Landlocked Hearts and a New Start

PRESENT DAY

 40°14'1.82" N -111°39'30.71" W

"It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end."

--Ernest Hemingway

A good story should have an ending. Shouldn’t it?

Perhaps not. This one might though.

Your skipper is sitting here in Utah, my heart and soul landlocked. I am in no danger of an anchor coming loose, springing a leak in the bilge or a whale breaching too close—more’s the pity. Much has happened since we last added to these annals. Another year of adventures in 2019, including Glacier Bay and scary-close bear encounters. There’s a new member to the crew, Kaleb, one too small to visit the Star.

And the Star is to be sold.

As I write, she's landlocked too, onshore in a Seattle dry dock getting repairs. Her railings are polished to a beautiful teak shine and she’s yare inside and out. She’s still ours. In my mind and heart she always will be ours because the places and the people and the perfection we witnessed with her are ours forever.

Which is why I am beginning a bit of a…a bonus log. I began in 2019 by finishing 2018, but after that…this Skipper fell off the map. Perhaps it’s for the best though. Turns out, 2019 was to be our last year sailing the Northern Star, and because the log was never written we get to live it again.  There is a lost year of experiences that need shared, recorded, remembered. And the Star needs a proper send-off.

Let’s have a rousing good time friends. Lift the sails, trim the lines, push away from the dock and feel that breeze in your face again. At eight knots if we’re lucky. We said we’d see the world. We never said we’d see it fast.

When we’re finished looking back, I’ll admit that these exiles are already looking to our next adventure. Some of the crew has been years now trapped away from the sea, but we’re plotting an escape if we can. We want to go home to where the sunlight never ends and neither does the horizon, even if we’ll miss the Star when we go.

She’s not gone yet, but time is running out. So while the Star’s still ours let's add a few more adventures to the log. For her.

Skipper Krystal

WEDNESDAY,JULY 17, 2019

47.4502° N, 122.3088° W, 58.0989° N, 135.4134° W

It’s a little disturbing, riding shotgun to a float-plane pilot. There’s a control wheel, like a double joystick, sitting right between my knees, turning gently in tandem with the pilot’s wheel. Dozens of switches, buttons, dials, altimeters and big blinky lights are within easy arms reach.  Knowing I can’t touch all of them makes me irrationally want to touch all of them right now. Especially the big red switch by the pilot’s torn-jean knee. 

Since I’m not one to go co-pilot-postal, grab the controls and find out what Alaska looks like upside down, I look out the window. 

The view outside is even more mesmerizing than the cockpit is. Bright clouds hug green mountains like fuzzy sweaters. God made a jigsaw out of the coast, lining the spiky islands prettily in brown beaches and white surf. 

We approach Chicagof Island, soaring in from the northeast. The tiny runway of Hoonah Airport appears up ahead, cut fiercely out of the forest that never gives up its fight. Beyond it is a sliver of silver sea, and beyond that, mountains loom over Port Frederick, stray tufts of cloud hanging motionless around their faces. The plane dives so low, it feels as if the landing gear will clip a few of the pines on its way in but I know we won’t. We flit over a stream reflecting black trees and grey-blue sky before coasting over a green meadow dotted with scrub, the asphalt runway coming up from nowhere to slip under the seaplane’s wheels--a land landing this time. 

I’m bear-tired but so happy. And feeling a little strange. I’ve never flown into Hoonah alone. I’m already missing Boatswain Jack and Crewmember Alyssa who will not be coming this year. Jack is sick, the kind of lasting sick that Alyssa can’t leave him. 

In the distance, the tiny airport with its open, chain-link gates draws nearer. I can just make out our white, Jurassic-Park-esque jeep waiting in the parking lot, Captain Gary and First Mate Kris waiting in it. 

As the plane taxis down the runway, passing a glassy pond along the way, no one in the plane said a word. For them, this is another day at their beautiful office or perhaps coming home from a routine trip to the dentist in Juneau. 

Me? I’m smiling. 

I’m home. 

