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

Stars, Popcorn, and Too Many Bears!

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky.
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.
-  John Masefield

Coordinates: 58°06.351 135°26.818

I’d forgotten what the stars looked like. Until tonight.

In some ways, it’s a metaphor for the whole experience; Alaska is about the unexpected problems—and the unforeseen delights.

Only in Alaska would we all crowd into the cockpit, gazing through the sunroof and exclaiming over five tiny yet brilliant pinpricks of light shining in the dusky sky, a nearly-full moon like a floodlamp in comparison over the darkened western mountains. Five little feeble stars, but the first ones I’ve seen since we reached Alaskan shores. It was 1 AM, yet the sky to the west was periwinkle blue, outlining the islands and casting a glimmer over the ocean and the ships floating in the water like seabirds in a row.

Where can you go that you forget what the stars look like? Which makes we wonder, like L.M. Montgomery, “If we only saw the stars every thousand years, what a marvel we would think them!”

Sometimes its hard to remember the things we’ve done are once in a lifetime, because the days up here have begun to blur together. Its easier now for me to understand how people on a ship could forget the week or the month, or miss Christmas or Easter. Because a lot of the things that usually matter don’t, and the things that usually don’t matter, do. Like stars.

And like stars, certain instances, encounters, and experiences shine out of the dusk and blur of the rest. We’ve been in Hoonah more than a week, and had our first voyage in the Star and in the Jurassic Park Jeep (My name for it—I’m hoping it catches on), yet it’s the moments along the way that shine. In no particular order, I’ll start to share a few of the stars so far.

First of all, there’s the Star, which when we arrived had aged a year and smelled of disesel, with rainbows of mold in the toilets but NOWHERE else. Those in Alaska or wet climates will cheer with
me that there was no mold, the silent destroyer of vacations, hopes and sometimes lives. Those in the dry, just know, not having mold on any of our stuff was considered a joyous blessing from heaven—quite literally.

The Star’s magic hasn’t dimmed with time, and her peace is ours again. The Captain swabbed her decks, the First Mate fired up her tiny propane stove, and life filled her hull once more, a flag flying on her stern again. The mast thrusts up through the salon beside the table and into the deck above, and when I wrapped my arms around the mast, it felt like embracing a friend, a shining moment in itself.

Shining moments quickly followed, and in no particular order, here are a few.

First off, two words: STOVETOP POPCORN. We’ve recently and joyfully discovered a secret, burnproof method which I MAY tell you at the bottom 😉. Mom tells me everyone burned it in the 70s, but this was my first encounter without a plug-in air popper and I am NEVER going back. Hearing it pop away in the pan, the flavor and taste of the olive oil is just—well, cosmic. Of course, I recently got treated and am over my allergy to popcorn, making this my first popcorn in about a decade, so I am admittedly biased.  

Then of course, in the sky of our vacation, shines the bears.

We thought we knew bears. I’ve been charged by one, huffed at, our pickup chased with us in the back. We thought we were pretty well introduced to bears, and 1 per square mile was a lot on Admiralty Island.

Our first explorations of Hoonah have proven there are many, many more bears in this world than I am entirely comfortable with. And this is their turf.

Nine. Nine hulking grizzly bears in two days. And we were only driving for about five hours combined. And that was in the wild, not the dump (not that we’re knocking the dump—hours of free
entertainment). We saw a huge boar munching away at the grass, a sow grouchily hogging the road with her year-old cub ahead of us—and refusing to budge for ten minutes while we crawled along behind on the Forest Service backroads I hinted about in earlier posts.

Because we did it. We climbed in our land-ship, the Jurassic Park Jeep, and we started to explore the backwoods roads and views of Chichagof Island. The bears were part of what we’ve discovered but the views?

Spectacular.

Only this log is long, and it is, after all, 2 AM. So I’m gonna shell out one more hard-earned bit of advice from the high seas:

Sailing Tip #5 Wait. Wait for the tides to change, the wind to pick up, the day to dawn. Wait.

Therefore, I’m afraid I’ll have to take my own advice, and wait to tell the rest.

Until tomorrow, love to you all, and know we’re with you when you look up at the stars. Maybe its been too long for us all.

Skipper Krystal

P.S. The key to burn-free, perfect popcorn I found on Google and will totally give credit in the blog as soon as I have reliable service again—but here’s what you do. Cover the bottom of your saucepan in olive oil and drop three or four kernels in. These are your “test” kernels. Once two of the three pop, take the pan off the stove, pour in 1/3 cup of kernels and cover your pan. Count to 30 out loud (this gives the kernels time to all get to the same hot temperature while off the heat). Then put the pan back on the heat and wait for delicious fluffy goodness to come.

