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