Skipper Krystal 

Bear Tracks, Star Crabs, and Mountains to Climb

"And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul."

--Unknown

Coordinates: 57.988, -135.834

Believe it or not, there is a place where maps and GPS just don’t flippin’ matter. Put-putting around in our dinghy, the sun was hot on our backs and sparkling on the water, the wicked bugs were biting, and we were facing our greatest Alaska adventure yet: crossing on foot the narrow strip of bear-infested land between Frederick Sound and Tenakee Inlet. 

The only problem was, we were already lost. 

You see, most places down here in the States have nice trail markers, perhaps a bit of red tape at the least. Quite literally, when some adventurer attempts to cross the isthmus between the Sound and the Inlet, you just look at a map, see where the land gets really skinny, and try your best to find the closest water to your goal.

It was highly confusing, to say the least, motoring past goliath pines and forbidding banks

while being unsure where to go. The giant Frederick Sound had become a twisting ocean passage like a long, skinny lake with three exits. We had to pick the right exit before we could start our crossing and find the right river to follow, or risk getting mired in a bog or lost entirely.

Despite the fact we were (somewhat) lost already, the end of Frederick Sound, this little tucked-away waterway was simply breathtaking. The water was nearly clear, and scarcely fifteen feet deep. On the brown and

mossy ocean floor, sculpin darted from shadow to shadow, their bony bodies and fanlike fins kicking up mud as they fled the passing dinghy. Dungeness crabs crept along in their many-legged dance, taking an occasional snap at a passing trout with one ruddy claw. Baby salmon clung to the ocean floor in little schools, darting this way and that as they dodged hungry mouths. 

After much (MUCH) debate, we decided on the right exit, and heading up the ever-narrowing passage, tensely racing the tide. Going in at full tide was important since it brought us closer to our goal, but there was a catch. We had a little over three hours to cross the isthmus, reach the other side and turn back. If we didn’t return in time, our dinghy would be beached and we would be stranded like portable grizzly snacks for another six or eight hours, well after dark. 

It was hard to think about that though. The ocean lake was fantastic, the twisty passage towards the river was like something out of Faerieland. The water here was scarcely eight feet deep, and clearer than ever. The bottom of the passage was absolutely crawling with baby crabs, and it was like watching a living rainbow move before your eyes. There were glittering blue crabs spotted with white, red crabs with pink pincers,  purple crabs with skinny legs like spiders, and none of them were bigger than a silver dollar. Above the baby crabs, baby fish darted and swam and generally panicked as the dinghy passed over them. Spotted trout as long as your pinky wiggled past baby sculpin with heads like hammers. 

By the time we had picked a place to leave the dinghy, tied it off and packed all our gear packed on our backs, some of us were already wet and a little sweaty. We headed off with a will into the forest, breathing a sigh of relief when we came upon the tidal river on the map about ten minutes later. It meant we had picked the right exit (hoorah for family debates!) and so we were one step closer to achieving our goal. 

The goal was to follow the river into the woods as far as we could, continue west, and then hopefully come upon a ‘trail’ that the Forest Service had put in some decades ago. The bank we followed was scattered with mossy boulders and jagged stones, scree that slid beneath your boots and threatened to dump you into the water. The river itself was shallow but wide, scattered with frantic fish and fallen logs. Soon the river we followed became shallower and opened it giant meadows of green, green grass. The grass was thin and high, reaching the Captain’s chest in places, and often hid dips in the ground or even giant puddles (one of which, I found myself with a yelp and a minor splash). 

It was eerie when we found grizzly beds dotting the mountain meadow, huge flattened circles of grass where grizzlies had bedded down the night before. 

“Hey!” Jack yelled, pointing at the ground. A grizzly track was pressed into the dark mud at the river’s edge, and the track looked fresh. 

We kept the bear spray in hand after that. 

Crossing the meadow took nearly an hour and when we reached its end, we were confronted with another decision. We could see two places the river dumped into the meadow, but which one should we take to reach the Inlet?