Mom assures me doing this last step without a lid is quite excitingly disastrous (and she’s right), but I still want to try it someday—just to have the experience.

I hope I’m not the only one.

Ferry Away, the BEST Fries and a Camel's Armpit

"Sailors, with their built in sense of order, service and discipline, should really be running the world."
- Nicholas Monsarrat 

Sailing Tip #1- With sailors, no matter how large the boat, living quarters are always the afterthought.

“It  could be worse,” Alyssa observed, setting the bags down in our little ferry cabin, and glancing around the tiny quarters.

This  was eminently true. The crew is no stranger to the Alaska ferries, and on the trip out to the Aleutians, they’d stayed in a four-berth cabin where two people literally couldn’t stand between the beds at once, and a large person simply couldn’t have squeezed in at all; #claustrophobic. In comparison, the Malaspina’s four berth cabin was luxurious. After all, it actually had a sink—and a window that looked out on the ocean—and two people COULD stand in the aisle at once, even if you couldn’t open the bathroom door and the cabin door at the same time.

Frankly, we were all so relieved to finally be on the ferry, the metal bunks with their thin, gray-blue blankets looked like silk sheets at the Ritz. Somehow, we managed to stuff all our stuff into that teensy cabin (the cooler had to get stuffed in the shower) and fall into our berths, even though you couldn’t sit up on the top bunk without knocking loose a ceiling tile.

Have we mentioned yet that we really love the ferry?

It’s the poor man’s cruise, and since the ferries are run by sailors and not cruise directors, cleanliness, efficiency, speed and good grub are what matters the most. But if you don’t care for mints on the pillow or fancy carpets, they’re an exciting and interesting place to be.

Two stuffed eagles are in a glass case beside the purser’s counter, wings spread in eternal splendor. There are paintings of caribou cavorting along the utilitarian metal staircases that link the ferry’s different decks. One deck is almost entirely narrow, stuffy staterooms (after all, it is somewhat against policy to have windows that could be left open and let the water in), dozens and dozens of cabins. 

Climbing the wide stairs clear to the top, you’ll come to the kitchen and dining room which looks more like a cafeteria with pictures of fish and little potted plants lining the walls. Yet the food is worth the climb—halibut burgers, DELICIOUS, long golden fries that I crossed half a continent to eat again (For realsies—best fries on the ocean or off it).  There’s also spaghetti and steaming soup, salads and blackberry pies.

Except one thing was different on this trip. All the time, when we tell people we’re going to Alaska they say, “It’s so cold up there!” I wish they could have spent just one single day on this particular ferry.

It was, quite frankly, hotter than a camel’s armpit in there. Air conditioning was a mythical creature,

often heard of but never truly seen or felt. It was a sunny day on the friendly seas, and with all the windows bolted shut most passengers bolted for the decks to watch the incomparable Alaskan vistas roll by and take pictures of the seals popping up out of the waves, while fanning themselves and straightening their boater hats.

Us? We stripped off as much as was decent and flopped on our bunks, exhausted from driving 2,000 miles in less than a week—and having to stay up all night to board the Malaspina. The constant hum of the giant motors vibrated up through two decks to jiggle my bunk and tickle my nose, but the seas were calm and you hardly would have guessed we were on the ocean at all.

We did step off the boat in Wrangell for fifteen minutes, and walked along the shorefront street, getting a glimpse of the Malaspina in all her glory for the first time. The flowers were gorgeous, wild roses and columbine blooming everywhere. 

All too soon it was time to get back onboard, sweating all the while, along with all the octogenarian tourists that had come with the all wearing name tags and over the age of fifty.

Sunshine Tours,

It was five-thirty AM when we woke at the alarm the next day, bracing ourselves for the unenviable task of hauling all our stuff down two flights of stairs and back into the Jeep. Then, we were to get off in Juneau, pick up a second trailer (Ha! Bet you thought even we couldn’t pack TWO trailers into ONE trip) and move it onto the next ferry, the LeConte, for a shorter ride to

Hoonah.

We did just that, even though it took the Jeep two trips to get our two trailers onto the ferry. This would have been impossible without the help of our friends in Angoon, Jimmy Parkin, John Quinn and others that helped us get some of our stuff still on the island moved over to Juneau so we could pick it up. These are wonderful folks, and even better in a pinch, and we’re already missing them. 

