Return to Home Port

Reconnecting with Friends

It takes a special kind of friendship for two couples to share a cramped boat with for 6 days. You get to know each other very well, and there is little leeway for petty intolerances and inhibitions. Thankfully the weather is good and we do a mix of quiet anchorages and dock visits, sharing stories of each other's travels and playing bridge. After several marathon games, there is no clear winner. We like it that way.
Echo Bay is always a favourite ..... we spend two nights there nestled among million dollar yachts and take in the pig BBQ on Saturday night. In settings like this it's sometimes unsettling to try to make social connections, but it seems all boaters have some commonality - love of the water, appreciation of marine life, and quiet spaces away from it all.

The Broughton Islands are full of the province's history of logging, fishing and native culture. Many abandoned First Nations villages dot the islands, although nothing remains in most cases. That that does will soon succumb to the elements.

Fallen Totem on Village Island

Our favourite is Alert Bay on Commorant Island, an intriquing community with a nice blend of native Namgis and white peoples. It's history fascinates. Previously used as burial site, it did not become a permanent settlement of the Kwakwaka'wakw until the 1800's. The Anglican Church established a large residential school there in 1921, where native children were taken from their families and forced into white culture, forbidden to speak their language or practice their traditional ways. A whole generation of those people, along with their language and culture, was lost. The school, closed since the 1970's, still stands, its drab brick walls a symbol of a particularly shameful chapter in our history.

The community was also the setting for the clash between the Namgis First Nations and the Canadian government over potlatches. The government had banned the potlatch, viewing them as "wasteful, immoral and heathan" - a symbol of the "intactness of Indian culture". In 1921, potlatch partcipants were arrested and potlatch paraphernalia was seized, which was quick to disappear into public and private collections around the world. The Namgis began a period of repatriation of these artifacts, and over time have brought most of them home, where they are now exhibited in the newly constructed U'mista Cultural Centre. It is a marvelous acheivement and a breathtaking collection.

U'mistra Cultural Centre

What strikes us most about our visits there is the fact that the Namgis people are so warm and welcoming, without any trace of resentment over their past treatment.

Alert Bay is also the "Home of the Killer Whale". We prefer the name Orca.  A short distance away is Robson Bite, where these magnificent creatures can usually be found. B.C. Parks maintains a patrol to ensure proper human behaviours are observed. These resident pods are an "endangered" species. We experience a large pod of about 18 whales over the next two days, and are saddened by their enevitable fate.

Orcas at Robson Bite

After our farewells with friends, we travel quickly back to Desolation Sound to meet up with Herm and Shelly in Squirrel Cove. We raft off for the night, treated to a fine meal, catch up on each other's lives and get the tour of their new boat, Gecko II.

And Larry finally does it .... he falls off the boat. While stepping between the two boats, his foot slips and he goes into the water, smashing legs and arms on the toerail on the way down. For the public record, he wishes it known that this happened before "yardarm".

The Final Day

As we head down Malispina Strait towards home on glassy seas, we reflect on the experience over the past 3 months.

"Would we do it again?" Pam queries.

"I don't think so", Larry responds after quiet reflection. "It was the trip of a lifetime, but it's too far. I'm weary".

For us, it was a journey of epic proportions. A drifting through time and space, with the natural world opened up to us as never before. It's so very difficult to describe those sensory experiences in simple words, so we accept that they become part of who we are. We know ourselves better as a result, and as a couple we have drawn closer together, having worked together a team, endured the difficulties and shared the joys.

 Last Night on Lasqueti - Looking North to Alaska

We cross the Salish Sea on the last day. A small bird lands on the boat and stays with us for a short part of the journey. It is our albatross - that sign that you, the mariner, are approaching land and will soon be in port.

Our "Albratross"

We thank our good fortune on this journey.  We praise DreamWeaver ..... she has served us well.

Amani comes up into the cockpit and blinks in the sunlight. She senses something too.

We're home!



Back to the Broughtons

The Central Coast

After leaving Shearwater we make the short crossing to Bella Bella for fuel and water. The water there is good, unlike the tannin induced water available most places on the Central Coast that carries health warnings. Unlike other native communities we have seen, Bella Bella looks drab and depressed. We don't explore further to find out, but rather keep the memory of places like Hartley Bay.

                                                         
                                                        Eagles Scrounge in Bella Bella

At Codville Lagoon that night we have drinks aboard Rarebird, another Beneteau. We keep sharing anchorages with John and Kim, from Anacortes, Washington, and have taken the initiative to meet. We became friends. Boating is like that ...... a commonality that bonds.