We decided to take the left river. We decided wrong and paid for it. For about ten minutes, we climbed through some of the thickest underbrush, mossy logs and fallen trees we’d seen yet. Of course, it was beautiful, with giant mushrooms hugging the pines and airy moss hanging from all the branches. Luckily, the mistake didn’t cost us too much, and we ended up in another, narrower meadow with a sparkling, silver stream.

Feeling emboldened by our Lewis-and-Clark-style blunder, I decided to lead out as we waded through sunny wildflowers and past shadowy woods so dark you couldn’t see further

than twenty feet in at a time. As we waded through the grass and white button-flowers, we cast wary glances at the shadows that would occasionally move, listening carefully to the calls of the ravens in the woods (if ravens are making a racket, and it’s coming steadily closer to you, it means a bear is approaching). It made all of us supremely nervous to note that we were obviously following a bear trail all the way through the long meadow.

Perhaps it was because the secluded glade and its shadowy secrets held us spellbound that I ended up so thoroughly soaked. One moment, I was galoshing through the brush, leaping over a fallen log and feeling intrepid and bold. The next, I was hip-deep in a sink hole, gasping and hollering. 

Dad laughed until he was red as he hauled me up out of the hole. Sticky black mud coated my jeans and boots clear up to my hip, and water filled my boot so that every step squished. 

“Found it for us, did ya?” 

“There is a hole there, everybody!” I yelled, quite unnecessarily. 

Turns out that was just the beginning of our worries. Soon we reached the end of the glade, and the end of the river. We had been tramping two hours, and our imaginary clock of the tide was beginning to run out. We faced an important decision, standing at the edge of the tangled woods: strike on, and risk missing the tide? Or turn back?

Maybe I don’t need to tell you what we decided. We plunged into the woods, which sloped upwards towards an unseen crest, and soon were happy we hadn’t turned back. We discovered rough steps cut out of the sod and bolstered with sunken wood, the old, Forest Service contribution that showed us we were nearing our quest’s goal.

I have attempted to describe what it looked like, but it is impossible to describe what this felt like. The path was overgrown with giant ferns, twisting and surprising. We passed fallen trees as wide as Buicks with stones clenched in their roots, clusters of mushrooms and yellow wildflowers bursting into life in sudden patches of brilliant sunlight. We were so far from civilization that it felt like such a thing didn’t exist. Here the spirit of nature itself, of the mountains and the water and the trees that lived centuries and breathed and died without ever feeling the touch of a human hand or influence--it was an experience for the soul more than the eyes. 

Captain Gary saw the Inlet first. At the top of the rise, there was a glimpse of blue through the trees as the mountain fell away towards the beach. Tired and footsore and wet (some of us, at least) we hastened down the trail with tired grins, bursting through the ferns and onto the beach. 

It was glorious. It was breathtaking. And we only had about fifteen minutes to enjoy it. Tenakee Inlet, which it would have taken us days and days to reach in a sailboat, we had managed to see in scarcely hours. Far to the south, you could see where the blue, blue Inlet emerged into open ocean. Snow-skiffed mountains and pine-covered slopes across the massive Inlet’s reach shone in the sun, and juvenile crabs played in the warmer water at the ocean’s edge.

It was a moment where time seemed to lengthen out just for us, stretching in the sunlight and the clear, crystal air so we could enjoy what we’d come so far to see. We munched on a few apples and some trail mix (all we’d dare bring into woods with such toothy critters sniffing about) and sadly watched as the tide retreated before our eyes.

It was time to leave, lest the tide leave us stuck after dark in one of the most remote places in Southeast Alaska. Somehow the trip back seemed shorter. We studiously avoided the mud hole I’d found on the way there. As the sunlight slanted through the trees and crested the grass, we went back the easy way, following the stream instead of lurching through the underbrush. Once we thought we saw a bear move deep in the darkness of the woods. Again we found tracks at the edge of the grassy meadow, and as we followed the river back we began to get truly worried.

