhile, I put on a new hootchie, the one with flashing lights on it!”

“I believe we may have reached fishing hootchie-kootchiedom.”

“And,” he said, “I’ve smeared some lunker lotion on it!”

Lunker lotion. Gotta love it. “Maybe we should smear some on you, too, Sweetie?”

“Then you couldn’t resist me.”

“As if I already can. But you wanted me to flop onto a halibut, so maybe some extra lunker lotion might change our luck.”

Two hours of trolling later: No luck. “Okay, I said, “this is serious. I’m going for the nuclear option.”

“Which is…?”

“I’m getting the hamburger out to defrost.”

We were anchored in Alston Inlet off Laredo Inlet. Jim went out in the dinghy to troll for salmon, which were jumping out of the water as if to say, Neener neener.

Meanwhile, the hamburger’s defrosting. Tick tock…

As Jim was out fishing, the crew of the sailboat White Raven II dinghied over to visit Raven (great name confluence, eh?) when suddenly the radio crackled into life. “I got a 27 inch salmon!” said Jim, and we all cheered. And when he returned, the poor dinghy looked like the Battle of Thermopylae had been fought in it; there was hand-to-fin combat blood and slime everywhere, including all over Jim’s best Carhartts.  And seldom have I seen a man so blissed out. “That was amazing,” he said.

Jim's lunker lotion special, a nice Coho.
Yep. Lunker lotion. The gift that keeps on giving. We got our Coho mojo on and we’ll never get the blood out of his Carhartts, but he actually likes it that way. I put the hamburger back in the freezer. We hit the salmon motherlode, and had dinner aboard Doug and Bonnie’s White Raven II (salmon, of course) and played music into the evening with them. In fact, the scene was repeated next day at Alston Inlet six miles away, with more music, and on the way out next day, another salmon! We are stylin'!

Playing music aboard White Raven II with Bonnie and Doug.

Coho fillet. Jim puts food on his family.

A salmon is a beautiful fish.

Narrow rock-strewn passages, large channels between islands and swirling fog characterized the next part of the voyage, which we enjoyed, and we arrived in Shearwater, across the harbor from Bella Bella, yesterday (August 7.)

Underway in Mathieson Channel, early morning.

Annnnd, here comes the fog!
Because the water supply to boats is shut off (probably because it’s been hot and dry here and they need to conserve) we had to dinghy back and forth with jerrycans; the marina will allow 20 gallons at a time, but that almost filled our tanks. We had to dinghy ashore because the very nice modern marina is full of giant fiberglass castles that say they’ll only use the water for drinking, and then they wash their boats with it, which doesn't set well with the harbormaster. Many of the small boats have to tie to a rickety log breakwater with barges on the other side of the dock.

Believe it or not, we prefer this location to being crammed in the marina--nice breeze and lots to see, also privacy. But do watch your step.

 Besides preferring it out here because it’s quieter, we also have a raven visiting Raven!

Our neighbor, talking atop the barge next door. We thought it said, "Nevermore!"

 From here we’ll continue the wilderness wanderings. Which brings us to:

Unspoken Law of the Sea #12: When you come out of the wilderness and the big news story is about some zoo being accused of painting a donkey and passing it off as a zebra, it’s time to head back in.



Saturday, July 14, 2018

Wonder-Mongering in the Wild

Raven next to an iceberg. No, we didn't reach the Antarctic, it's a half-acre-sized Alaskan iceberg in Endicott Arm.

We are in Craig, a settlement of 1200 people on western Prince of Wales Island, in the southwest corner of Southeast Alaska about 60 miles north of Dixon Entrance. We’ve been threading our way among and between large and small islands and there was a short, mercifully calm passage in the Gulf of Alaska.

Craig, the largest settlement on Prince of Wales Island.
It’s been awhile since our last post because we have been in the boonies since leaving Juneau. Jim, who has been going barefoot for most of this trip, kept checking his cellphone for a signal, but nada. Do you think, he said, if I put shoes on we might get service?