It was odd as we boarded the ferry to Hoonah not to see familiar faces in every other seat. Not to see friends and neighbors in the hall, or catch up on the news in the galley. In short, it is hard to leave behind everyone we know and love in Angoon, even though we know we’ll be back.

Indeed, as we pulled up to the gorgeous Hoonah ferry dock, there were many thoughts and emotions We were touched by the beauty of the soaring mountains and glittering sea, the familiar sight of boats in the boatyard and crafty ravens strutting around the dock. 

running through our minds. 

Yet we were a little lonely too, well aware it was the first time we’d ever pulled into Hoonah first, and not Angoon.

And we were wondering if the Star would be the same, how it would feel to live on the boat for two months straight—and what new sights awaited us this year on this adventure?

And just how were we going to get all our bags, a freezer, an anchor and a fishnet down to the Star without collapsing on the dock?

I have just three words to say about that.

“Good luck, eh?”

Skipper Krystal

P.S. Internet, quite simply, does not exist up here; so the ship's log is going to be spotty my friends. Every time we post we have to drive up to the lodge and buy fries at the restaurant to use the internet (not that we're complaining about the fries) so we're having to adapt in the Wild North. So for now, we're writing as we go and posting as we can. Miss you all, and more to come, if not soon, at least eventually :)

Misty Piers, Overpriced Snacks and Eh?

" A tourist remains an outsider throughout his visit; but a sailor is part of the local scene from the moment he arrives."
- Anne Davison 

Coordinates: 54.3150° N, 130.3208° W

I think back on that shop, gleaming with silver hooks, colorful bait, and dozens of spiky anchors, and I wonder if there’s any place in the world  quite like a tackle shop. As I’m typing here, the Star’s ship’s clock is ticking away above the engine room and the Captain is scrubbing out the dinghy, which should really be called the dingy after bearing the brunt of northwestern winds and harbor silt for the past nine months. Its been awhile since we made an entry in the log, but we’ve come back to the woes of non-existent internet my friends. So we’re playing catch-up again, and I’m turning back the hourglass four days to the final day in Prince Rupert, when we checked out of the hotel with nowhere to go and a great deal to buy, every minute ticking closer to midnight, when we needed to show up at the misty dock and drive onto the ferry—or risk our entire summer if we were late. First, though we had to shop.

Yet this wasn’t just any shopping trip. And Canada isn’t just any place to shop.

Prince Rupert itself is an odd if delightful town, full of dips and twists, with murals of wolves and orcas on every third street until the whole city feels painted blue. Among these twisty streets with painted maple leaves hidden coyly on every planter and curb, was several tackle shops where everything from the ordinary to the delightfully bizarre seemed to be in stock.

And that was just the people.

As we pulled up to the first grey-boarded building, the buoys in the front window proved we were in the right place. Stepping inside, giant spools of rope as thick as your wrist marched up two stories to the ceiling, harpoons leaned against the front counter and we were virtually the only women in sight—except for the cashier, who was swapping fish stories with a short, bristly fisherman leaning against the desk. 

Thousands of tiny, colorful squid called hoochies lined the wall, but they were the more ordinary objects in stock. We found professional-grade slingshot with ammo, fake baby halibut the size of a dinner plate (this was for bait, and yes we bought it—we couldn’t help ourselves), harpoon head replacements and bear attraction sticks—yes, you read that right. Guaranteed to burn for 12 hours with the scent of sow in heat, bear urine, honey, bacon, and pheromones. We picked them up gingerly, in case they were to suddenly combust and leave us smelling on Grizzly’s next breakfast.

We drove back and forth between the tackle shops of Prince Rupert, checking prices, browsing and swapping fish stories with the shopkeepers (One was also was a very good salesman—he talked to us into at least four extra purchases). Yet it was ever apparent we were in Canada, since “Eh?” cropped into the long conversations regularly, and not at all when you’d expect it, along with a peculiar accent I can’t describe, only attest to. Sometimes it was stronger than others, and typically we found the longer a person had lived in British Columbia the more pronounced the accent was, a lengthening of the a’s I think, and clipping some words short.