Where before the river had been strong and deep, now it was shall and thin, barely covering the gravel. The tide had already gone from here--had it abandoned our dinghy and us?

Captain Jack and Gary decided to hurry on ahead when we reached the end of the river, hoping to catch the dinghy before the tide had fallen. The girls waited behind, glad for the chance to sit down even if we ended up sitting down until dark, and listened for the sound of a motor as we watched the millions of little jewel-like crabs skittering about under the water. 

As we motored back in the dinghy, the satisfaction--and exhaustion--we felt was deep as the ocean, deep as Alaska. The Star appeared around the bend of trees, and she was truly a guiding star, a way to find our way home.

Looking back, it was one of the dearest moments in Alaska, where everything felt perfect--right down to the mud in my boots and the no-see-ums bites on our noses. As dusk fell we looked out the portholes at black, black trees cut-out against a periwinkle sky. 

The Star held us in our arms as we were rocked by the tides. There were changing tides and winds to come, but this moment with our Star would be ours forever, as much as any mortal thing can be. 

Thank you to God for giving us a Star. We're not done dreaming and wishing on her. Not just yet. In a week's time, we may even brave icebergs and Glacier Bay with her, a crown jewel of Alaska. 

But as always, that will be another story entirely.

Skipper Krystal

Looking Back, Looking Forward, and (Possibly) Poisoned Clams

"The gladdest moment in human life, methinks, is a departure into unknown lands."

Sir Richard Burton

"We sail not to escape life, but for life not to escape us."

--Unknown

Coordinates: 58.0036111°N, -135.7369444°W

The sky was a thousand shades of darkening blue, the shore dunked in a thousand green. A stiff wind kicked the bight into choppy waves, the likes of which drenched Jack in spray with every dip of the dinghy’s bow. Alyssa and I laughed under our raingear, patting him wetly on the back as Captain Gary kept his eyes glued to the ocean where it wended deeper into the land.

We were hunting the end of the water, and consciously deciding to do it at dusk. It might have been a little dumb, but it was worth it. We had an island to cross. 

Looking back now, I realize that last year’s blog was different. There was no tidy sum-up, no special farewell-till-next-year post. For some reason, writing just wasn’t possible when we were that busy cramming all the living in. I’m grateful for it now because it gives me the chance to look back before I return this year--probably for the last time--to the Northern Star. 

So we’ve decided to start the blog early, while still on dry land and as we’re preparing to set sail again. There are too many memories that will be lost if we don’t write them down before we make new ones. These sights and sounds are too precious to lose.

We have plans, my friends. No promises, but we’re fairly certain Glacier Bay is on the Captain’s log for this year. We want to sail past glaciers and icebergs (gulp) and see some sights we haven’t before. Of course, that’s why we landlubbers took to sea in the first place. God is steering us in another direction, but not quite yet. He has one final adventure in store, and we’ll be milking it for all we’re worth.

But in some ways, the days when the crew decided to cross the isthmus of an entire island on foot, my dearest dreams came true already. Sitting in that dinghy, a tiny bit of plastic and humanity in the center of a mighty, powerful ocean, I was near crying with happiness. Not a soul was in sight but us, and as the cold wind tore at my hair stuffed beneath my life jacket, and Alaska’s spirit seeped into my soul like some potion I couldn’t define, wild and free and heart-healing strong, I had a sense that something I had longed for all my life had happened at last. I could feel my family around me in a way I hadn’t been able to before. Now there was nothing else but us and wild nature and the sea, this night before we tried to climb our Everest.

We had a purpose of course, to bobbing like sitting ducks at nightfall, looking for one of our grandest adventures yet. There is a place on the Island of Chicagoff where two huge (freakin’ huge) bodies of water--Frederick Sound and Tenakee Inlet-- nearly, nearly touch being separated by a comparatively tiny strip of land. To get from the end of Frederick Sound to Tenakee Inlet in a sailboat would take long days of sailing. The intrepid spirit can choose to sail or kayak to the end of Hoonah’s inland waters to where the water ends, hike through bear-infested woods, and come out on the other side to see a different chunk of ocean in a matter of hours. It is a bucket list on any Alaska adventurer’s list, but first you have to get there. And we had some very fun adventures getting there.