There are so many picturesque neighborhoods and nifty historic structures in Juneau. You just have to walk uphill (or be driven on a tour, thanks Deb!) The tourist district is cool, but so are the areas away from it.

Juneau is also a paradise for hikers. This trail is built right on top of a large flume, and you can hear the water rushing under your feet. It also drips out the sides.


 This is an outlet of the flume, way up a mountain. Other hikes in the area would appeal to both novices and experienced hikers. It is also a fact in Gastineau Channel that when two cruise ships pass by, their wakes will bounce you around for the next twenty minutes. Time to get away from cruise ship traffic.

We have traveled nearly 350 miles since Juneau, most of it in the kind of wilderness where human beings are reminded and humbled that we’re just another part of a magnificent and often achingly gorgeous planetary ecosystem.


 We have been to the ice. We have seen glaciers, and blue icebergs bobbing like a spill of rough-edged Canada Mints. We have seen icebergs shaped like giant moths, icebergs as big as houses, no, bigger than houses, and we have seen killer whales and humpback whales. We have seen black bears, brown bears, get-outta-town bears, a wooly mammoth… okay, not a wooly mammoth.


Don’t you think this iceberg looks like either a giant moth or, perhaps, the Starship Enterprise after it grew Barbaloot antennae?

But we digress… there we were on the Juneau waterfront, innocently taking a selfie when THIS happened! Can you believe it?


 I mean, REALLY, the nerve of that whale, photobombing us like that.

Several friends have admonished us: We wanna see more wildlife pictures!
Butbutbut, we said, we’re just using iPhones and a point ‘n shoot camera, it’s…
We don’t care, they said, get out there and get those photos!
Okay then. I texted the photo below to a friend, and wrote: You wanted to see a whale close-up?


 She texted back: WOW! AWESOME! Was that a humpback whale? Love it! Thank you!

Wordlessly, I texted her this:


Her: Stinker!

Me: Couldn’t wait ‘til April 1.

Also, if I’d been that close to a breaching whale with an iPhone trying to get a shot like that, it woulda been the last photo I ever took, because, as you can see from relative species sizes in this photo, there wouldn’t have been much left of me to write home about when that whale came back down.


We left Juneau on June 29, but because a southerly wind raised a chop, we pulled in 20 miles south to anchor at Taku Harbor, then continued the next day to Tracy Arm, which has not one but two big glaciers at its head, about 25 miles from its ice-choked entrance. And there’s another huge arm, Endicott, to explore after Tracy.


Picture a large Victorian 3-storey house and you’ll get an idea of the size of this chillpuppy in Endicott Arm.

June 30 was a majorly big day, because we got up at oh-dark-thirty so we could get to Tracy Arm, then went the full length of it up and back, and finally anchored late that evening in a pocket cove near the fiord’s mouth, hoping no bergs would drift in.

  
You’d think icebergs might have enough sense to not clog the narrow entrance, but noooo. When we crossed this bar the next day to go up Endicott Arm, icebergs had left the red nun alone but swept away the green can. Given the fresh paint on both aids to navigation, we don’t think this is a rare occurrence. Luckily, there’s a range on an island that you can line up to stay in the channel.

Jim: So if you get off the range, are you deranged?
Me: You would go aground and have to get a tow a-ranged.
Jim: Costs could range quite high.
Me: And blaming an iceberg would be st-range.

The following day we tried to get up Endicott Arm to a nice little side-fiord called Ford’s Terror (because of terror-inducing tidal rapids at the entrance, which you avoid by going in at slack tide), but pack ice so thickly littered Endicott Arm that we decided that it wasn’t worth the worry of threading through it hoping a chunk of ice wouldn’t hit (and damage) our prop. Instead, we stopped the boat, turned off the engine, and drifted among the icebergs, which made little Snap! Crackle! Pop! sounds. Jim kayaked while I stayed aboard Raven to keep her clear of drifting ice (and to nurse my cold.)

