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

Family, Suspicious Canadians, and Signs Everywhere

"I find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving - we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it - but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor." - Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

Coordinates: 50.8108099,-121.3233237

We’re sitting in Prince Rupert, Canada, gazing out at the strait where a white mist is falling over the pine-clad islands, lit from behind with a ghostly, fiery sunset. Dusk birds that I only hear in Alaska and Canada are singing on the back deck of the hotel, and the water is icy blue and gold. I realize our car has outpaced the blog, but such a peaceful scene did not come easily, and a Jeep Cherokee is not as wonderful as the Star to write in. So how did we come to this wild, idyllic spot, waiting for our ferry to come in?

Well, we’ll try to catch up the log from Day 2 (Thursday), when we drove through mountainous Montana to reach the wonderful homefires of Bryan and Joannie Crabtree, in Post Falls, Idaho. Bryan is the Captain’s cousin, looks like (and is paid in December to dress up as) Santa Claus, and is generally described as Dad’s twin, even though they look nothing alike. Joanie has a million plants, two Golden Retrievers, a striped cat and lots of love and grub for wanderers like us.

To make the night perfect, Bryan’s son Ryan and his kids Aidan, Dallen, Bella and Olivia were there, which we hadn’t seen in fifteen years! Ryan and crew were just as awesome as we remembered, and Aidan whipped us at UNO, even though we all laughed at the different rules we played just by growing up in different states. It was wonderfully chatting with our cousins and seeing all the

kids grown up so much with such unique personalities. (See more fam pictures below)

After a relaxing night’s sleep at the Crabtrees’ abode, we woke up to brave the border. Have you ever

wondered what it looks between Idaho and Canada? Well it is a lot of rolling wheat fields and beautiful farms.
As for the border, truthfully, this Skipper was kind of dreading it (as was the rest of the crew). And our uneasy premonitions were not proven wrong.

We pulled up to the border, digging madly in the back of the Jeep for my phone to turn it off so we wouldn’t get charged international rates. As soon as we drew near to the border attendant window, she barked, “Ma’am what are you doing?” Alyssa and I blinked. “Er, looking for our phone?” We got glared at. “Well, look later ma’am. That makes me very nervous. Looked like you were rifling around for a handgun.” That, ladies and gentleman, was the general attitude of the austere Canadians guarding our northern border. Ten minutes later, the whole crew were twiddling our thumbs in the border office, watching out the window while an equally stern looking lady searched (with gloves) our Jeep and junky trailer. Truthfully, we felt sorry for her as she hauled all our boulder-heavy backpacks out of the back and dug through our lunches. After the sixth bag and third roast-beef sandwich, she marched back in and requested help letting the back down on the trailer, to Dad’s visible dismay (the trailer was absolutely covered in ropes to keep it from flapping).

Thankfully, the Captain was nicely able to convince her we weren’t trafficking firearms, only lunchmeat and too many library books. After a peek under the tarp, she decided Canada would have to take its chances with us, and let us go through, though she was much nicer about it and almost apologetic.

But it was worth it. As we pulled away from the border office, the landscape quickly changed into great, craggy mountains and rolling fields of grapes and apple orchards. And as for the wineries, we passed dozens in this “land of the signs”, along with hundreds of colorful, quirky signs (see more pic below) proclaiming everything from roast beef to ambrosia stands. We never forgot we were in Canada, since every third farmhouse touted the vibrant, maple-leaf Canadian flag.

It was green, verdant and breathtaking and a very long drive to Cache Creek, a quaint little community of Canadians. Waiting there for us was a 2 bedroom suite, which sounds a lot more glamorous than it was but was very needed because we don’t travel light (as you might have guessed) and were ready to spread out.

After getting over the border we breathed a sigh of relief and proceed to go through many vineyards. I never knew there were so many! This was also “land of the signs”. We saw so many unique and interesting homemade signs. It was really fun to finally be in Canada again and see some new country.

The end of the road was Cache Creek. A quaint little community of Canadians. We had a 2 bedroom suite that was very needed because we don’t travel light and need all the space we can get. Of course, if we’re realized some of the crazy driving we’d be doing soon, we might have slept even harder.

This log is still incomplete, so there is more to come. The islands and the strait have vanished behind a wall of gray fog, and we just heard the ferry horn calling through the mist.

Wish us luck, and hope the weather holds.

Skipper Krystal and Crewmember Alyssa