So I’m going to turn back the clock a little further, before we were scouting the way to the isthmus, before we saw a million baby crabs and nearly got stranded by the tide. I’ll go back to two days before, when we were sailing away from Hoonah Harbor, determined before we went home to cross the isthmus, brave the bears, and see the other side. 

First, we had to reach eight-fathom-bight, the last place for a big boat to anchor before you reached the depths of Chicaghoff. On the way, we dropped our crab pots, only to discover we hadn’t measured the depth quite right. Yes, we anxiously hovered over the GPS, wondering if crabs and pots were lost forever in the drink due to our own, um, rope length miscalculation. Yet before too long, we glimpse a scarce two inches of the buoy above the waves, and collectively sighed in relief. 

It was late afternoon before we sailed into Eight-Fathom-Bight, and saw the Forest Service anchorage that would be home for the night. It was an utterly charming place, if a bit scary. At the top of the isolated boat dock in the middle of nowhere, there was an arch of trees and greenery that looked like it could swallow you and drop you in the middle of orc-infested Wildlands. There might not have been orcs, but there were bears, and having long ago confronted our mortality in that area, Jack, Alyssa, Dad, Mom and I  decided something was more important than guaranteed life-expectancy. 

Clams. Big ones.

We were waiting on the tide to go find our way to the end of Eight-Fathom, and hopefully, ascertain the place we would launch our expedition over the isthmus. Until then, we decided we were going to scout this beach, miles and miles away from people and civilization, for holes in the sand. We were gonna CATCH. US. SOME. CLAMS. 

Yet it was really, really difficult not to get distracted by the scenery, for obvious reasons. 

With shovel, buckets and previously unused clam rake in hand, we went through the portal of green and found our way down to a beach that looked untouched by any human boot. The water was clear as glass and teaming with little crabs and anemones. Halfway down the beach, I found an anemone eating a baby crab that was still kicking. I nudged the crab free, feeling like it was tough ropes for the anemone as the crab sidewinded into the sea, and kept looking for the holes in the sand that would signal a clam or cockle waiting to be dug up. 

Can you spot the crab?

Alyssa was best at it. She’d be sidling along, eyes on the dark sand, until she’d yell, “Here!”

We dug and dug, and fished through the sand with our fingers. Little round lumps covered in grit would spit defiantly at us, and we screamed in delight, the Second Mate Kris already looking for the next hole.

Eight-fathom-Bight was miraculously beautiful as we searched, and we often found ourselves just staring out to sea, or gazing down into the water. We dug up many smaller clams called cockles, but we had yet to find our grand prize, huge butter clams the size of salad plates. 

Captain Gary soon announced it would be too late to scout our adventure tomorrow if we didn’t turn back. So we turned back half-hardheartedly, knowing our white whale was still out there.

Halfway back, Alyssa spotted a hole bigger than all the others. With manic zeal we dug deeper, as fast as we could, not wanting the little bugger to burrow itself in where even crazy Utahns couldn’t find it. We winced when we heard a crack--the shovel had fractured the clam’s shell--but cheered when a huge butter clam the size of a small dinner plate was pulled free of the sand. We had caught our white whale.

We didn’t have time to cook the clams then, so we left them on the dock in saltwater and piled into the dinghy, a little nervous at the waves but just confident enough to risk them. As the first touch of nightfall fell, we pulled away from the Northern Star, leaving her behind to cross the bight and perhaps see where, tomorrow, we would cross an island and achieve one more dream we were lucky enough to chase.

It was glorious. It was beautiful. Yet the crossing is a story for another blog I fully intend to write, with Alyssa’s help.

Except, there’s one last thing you might want to know before I sign off for now. The story of clamming wasn’t over.