 So here are some photos from those wonderful two days in Tracy and Endicott Arms:


Doesn’t this iceberg look like if Dale Chihuly decided to sculpt a sea slug in glass? The varied blue colors in icebergs and glaciers surprises people. It turns out that when you compress all the air out of ice over time, say ten millennia, the way it refracts and reflects light changes, and you get this blue-green color because all the long-wavelength light (meaning, red) is absorbed rather than reflected. Unfortunately, the ice we made drinks from wasn’t blue, but we enjoyed its ten thousand year-old, what would you call it, paleo-seasoning?


We liked the wave-forms in this berg, which was about the length of a bus.


We had to come over to investigate this cataract rushing off the mountainside, and it was worth it. It rained on and off that day, which only added to the beauty because of how the light played with low clouds while the rain fueled dozens of waterfalls.


Close-up of waterfall. It was mesmerizing to watch because it continually changed shape around the edges.


More water at play, like a feather boa. Seriously, how does a cloud do that?


Look at the glacier way, way up the mountain, and the U-shaped opening it carved when it once filled the whole valley. A lot of these photos show the incredible (and alarming) rate of retreat of these glaciers, too many of which may be gone within our lifetimes.


Now this was intriguing; a couple of near-90-degree turns in Tracy Arm—why? What would cause a glacier to have to do that? We don’t know, but this was the path it followed, and now we’re following in its watery wake. The color of the water was an opaque turquoise, evoking along with the surrounding forests and mountains, the sense that had the movie “Avatar” been about glacial rather than tropical habitat, it might have been filmed here.


The rumbling South Sawyer glacier is extremely active and calves at the head of Tracy Arm—it’s the source for all the big icebergs in that Arm. It was so choked with ice that we couldn’t get much nearer than this. Many of the small bergy bits had seals with pups resting on them, so it was just as well to not disturb them. Mamas would watch us and put a protective flipper over their pups to reassure them, just like human mothers do, except without the flipper.


We had read that you can get quite close to North Sawyer glacier, and we did. Along the way, waterfalls like this one squirted out of mountainsides. The volume of fresh water coming out of Tracy Arm is tremendous. 


This is probably the most disturbing photo. If you look at the screen, the red triangle is where Raven was—more than half a mile “inland” since this chart was made. And we were still a half-mile from the glacier! The chart says, “Sawyer Glacier – Unsurveyed.” Meaning nobody’s been out here to measure the depths and correct the chart in such a brief time; the retreat has been this dramatic.


We liked the symmetry of this view of Raven as she bobbed in front of North Sawyer glacier. Gotta hand it to shipwright Leif Knutsen, he designed and built one terrific boat.


Heading back down Tracy Arm, we were less than two or three boat lengths from the sheer rock walls bordering the fiord, and it was a thousand to twelve hundred feet deep!


Orcas! Two of them swam behind this iceberg. This dorsal fin belongs to a big male.

And then! We didn’t get a photo of this because it would have looked like a small dark blob, and besides, we couldn’t tear ourselves away from the sight of it long enough to grab a camera, but I noticed something moving—it looked like another “stump” swimming across the ¾-mile wide fiord. What’s that, I said, thinking, oh, it’s probably just a very dark small moose, and raised my binoculars. OHMYGOD, IT’S A BEAR SWIMMING!

A very large brown bear was paddling along in the frigid water, semi-vertical like a person treading water, shoulder hump held surprisingly high, neck and head well out of the water, round ears alert, eyes constantly looking around, and an expression on its face, I swear I am not making this up, exactly the opposite of a large fierce carnivore and precisely like one of those cute Teddy Bears kids put on their beds. It was doing the best imitation of a smile that a bear could possibly do; we have rarely seen an animal looking so pleased with itself. Its nose was also going a mile a minute, trying to sniff out the Irish stew and cornbread we had cooking on the stove, and while it was tempting to motor closer for a better look, we didn’t, because even a big get-outta-town grizzly bear who’s trying to cross ¾ miles of icy water probably has its paws full, logistically speaking, so best not to bother it. Plus, claw marks on the hull would not be fun, and it was clear from the interest it was showing in Raven that the bear might have approached us for a hearty helping of stew, and then maybe a second one, and after that it probably would have eaten the dish and spoon, too, and demanded all the Oreos on board. And then it might have demanded our stash of Miss Vickie’s potato chips, which would be a bridge too far.