At the last tackle shop, the subject of guns came up. Let me tell you, the Canadians are quite under the impression that EVERYONE in America owns a gun. “Read a story that reckoned if Russia invaded New York, they wouldn’t make it three blocks!” the bespectacled shopkeeper told is in awe. “Cuzza every last person owns a gun!” The Captain and the shopkeeper swapped stories of growing up in rural America and rural Canada respectively, and it became quickly apparent that the people in the fish shop are very jealous, since they can’t own a revolver without a special permit in Canada, and can only carry it to the gun range and back.  Rifles are a different matter, as was apparent from the huge heads of caribou and bison hanging on the walls. Needless to say, it was an odd to realize that our neighbors to the north think we’re tough stuff.

As we left that particular tackle shop, the shopkeepers final goodbye sort of summed up the whole experience: “Good luck, eh?”

Then shopping was a new experience. Fifteen dollars for a bag of almonds—and that was translated into American dollars! Plus, I finally bought a bag of ketchup potato chips—which we’ve since tried, with mixed reviews (more on that later).

Finally, we called the hotel and begged to sit down in their lounge until it was time to drive to the ferry dock. They let us sit and watch the harbor (after stuffing all of our new purchases—including a five foot long fishnet and a small anchor—into our trailer). As the sun set, the mist moved in and cloaked Prince Rupert in fog, changing the streets and the trees into mysterious byways and disappearing shadows.

Finally, it was late, we were shopped out, and it was time. We all climbed back into the Jeep and drove the four miles down to the ferry dock, the streetlights shining oddly in the dim, half-dark summer night. We pulled into a waiting lane beside a tour bus from Virginia with Sunshine Tours painted on the side, and an old seventies camper in front of us. Then we set a laptop over the center console and watched a movie, Woman in Gold, sitting in our Jeep beside the pier.

Hours passed, and the intense, dramatic movie flitting from modern courtrooms to Nazi-era Austria seemed to fit the eerie fog and idling cars stretched into the mist. The ferry was just a huge, dark shape, three stories high, lurking in the darkness of the pier like a monster from Viking mythology. At 2 AM, a man in a highlighter vest waved us forward. We drove down a wide gangplank, into the dark bowels of the waiting Malaspina that was massive enough to hold nearly a hundred cars, relieved that despite all the changing plans and crazy purchases, we’d managed to make it here. On our way back to the Star at last, waiting patiently in Hoonah.

As we trundled with all our baggage up the clanging metal steps, bleary-eyed and relieved, I couldn’t help but think of the fishermen, and  hope his words held. “Good luck, eh?”

On a boat this big, perhaps we’d need it.

Skipper Krystal

Bear Encounters, Smelly Hotel Rooms, and Gandolf With A Side of Curry.

"The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails."

— William Arthur Ward, Writer

This is going to be a long log my friends, because its time to chronicle our longest, sometimes hilarious, sometimes horrifying and entirely unexpected all-nighter. Will you come with us? Because we ended up somewhere we never expected, and sitting on the ferry today, I’m just grateful after all that happened that we made it at all.

10:00 AM Waking up in Cache Creek, we had a plan; a simple one. Drive to Vanderhoof, British Columbia, to meet some long lost relatives, get a good night’s rest, then drive to Terrace. This was never going to happen, little did we know then.

But driving through British Columbia in ignorant bliss last Saturday was beautiful as we headed north into taller mountains and tinier towns, many boasting one little gas station that doubled as the town store. More than half of the gas station clerks were from India (we don’t have a clue why) and there were the weirdest most fabulous snacks for sale, like ketchup-flavored chips and EATMORE candy bars (yes, please). We were shocked when we saw the price for gas, until we realized it was in Canadian money, advertised as 142.90. We don’t have a clue how this translated into 5 dollars American money, but it does, even though that’s not the exchange rate. Except for the odd gas station, horse or farmhouse, everything was covered in trees and little touched by people until we reached the verdant valley of Vanderhoof.

7:00 PM We reached Vanderhoof, and stared in awe. Rolling fields of green wheat and rye swirled

beside grazing cattle and quaking aspens. If an entire town had been plopped into the Utah mountains, that’s a little what Vanderhoof looked like. Not long after we arrived, we discovered meeting our relatives weren’t going to work out after all (we’ll catch up with them next fall, in case you were wondering) and suddenly we were faced with some tough choices.

Also, in case you were wondering, this is where the whole plan went KABLOOIE.

We found ourselves waiting at a railroad crossing in downtown Vanderhoof, cars roaring past as we dismally realized the only affordable place to stay was right beside the railroad tracks (Canada is covered with railroads, and we often glimpsed railcars speeding away through the pines on our drive). None of us relished train whistles shrieking through our dreams and the sound of railcars roaring in our ears all night, so the crew all voted, and the vote was unanimous.