When we returned from our dinghy ride, Jack slipped into the galley, bravely sizzling the cockles in butter and garlic as the rest of us lurked nervously in the salon, steeling our nerve. We were gathering shellfish on a beach where no clear word had been given on whether or not the shellfish were poisoned by red-tide. In short, we were risking poisoning ourselves to taste clams we had caught ourselves.

Though I really don’t advise you copy such behavior, I’ll only say this. Those odd, chewy things dipped in garlic sauce were worth the risk, to me at least. 

Crossing a bear-infested isthmus and getting dunked in mud was worth the risk too, but that was a story for tomorrow. We laughed nervously as we ate the last of the cockles, nibbling them down as we peered out the portholes, eagerly waiting for dawn to come so we could see something entirely new. Tomorrow, we thought. Tomorrow.

So begins one of the untold stories that I want told when this adventure is all said and done. So if ya’ll want to climb aboard a little early, you can cross the wilderness with us. There are new adventures coming, but reveling in the old is half the fun.

Sometimes, you do get the big clam. And you get to eat it too.

Skipper Krystal

💓

Whale Songs, Wild Waves and We (Nearly) All Fall Down

"Never a ship sails out of a bay, but carries my heart as a stowaway."
-Roselle Mercier Montgomery

Coordinates: 5808.010 13528.269

Crashes and bangs echoed from the cabin, the tomato juice sliding crazily into the sink while fish hooks and fishing weights went soaring through space, flying from the cockpit into the salon. The hook snagged Lyssa in the shoe, and the really amazing thing is, not any of us were surprised or unduly alarmed that the contents of the Star were playing dodgeball belowdecks as we soared up the swells and crashed into the troughs. Gravity became a practical joke, and it seemed to hardly hold the Star to earth at all.

Because this was what she was built for, and yesterday, she proved it.

All for sake of some fish.

Because, beneath the adventure and the new horizons, the entire crew just, really, really loves fish—and fishing. And when we left Hoonah Harbor two days ago, we weren’t sure we’d be able to catch the halibut, rockfish and whatever else grabs a hook up here. We know (nearly) all the great fishing spots around Angoon. Where the shelves of sandy earth 200 feet down were sure to sport a few big, beautiful halibut.

Here we’ve made new friends that have leaned over the charts and marked some spots for us. A captain named Faggan, born in Hoonah and with saltwater in his veins, is one of the really wonderful people you meet here in Alaska, with an innate friendliness behind his silver spectacles and an no-nonsense knowledge of  where the fish are biting, the bears are denning, and the crab are scuttling. By an accident of fate—or perhaps an act of Providence—we actually found ourselves anchored across from Faggan in Whitestone Bay—one of the most wonderful places we’ve found since we’ve come to Alaska, bar none.

Of course, we didn’t know that when we left Hoonah Harbor on a blazing, sunny day, and Whitestone Bay was only an x on the map. This was our second sailing trip this year—the first to Neka Bay, a breathtaking yet fishless wonderland where we spun in the ship and listened to the birds in the trees, sipping hot chocolate. Now we were ready to go Outside, into Icy Strait, in search of the fish we knew were swimming somewhere around beneath the cobalt waves.

But fishing on the Star is not like fishing on a powerboat, like our old Hewescraft. It’s a little like fishing on stilts, four feet off the water. So we had to get a little…creative. Setting lawn chairs out on the deck we soaked in the almost hot sun and the limitless Alaskan vistas, wondering if life really got much better than this. Whenever we got peckish, you just went belowdecks and grabbed a snack. Lunch was lifted up through the haste, interspersed with cries, “I got a nibble! I got one on! It’s bouncing, almost here, SOMEONE GRAB THE NET!”

Luckily (or unluckily, depending on your view) we didn’t catch anything the first day that wouldn’t fit in a net big enough to kidnap a toddler in. We knew we weren’t in quite the right spot at first, since we only caught one halibut.

We pulled into Whitestone Bay was wonderful. I’ll let the pictures tell you what these sheltered cove is all about.