Me: Aww, it looks almost huggable!
Jim: Tell me you didn’t just say that.
Me: Man, this place is like a glacial Jurassic Park!


Icebergs make great perches for eagles and other birds.

Jim: I don’t know about you, but when I see an iceberg, I look for it on the chart. Do you do that?
Me: Um, no.
Jim: Well, I’m going to write to Navionics after this and complain about the icebergs not being on the chart.
Me: Riiiiight.
Jim: Especially when they’re so close to navigation aids, right?


Day two, our attempt to get up Endicott Arm. The way the sun played on these icebergs, and shone through them to make the blue luminous, was astoundingly beautiful.


See what we mean?


OOOH! A fish-shaped iceberglet!


It’s hard to take a bad photo in a place like this.


Whaaaat? An Epsilon-shaped iceberg? We got fraternities up here?


We went up on the roof for a better view.


Okay, Sweetie, don’t get too close to these bad boys.


Sweetie, you’re a little close to that iceberg…


I swear to god, Raven is not as close to this iceberg as it looks. Okay?


Fun with perspective. Raven was well away from this frozen tsunami, but Jim found the money shot.


Sumdum glacier no longer reaches the water.


Our little pocket cove at the mouth of Tracy Arm.


Tune in to BearTV each night at seven for crunch ‘n munch drama on the shoreline!

So that’s the Tracy-Endicott Arm adventure. The warm sunny weather was bringing out the bugs, and I made a mosquito net for the forward hatch that uses some spare lead line we had lying around to weigh it down instead of having to screw snaps into the wood. (If it gets windy the bugs disappear anyway.) It’s heavy so it’s wind-proof, has the lead line covered with blue fabric so it won’t mar the surface of the wood, and it can be rigged/de-rigged in a hurry.


In the middle of Stephens Passage on our way to Cannery Cove at the southern end of Admiralty Island, we were startled by a whale surfacing about 50 feet off our starboard bow, so we slowed way down. Then two whales, a large one and a small one, so we stopped, and they surfaced ahead of us and swam a circle all around Raven, about 30 feet away. Ahhh…


Cannery Cove in Pybus Bay is very scenic.


We were anchored with a 38-foot pilothouse sloop named Northern Light, and invited its owner, Danny, and his sweet little Chihuahua, Bella, over for dinner.

Leaving Cannery Cove we crossed Frederick Sound again, this time in flat calm. Blog posts sometimes get written on the run.


Anchored in Cedar Cove, Security Bay we could see that it was going to get rolly by evening, so we moved to anchor behind Cleft Island, and oh my, was that ever animal heaven or what. Ravens yelled OOOOH! WAH! like an arachnophobic grandma being startled by a large spider, songbirds warbled like an orchestral flute section, sea otters floated on the surface with fat round babies sleeping on their stomachs, eagles flew overhead, a black bear turned over rocks on the beach, salmon jumped, a whale blew outside the harbor, and if you could visualize a quintessential late evening near-biblical “cornucopia of animals in harmony” sunset scene, this was it—except for the two young seals that had a big fight right off our stern. Punks.

So imagine our surprise the next morning while rounding Kingsmill Point on the northeast corner of Kuiu Island heading south in Chatham Strait, when not one, not five, but ELEVEN OR TWELVE HUMPBACK WHALES surfaced all at once! Here’s a photo to give you an idea of what it looks like when a bunch of them do that and fog the air with their exhalations:


And when we looked at our depth sounder, we saw this. Whale-shaped schools of fish, or whales, what do you think?