We go on.

10:00 PM. We get back on the road, destination Terrace B.C., where we had a reservation for the and defeated the racoon, in case you wondering. Yes, way too much time on our hands).  The land we traveled through was breathtaking, and despite the late hour the sun had hardly gone down. Tall pines and vaulted peaks slid past beyond the windows, little log cabins and countless lakes scattered like shining coins across the Canada landscape. This was Canada’s “Lake District”, and famed worldwide, yet we were seeing it in the strange, never-ending dusk that is the Canadian summer. Munching on pumpkin seeds and sipping lukewarm water, we approached the coast.
following night, hoping they’d take us early. The Captain steered the Jeep while the crew dozed or played fruit games in the back (Alyssa and I beat like fifty levels). 

3:00 AM We pull into Terrace, another town tucked into the pines, and drive up to Days Inn, exhausted and bleary but assuming, assuming, we would soon be in bed. Ha!

As soon as we step into the hotel room, we smell new carpet and our hearts sink. The whole crew is allergic to new carpet, and guess which hotel was renovating its rooms?

You guessed, didn’t you?

So the night manager (also from India, as it turns out) pulls out a master key and with us in tow, clatters up the stairs and starts opening rooms for us to sniff. The third door we try, the manger opens the door, turns on the light and his eyes fly open wide.

“Dude….what?”

“So…so sorry, sir!”

“Shut off the light!”

“Apologies, apologies!”

Alyssa, Mom and I had our hands over our mouths, wincing. The next door we stood way, way back and the manager shot us look that made us giggle sheepishly. He waved us closer when the coast was clear, but is was no use. Every one of the rooms had been renovated, and would have made us terribly sick to sleep in. So with many thanks to the poor night manager (we called his boss to give him a good review for trying to help us) we left to search Terrace for a place to stay.

4:00 AM After calling a dozen places and trying two more, we ended up at our last hope, Kalum Motel. When we ring the bell, a man came to the door that I can only describe as Gandalf after eating his 20^th bowl of curry. Wearing traditional Indian garb, gray slippers and a incongruous baseball cap, he blinked at us as we tried to explain our predicament.

“I show you room,” he said, sounding and looking unintentionally wise and mysterious with his knobby nose, long white beard and sleep-narrowed eyes. “You like, you take. You don’t like, no problem. Eh?”

We followed his shuffling form across the parking lot, sniffed the room and knew at once we’d be sick from the mold and the tobacco smoke, which we’re also allergic to. Not to mention, probably eaten alive by bedbugs. You all know the sort of motels that are always last resorts, right?

 We said thanks but no thanks to Gandalf and climbed back in the car. After staring at each other for a while, we shook our heads and voted again. Sleep in the Jeep, or drive on to Prince Rupert another two hours down the road?

Can you guess what we did?

And would you believe it was worth it?

5:00 AM This. Is. Freaking. Gorgeous.

God wanted us up to see the sunrise over the British Colombian coast, and I have to say I’m grateful. The magical hours between Terrace and Prince Rupert’s were both exhaustion-bleared and enchanting. Light slowly illuminated the sharp slopes of islands and pine-covered peaks, while the rivers mingled with the ocean along the water-bound highway.

Just when we thought it couldn’t get better (or worse, as the perspective may be) we were nearing Prince Rupert, and saw a dark shape dart across the road ahead. The Captain slowed down, and we rolled down our windows, eager to catch another glimpse of the black bear that had crossed the road.

Suddenly, a dark head popped out of the brush, staring at the car curiously. Quickly, the bear ducked back down, but just a few feet further in a different bear lurched out of the greenery, totally invisible until he had to get a peek at our car!

After this, the two bears spooked and disappeared into the forest, but not before Alyssa snapped a picture.

6:00 AM A tired crew pulls into Prince Rupert, a town we hadn’t expected to see for another two days. Here, at last, on this ocean edged, pine encumbered town, we found a place to stay after several false starts: Inn on The Harbor, which sounds about like its name, and had the most spectacular view left.

8:00 AM None of the crew were left awake to appreciate the view or even the fact that the hotel was roasting hot. The crew had a home at last—for now, at least—and though there would be challenges and much shopping ahead in the oceanside town of Rupert, we were only concerned with ending our nearly 24 hour day of driving.

There would be shopping, odd little shops, and chats with Canadians to come before we boarded the ferry, but that can wait for a short entry and another day.

Skipper Krystal and Crewmember Alyssa