Laying out a tarp, Dad and I filleted our fish on the Star’s deck, like cutting up fish on the roof of your house. Then, we put the dinghy into the water and dropped crab pots hopefully, not really sure we’d catch anything at all, but grateful just to be there.

The sun had nearly set—or set as much as it ever does up North—when something especially extraordinary happened.

Lying in bed in the V-Berth, Alyssa and I heard a high, rhythmic whine.

“That’s animal,” Alyssa said, looking up from her book. But what animal? We’d heard mink and raven scuttle on top of the Star when we were at dock, but this was something new. We emerged from the V-Berth to see Mom cocking her head too, the sound bringing her up from the galley. Together we emerged into the cockpit, glanced around, and realized something amazing.

A lone whale was coming into the bay, and we had heard its singing! It only took a few minutes to realize why it was singing so oddly, too. In the stillness of the bay, weheard the faint sound of popping

bubbles just before the whale reared out of the water, bubble-feeding all alone.

For twenty minutes we were eaten alive be bugs while we watched the spectacular show nature was putting on just for our boat. Every time we heard the rhythmic whine vibrating up through the Star’s hull we knew the whale was about to break out of the water again, and was using its sound to help corral the fish.

It wasn’t long before the lone whale headed back out to sea, disappearing into the twilight of Alaskan summer. We descended below, covered in bug  bites but super excited. The next morning, we saw sea otters climb down the beach and into the water, bears break out of the trees and chase each other, and a deer come out of the long grass to scratch its rear in full view of the bay.

So it was with regret that we left Whitestone, planning to fish another day and return to Hoonah. Going out to our special spot, we prayed for fish and dropped down hoochie (plastic squids with a hook through them) and line.

God rather spectacularly answered our prayers, with a forty pound halibut followed in four hours by two thirty pound halibut and more small ones. The bigger the halibut, however, the harder time we found getting it onto the Star! The screeching and hollering when the forty pounder was jumping from the water and thrashing on the end of the hook would have earned a 911 call on land. As it was, the Captain bravely jumped down on the swim step and hooked a shark hook (one of our odder purchases, but endlessly useful) through the fish’s gills.Not long after, a sea lion got very interested in the big fish hanging over the side, but we managed to get things squared away before it had a chance to snag the catch.

By late afternoon, we had our limit, and the wind was picking up. It was time to go home.

As we turned our bow into the waves and headed back to Hoonah, slowly the weather changed. The wind heightened, the swells swelled and the waves sent gushing spouts of spray over the deck and into the sky, sparkling in the bright sun.

Climbing into the V-Berth, it was like lying in bed on a roller coaster. We laughed and screamed as the bow dipped into the cavernous trough and we lifted off the blankets, O-Gs with our stomachs soaring into our throats. It was like nothing I’ve ever felt before, like being on the moon.

The crests were taller than a full-grown man and the Star behaved beautifully, hardly losing speed. Once, her bow cut through the wave itself, not even climbing the crest. Yet despite waves that might have had us calling the Coast Guard in years past, Mom went to sleep downstairs. I climbed out on the deck to feel the rise and fall of the Star beneath my feet, and face into the wind. All of us loved it,

and never did the Star tilt or falter.

As we coasted back into Hoonah Harbor feeling years wiser, with big fish to cut up and a deck to swab, we found the old saying to be true that as tired as we were, we were already wishing we could be back on the water again, back in Whitestone Bay.

I imagine the whale is back, and can say hello to the sea otters for us.

Skipper Krystal

Stuck Between a Rock and a Hard Place

"Never in my life before have I experienced such beauty, and fear at the same time"

— llen MacArthur, Sailor

Coordinates: 57°10′36″N 133°54′23″W

Splayed out like a seagull straddling two buoys, my legs trembled as I spanned two rocks,  the freezing Alaskan ocean yawning beneath me. I giggled helplessly at my own stupidity, even though just giggling threatened to wreck my delicate, if highly ungraceful, balancing act and tip me heels over head into the water. I was completely, irrevocably and quite ridiculously stuck.