Wow, right? So there was a swirling current at this point, which whales love because it concentrates their food supply, and they were taking big gulps, coming up with mouths open and snapping them shut. Sometimes there are just no words... 

A cruising couple we met said, You MUST go see Tebenkof Bay, there are so many places to anchor and it’s off the beaten path! So we did, found a wonderful spot and set Raven up in “lounge mode” that included the sailing dinghy ready for dashing sorties across the bay.

Raven in lounge mode.
Karen sailed it and the wind died after Jim tried it and had to row back, so he went fishing.


Here he is returning with the dinghy in fishing mode, but you can see from his expression that he got skunked again, dang it.


As consolation he rowed to the nearby island and hiked its old-growth mossy mini-forest. Surprises like this tree, which had grown from a stump of an ancestor tree that has since rotted away, along with thick soft moss everywhere, made up for catching no fish. Well, not really, but it was nice.


After a couple of calm sunny days in the far back reaches of Tebenkof Bay, where horseflies should really be called clydesdale flies (plus they need an air traffic controller,) we decided to steam toward the bay’s entrance to see if we could find a cell signal or a VHF signal out in the strait, for a weather report. The idea was to get the forecast, steam back to another anchorage in the bay, and wait for a calm weather window for our passage in the Gulf of Alaska (or should I say GULP! of Alaska) in order to round Cape Decision on the south tip of Kuiu Island.

Yep, this was the Gulf of Alaska. Coronation Island in the distance.
But it was flat calm out there and the weather forecast was benign, so we decided to just keep going and sneak around the GULP! before it woke up. And it wasn’t the only thing sleeping. A couple hours into the passage, Jim said What’s that up ahead… hey, is that a whale? I don’t see a spout.

It was indeed a whale, just beneath the surface and sound asleep, right in front of us. What gave it away was the whale-sized circle of smooth water surrounded by small ripples. We slowed and swerved to go around it (this being an advantage of a boat doing only 5 or 6 knots) and it woke up. Yeeks! It swam toward us and dived under the boat. Wow! Another couple of whales were feeding just off Cape Decision, same wide open mouths snapping shut and causing us to wear out the word WOW.

We steamed up Affleck Channel to anchor in the remote and aptly named Bear Harbor, which had, we kid you not, a bear on every beach. It was like Disney’s Kountry Bear Jamboree in there. Bears effortlessly overturning hundred-pound rocks looking for stuff to eat. Bears lumbering around like inebriates leaving their favorite pubs. Bears sniffing, bears scratching, bears slurping, chomping and staring at each other. We even watched a bear answer the question, “Does a bear s*** in the woods?” Actually it was on a beach, and as we watched it from the dinghy and kayak, it gave us one of those whatchu lookin’ at? stares. There were so many bears, in fact, (all of them black bears; the two species have claimed separate islands in Southeast Alaska) that Jim would occasionally go, Hm, I haven’t seen a bear in an hour, what’s going on?


Thus, dear reader, you might expect, as one would if one used the logic lobe of one’s brain, that if one kayaked ashore in BEAR Harbor, one perhaps *might* encounter a bear, no?

Jim: (Points to the island next to where we were anchored) I’m going to kayak to this island over here and do a little hiking.
Me: (Points to a neighboring island) There was a bear on the beach over there an hour ago, and the sand bar between the islands is exposed because it’s low tide.
Jim: It’ll be okay.

Whenever Jim says, “It’ll be okay,” I have learned that a DefCon4 alert is not far in my future. (See blog post on fishing for halibut while dragging anchor.) He kayaked ashore, left the kayak on the island’s south end, and went for a walk. Ten minutes pass. I’m on deck, working on the aforementioned mosquito/clydesdale fly net.