The next day we move down to Pruth Bay, where we had stopped on the way up. The attraction is the short hike to the wild beach with sandy beach and grass covered dunes facing the Pacific. It's one of those places you can't get enough of.

                                                   Tidal pools - Is there a painting there? 

The literature of mariners is rich with stories of human encounters with weather at sea. Sailors are, by nature, obsessed with gazing into the weather crystal ball. Ours is the weather channel on VHF radio. Knowing of the dangers that could await us in Queen Charlotte Sound and around Cape Caution, we listen attentively and take notes. The next few days provide a “window”, as light variable winds are forecast. The tides, currents, sun and stars, are all aligned.

We move on to Fury Cove, that cozy little cove with white sand and shell beach that overlooks Fitz Hugh Channel. The evening treats us to a rare sunset and the peaceful sounds of waterfowl settling for the night. Larry saves his occasional drams of scotch for nights like this.

                                                Sunset from the Cockpit in Fury Cove

The passage around the cape is under perfect conditions – calm, flat seas and a flood tide that boosts our speed by over a knot. On days like this, it's easy to forget the fury of the sea. We had hoped to raise sails and go with the predicted northwest winds, but there's not a breath of it. With west coast wind, it seems that there either too much or too little to sail by ........ or blowing right on the nose.

Our next stop is Miles Inlet, a narrow slash of water into the mainland, the head of which leads to a labyrinth of rocky channels that exit into a vast lagoon. The following day, under sunny skies, we take the kayak into this salt water lake, which is surrounded by rock strewn shores and stunted cedar snags. Least Sandpipers flit along the shores, Kingfishers sit patiently in overhanging boughs, and a Northern Coshawk darts and dives through the air. The stillness of the place is haunting. We scoot back before the changing tide prevents us from doing so ....... the secret door that closes behind you, leaving this magic place safe from the outside world.

Back to the Broughton Islands

West coast weather being what it is, thick fog the next morning greets us for the start of our 30 mile trip south to Blunden Harbour. In spite of modern electronic navigational aids it is difficult and tiring to keep on course. With no visual landmarks to focus on, it's like being in the pitch dark ..... only white darkness. Did we mention before, our autopilot has ceased functioning altogether, our “ship's engineer” unable to bleed out the air locked hydraulic lines? But large rocks and small islets emerge, ghost-like, out of the mist where they are supposed to be. But still, it's hard to relax, with the ever present danger of drifting logs that can do serious damage to prop or rudder.

                                                  Cruising down Fitz Hugh Channel

But the passage is smooth and we reach Blunden Harbour by mid-day. Because of the predicted strong northwest winds, we stay two nights. With its shallow bottoms and thick, sticky mud bottom that sucks up anchors, it's the ideal place to be in bad weather. Although the sun shines, the winds blows constantly over those two days, gusting at times to over 40 knots.

                                                    Queen Charlotte Strait: Fog Lifting

With a week left until we reach Port McNeil, Pam has run out of books to read. Books keep us anchored, so to speak, create a diversion, keep us alive in some other time and place.

“What will you do?” Larry questions, seeing her sitting in the cockpit gazing across the bay.

“Oh, I don't know”, she sighs, “become one with nature”.

Fortunately, Pam is self-motivated and has other interests, and soon she is happily engaged in her artistic endeavours down in the cabin. Her “living journal”, made from hand decorated papers and collected natural seashore fibers, captures the essence of our chosen life.

We are going to McNeil in a few days to meet up with Lee and Laila Corbin, our dear friends from Port Townsend. They will spend 6 days with us in the Broughton Islands, an area full of twisting waterways and places to explore. It is also rich with past and present native culture, as well as wonderful stories and remnants of the white mans' exploitation. We know, and must accept, that there will be many more boats out there that we will have to share bays with. Our slow re-entry into the crowded world again.

                                                Port McNeil Lighthouse Welcomes Us Back

We move down Queen Charlotte Strait and onto Claydon Bay, where we know there is good crabbing. The weather is typical “broughton-ish” ........... low grey skies greet the morning and slowly burn off sometime in the afternoon, giving way to sun. The bay is full of commercial crab pots and we get nothing keepable. Why does our culture insist on stripping everything bare? We will go to Port McNeil for two nights and overdose on civilization – supermarkets, internet, restaurants, laundry.