At times like this, its funny how you never think about just  how you got into this sort of a problem. I certainly didn’t think back to that morning, when we climbed in our Jurassic Park Jeep and headed out for False Bay.

We’ve had quite a few adventures in that Jeep by now, but its hard to write them all—so I figured, in retrospect (now dry) that our trip to False Bay two days back is a perfect example of our forays into the jungle that is Chichagof Island—and which could have ended with a very big, Skipper-shaped splash.

It started, of course, rumbling out of Hoonah, past abandoned quarries wreathed in ferns and hemlocks, bumping over the one-lane road and passing dusty tourist buses. Every time we passed them, we or the bus had to dive hood-first into the greenery at the side of the road, if there wasn’t a dirt turnout handy. The Jurassic Park Jeep handled this splendidly, and it wouldn’t take long driving through this forest to figure out why the Jeep earned its name. You really do expect a T-Rex to come roaring out of the huge ferns and thick trees. Instead, there’s grizzly bears, which I suppose is preferable—but not by much.

We usually slow down when we drive past meadows, since the meadows is where you find the monsters munching on grass—or their prey, the black-tailed deer stepping delicately through the trees, eyeing the Jeep with misgiving. Heck, I wouldn’t take a breath without anxiety if I was a few rungs too low on the food chain in bear country. Which I could be, but that isn’t something we like to think about too often.

Inside the Jeep, Alyssa is usually the keeper of the snacks (cheese sticks and gala apples), Dad, still our wise Captain, at the wheel and Mom on lookout in the front for anything exciting—hairy or otherwise—that we might stumble across.

You never know who or what you’ll find in the wilderness roads of Chichagof. We’ve met compactors on the road and passed backhoes, empty and silent in the rainforest. Since logging is the reason we have these roads to begin with, we don’t resent the presence of the heavy equipment, especially because the fight between Man and Nature is generally a losing one on Man’s side. Built bridges are slowly eroded by green moss, creeping plants and mushrooms (we know—one road was closed when the bridge was out). Traveling through the ancient forest, it felt as if we were hundreds of miles deep into the wilderness, not half a day’s ambling ride on thin roads. As we rumble past, I stick my hand out the window and let the trees and bushes slap against it--like getting a high five from Nature.

Yet thanks to these roads we’ve curved around the bases of mighty mountains, tall, craggy and intimidating, only to break into a lane of alder trees, their white trunk speckled with sage moss and clinging mushrooms cream and brown. Often we get out to take pictures and soak in the splendor. Today was no different, except the road to False Bay was the prettiest so far, with the government-issued name: road 8530. It was obvious as we went that visitors to False Bay were rare; the well-maintained road 8530 turned virtually to a dirt track by the time we broke out of the hundred-foot, old forest giants and broke out into the open, seeing False Bay for the first time.

The water was as clear as crystal, yet the light shimmered and sparkled like stained glass in motion. The mountains of Glacier Bay were visible across Icy Strait, and the black-sand beach was covered with white shells and dried out crabs dried out.

That rock in the middle? Well, I wanted to climb on top of it, and there were a few smallish rocks placed in what seemed like perfectly manageable distances.

Seemed like, anyway.

I jumped on the first two no problem, but when I reached out my right leg to scoot to the furthest rock, well, I sunk into a desperate and ungainly crouch. Luckily, the Captain used a highly advanced rescuing maneuver (He climbed out after me and hauled up on my hood) and managed to drag me clear, laughing himself the entire time.

I did not emerge entirely unscathed, but didn’t mind walking soggily up such a beautiful beach. I leave it to the pictures to describe the Bay.

With a pouchful of shells and a bagful of black sand, we drove away, promising to return. Its not always a promise we can keep in Alaska, but this time, I think we’re sure. On the way back, as the sun began to set (and never really finishes setting, if we’re telling the truth) we climbed over a hill for one more surprise.

I wonder if bears ever get stuck?

I’m afraid to ask.

Perhaps next time.

Skipper Krystal