Jim: KAREN! KAREN! HEY!
He’s standing on the island’s north end. Gee, I’m thinking, he got there fast.
Me: HI, SWEETIE, ARE YOU HAVING FUN?
Jim: (points to the island’s south end) THERE’S A BEAR DOWN THERE AND HE’S HEADED FOR THE KAYAK!
Me: THE BEAR WILL DESTROY THE KAYAK IF HE FINDS IT.
(first unspoken implication: you’re on the menu, too, if you can’t get off that island.)
(second unspoken implication: JUST WHAT WERE YOU EXPECTING, MACHO MAN, A PETTING ZOO?)
JIM: COME GET ME!

Like Wonder Woman I jumped into the dinghy, gave a heroic pull on the outboard’s starter cord, and was astonished to hear it start, given the fact that this is a Jim-centric machine. I picked him up and we motored around to the south end of the island, making ungodly noises to scare off the bear. (This tactic would, of course, not have worked on a brown bear; for one of those we would have waved cheerio and wished it fine dining on its neoprene meal.) Our noises worked and the bear was not around, so Jim fetched the kayak and I got my husband back, not to mention some comedic material. But jeez, ya know?

Which brings us to…

Unspoken Law of the Sea #9:
When surrounded by bears, one should assume they are mobile.

And, off-topic but still valid when at anchor in a quiet place:

Unspoken Law of the Sea #10:  When you spend a lot, and we mean a lot of time in the wilderness and you find yourself hearing nothing but quiet natural sounds on America’s Independence Day, and someone who shall go nameless but is barefoot a lot farts very, very loudly, you are allowed to exclaim, “HAPPY FOURTH!”


Now, if you have read an earlier blog post on how the lack of a fishing net caused dinner to slip away, literally through Jim’s fingers, you would have had an inkling of my reaction when in Bear Harbor I asked, Where’s the fishing net? and Jim said that the, uh, brand new, very expensive thing had, er, accidentally gone overboard when he’d, ah, um, forgotten that it was atop the back cabin as he pulled the back cover down in a rainstorm. He never heard the plop and I said not a word, but telepathy is real, bebehs. We managed to scoop up a lingcod in a bucket, but it was too small to keep. However, we did score a rockfish using the bucket. We will get a new net.


Three days of watching BearTV and we were ready to cross Sumner Strait to Prince of Wales Island. Although we wanted to go see a place called Hole in the Wall, the weather forecast was not good and we didn’t want to get stuck there for several days, so we headed for the narrow shortcut called El Capitan Passage.

DUDES! We got 1776 miles on this trip odometer at Hamilton Island! How cool is that!

Near its entrance we set the anchor carefully in a small cove to wait out the coming weather front. All was well until the next morning when, after a 180 degree wind shift, our anchor (a brand-new Spade) got fouled in a massive double wad of kelp and the boat slowly started dragging, which, in a small cove is not good. Happily, I had a cup of coffee going and was lucid, and we said, well, let’s just go find a better anchorage, this weather’s not getting any better. Poor Jim had to clear the biggest mess of organic material off our anchor and chain since the time we anchored in a tree in Barkley Sound almost ten years ago. This Spade anchor, by the way, has otherwise been superb, and it scored very high in the now-famous series of underwater video tests on a variety of anchors conducted by Port Townsend’s own Steve Goodwin out in the bay. Goodwin now uses a Spade on his own boat, and probably no anchor of any type could have held in that tangled kelp on a wind shift turnover.

Coming from the north you leave reds to port and greens to starboard--good to know beforehand.

Back to El Capitan Passage. While not as fearsome as the sphincter-puckering Devil’s Elbow in Keku Strait just north of here, the area around what’s called Dry Pass is rock-wacky enough to command your full attention, especially in rain and wind. Besides, who wouldn’t wonder about the sanity of piloting a floating object through something called “Dry”? We found a great spot to anchor with no kelp and lots of sticky mud, and enjoyed the rainy day.


Next morning we motored a couple miles over to the Forest Service’s pier, anchored near it and rowed ashore to explore El Capitan Cave, the largest cave in Alaska. Read this to get a sense of what's in there--talk about Ice Age relics! For some reason, both of us had missed the little detail in the cruising guide that says there are 340 large wooden steps going most of the way up the side of a mountain, and there was no sign by the Forest Service advising us of that, so up we went, oblivious.