The Outside Passage Home

Leaving Alaska

The sky is layered shades of grey as we depart Craig Harbour, fog threatening to wrap its chilly arms around us. Hundreds of small islands, some mere rocks jutting from the sea, create an elaborate and tangled course. This route down the inside of Dall Island will take us through Tlevak Strait to Hydaburg, a Haida community on Prince of Wales Island.

But first we must pass through Tlevak Narrows – at slack water. We miscalculate badly, however, and we arrive at full ebb tide, with a current of over 5 knots running against us. With no secure anchorage behind us for miles, we push on, in spite of the violent rip tides and whirlpools that clutch and grab at the boat. The passage is less than a half mile long but it seems to take forever. At one point our speed slows to a half knot. Neither of us speak – it is best to leave discussion until later.

Slowly we gain speed and break free, and enjoy the rest of the trip to South Pass Cove, where we snug in for the night and update the weather. Dixon Entrance, that daunting and serious 80 mile stretch of open water from Cape Chacon to Prince Rupert, is relatively calm but with a system coming in from the Gulf of Alaska. We decide to write Hydaburg off the itinerary and make a run for the cape the next morning, where we can anchor in Nichols Bay and get an early start the day after.

The morning of the crossing, we weigh anchor at 0400. Cheery dispositions are hard to find. Pam has made a stack of sandwiches for the trip, because meal preparation in the galley during rolling seas is, well, ill advised.

                                                   

                                                 Leaving the fog to cross Dixon Entrance

The often seen fog greets us on exiting the bay, but it soon melts away and the swells start to flatten. To our amazement, the sun pokes through. Those sea-gods are with us again. With no wind, we settle in for the long crossing. This is like crossing the ocean – no scenery. How do blue water cruisers do it?

Welcome to Canada

13 hours later, Prince Rupert Harbour is a welcoming sight. We take a slip at the Prince Rupert Yacht Club and call Canadian customs. We never know what to expect from Canada Customs at ports of entry. But it's never a positive experience. This time, its a 20 minute grilling on the phone.

Vegetables and alcohol are the big thing. Larry admits that we have potatoes on board.

“How many?”, the agent asks.

“I didn't count them when I left the boat”, Larry replies, realizing that it would be better to make up a number.

“Well then, you'll have to peel them, bag the peels and deposit the bag in a dumpster”.

Not clear that he heard this right, he agrees to comply.

The conversation shifts to alcohol. Larry lists what he thinks we have on board, knowing that we exceed the limit, but adds that some are cooking wines from Canada.

“Can you prove they're from Canada?”, the lady asks.

“The wine is a B.C. Brand”, Larry responds.

“But are the labels in English and French?”, she queries.

Larry admits that he is not sure.

“How much U.S. purchased alcohol, then?”, she persists.

“About three bottles”.

“How many liters would that be?”

“About three.” He thinks his estimate is rather low.

“You do know you're over the limit of one liter each, then?”, she says, a slight sneer to her voice.

Larry knows he is probably supposed to apologize for this indiscretion. Suppressing the temptation to laugh, he asks, “Should I dump some overboard?”

She mumbles something about noting this in our file and letting it go. She moves on the pets and required papers for same. Oh, no!

The next day we do the usual port stuff – laundry, shopping, boat cleaning, showers. Larry goes to emergency at the hospital. He thinks he's dying. After some tests that extract body fluids and an xray, it is decided that he has a back muscle inflamation due to hours of bad posture at the helm. Pam is relieved there will be no more talk of imminent death.

Prince Rupert is a lovely town, but the port is an Alice in Wonderful. A major fishery is set to open and fish boats by the dozens, from small gillnetters to large seiners, pour into port to refuel. It starts at 0400, growling diesels, skippers yelling commands to deckhands, backwash bouncing our boat. When we leave the next morning, we have to join the queue for fuel. We drift in the harbour, fifth in line, for 30 minutes before we obtain a spot hanging on to a corner of the fuel dock while we fill up.

The Outside Passage

We have decided to take the “outside passage” home, getting off the beaten track and into the remote and seldom visited outer island chain that follows Hecate Strait south. We do this knowing that the weather will be more severe and many of the waterways will be poorly charted. The latter includes undiscovered navigational hazards, incorrect depth recordings, and GPS plots that can literally put a boat on the rocks.

But later in the day a forecast storm discourages us from visiting the Kitkatla Islands, so we head south down Petrel Channel. Before anchoring in Newcombe Harbour, Bob catches a 12 pound spring salmon which he shares with us. So good!