Puffing like a couple of antique steam engines, we reached the top. Hikes have not been frequent on this trip due to dense forest (and bears, duh,) and our legs were out of shape. Boy what a view, and wow what a cave.


We clambered over some fallen rocks, turned on our flashlights, and went spelunking. Just like that, nobody around, and there are no lights or railings or other “improvements,” it’s in its original condition, though the fossil bones (some over 11,000 years old and including a giant bear 12,295 years old) and artifacts have been removed for safekeeping. Not to over-state the obvious, but caves are dark, and it’s fun to turn off your lights and try to see your hand in front of your face. There's even a species of shrimp that lives in complete darkness its whole life, in that cave.


It also explains why bats evolved with echolocation. Though we didn’t see any bats, we did see the perfect spot for a hearth fire with its own natural chimney (this cave was occupied by humans about 3,200 years ago, and their torches left carbon deposits on the ceilings.) Pretty cool to try and imagine where people might have cooked, slept, told stories, etc to get out of the winter weather. A couple hundred feet in we came to a gate blocking off the presumably more dangerous sections of the cave, including a passage called “The Colon Crawl.”


We continued down El Capitan Passage in more wind and rain, and found good shelter in a tiny unnamed cove on the northwest part of Tuxekan Island (avoid the unsurveyed ledge to port if you go in there.)


A small humpback whale was feeding in the outer cove. Next morning we said, let’s just go a short distance and fish the whole way. Once underway, we saw the small whale, who was joined by two others. As we trolled near a small island, one of the whales swam toward us and rolled up on its side. Then, as we trolled away from it at about 2 ½ knots, it caught up and swam alongside us the entire length of the island! Ten minutes later as we approached Turn Point, there was a lot of splashing up against the rocks. We didn’t see any waves. A WHALE! ANOTHER ONE, RIGHT UP AGAINST THE ROCKS! Less than two boat lengths from us, it rolled and then opened its mouth and we could see the baleen. Wow! We turned Raven away to give it more room, and it followed us!

Now you might be thinking, hey, how ‘bout some photos? Huh? Huh? But when you are multitasking, steering the boat while trolling near seaweedy rocks with a whale nearby and trying to avoid both, with the whale surfacings impossible to predict and lasting only a second or two, we have concluded that we would need a staff photographer to properly capture the scene. This is what you get:


So to assuage your disappointment, here’s some more eco-porn (and so that you know, there was yet another whale just beyond those islets in this photo.)


We put our fishing gear away, being so near these whales, and steamed at 4.2 knots, with this whale swimming alongside us (between 50-100 feet away) for almost a mile! Later on, when it wasn’t around, we fished again, but something snagged our downrigger gear and we lost the weight and cable. (It wasn't a whale.) Another thing to replace in Craig. We will get the hang of this fishing thing one of these decades. 

When we got to Nossuk Bay in afternoon wind and rain to find a sheltered place to anchor in one of its nooks, another whale was swimming back and forth in the bay! I log whale sightings, and conservatively estimate that since Ketchikan we have had between 76 and 80 whale sightings, not counting ones way, way off in the distance.



 So, I write this on a lay day in Craig, where JobOne was to GET A FREAKIN' HOT SHOWER. Done. Things like laundry, finding internet to post this blog, provisioning, replacing fishing gear, talking to fishermen to see if they have advice (they do), and FINDING A PUB are on the agenda. Then it's off to the southern part of Prince of Wales Island, to fish, play, wait for a good forecast, and get around Cape Chacon, which sticks out into Dixon Entrance, eventually crossing back over to the "mainland," where we will turn once again toward Prince Rupert, that great little Canadian city. All that will take a couple of weeks. 

Which brings us to:

Unspoken Law of the Sea #11: If you have a boat, get out there and enjoy it. If you don't have a boat, get one.