Sea Otters  Cruising By

The storm arrives the next morning, bringing heavy rain and strong winds that shriek through the rigging like banshees. Dreamweaver tosses and strains like a wild stallion at her anchor chain. It's hard to relax. We turn on the satellite radio to the “Spa” station. Soothing stuff which helps. We crank up the heat and read, ignoring what's going on outside.

It continues for 2 days, after which we head south again to Ire Inlet on Anger Island. Why do names like this not instill confidence? The entrance into this lovely cove is narrow and rock-infested. Our cruising book has a story of a sailboat who entered here several years ago and snagged his rigging on an overhanging tree, the rotting trunk of which fell onto the boat and did some major cosmetic damage. Bob take his dingy into to assess depth and clearances, and judges that we can make. We eye the sawed off tree trunk as we inch by.

It should be mentioned that boats always enter a difficult channel at low water, contrary to what one might think. This allows the skipper to see most hazards that might normally be submerged, and also allow a grounded boat to float off a rock on the rising tide.

The anchorage is “bombproof”, a nautical saying for an anchorage well protected from bad weather. What's bombs have to do with it? We hardly set anchor and the sun comes out and the temperature rises. We open every port and hatch to air out the boat and remove condensation, which drips from everywhere. The inflatable kayak comes out and Pam goes for a long paddle. The memory of the previous horrid weather fades. Until that night. The rains return.

After 2 more days of rain, we review our plans again. We are getting disgruntled. Bob and Helen are in no hurry to move quickly south, wanting to fish and explore. We decide that it is time to part company. It's a decision made reluctantly and it makes us sad, after over 2 months of great companionship and cruising support.

We weigh anchor, bid our farewells and exit the inlet on a high tide. The conditions are dreary - a drizzle blankets the boat and the windscreen keeps fogging up. At the entrance we discover that two large trees have apparently fallen over the channel. Thoughts flash through our mind. No saw, no radio contact, no passing boats. Interesting scenario.

We anchor the boat and Larry takes the dingy over to determine our fate. Using a weighted line he determines that there is sufficient depth to inch by the trees and establish that the submerged tree tops will not snag the keel. It's a tense moment, but like others, we laugh after it is over.

Principe Channel is calm but fogged in. We decide on a short day and go into Monckton Lagoon for the night. Another narrow entrance, but clear and fairly deep. It's a magical place. The lagoon is small, surrounded by steep rock shores and stunted old-growth spruce. The sun comes out. The water is like a mirror, which reflects perfect symmetrical images of the rocky shore. A loon calls. Underwater sea life abounds. This is pristine wilderness. Probably the nicest anchorage we have ever seen. We think we might spend the next day here.

                                               Moncktom Lagoon  - Pristine Wilderness

 

Back to the Inside

By morning the rain is back.

We adjust our plans once again and decide to go up Otter Channel to Hartley Bay. We can refuel there and more or less trace our old route home.

Hartley Bay is a Gitga'at community of 160 people which gained notoriety for rescuing passengers and crew from the B.C. Ferry that sank off Gill Island several years ago. It is a special place.

After taking on fuel we ask if we could stay at the dock overnight. No problem, he says, adding that there is no charge. Donations are accepted if you want to use the power at the dock. We give him 20 dollars.

The village is built on muskeg, so all structures are built on pilings sunk into the ground, each connected to others by a broad boardwalk. There are no cars, but most families have an ATV to get around. As we start walking up towards the simple, quaint church, a sign catches our eye - “The possession or consumption of alcohol is strictly forbidden by band by-law”. This is a “dry” community, one of many First Nations communities to take this step. Past the church, broad steps, guarded by three imposing totems, welcome us into the community hall. Inside is a large gymnasium, with polished wood floors. A friendly young man explains that all large social functions happen here, and why don't we come back next month when the village hosts the final leg of the First Nations War Canoe Journey. Everybody is welcome. Lots of food and traditional dances.

                                                               Hartley Bay Church

We walk the maze of boardwalks and poke our head into a modern cedar-clad building. The woman inside beckons us in, explaining that this is the new medical centre, and that she will give a tour. The facility is very impressive by any standard. How can such a small community have this?

We thank the staff and move on, past the water treatment plant, the sewage plant, and finally to the Band office, where we ask if there is internet we could use. We are told that we can bring our laptop to the social room downstairs, plug in and stay as long as we want. Everywhere we go, the people greet us warmly, with open smiles. This community is a model of orderliness, organization and optimism. With fishing a marginal industry, the leadership of the Gitga'at Band has obviously successfully tapped into and lobbied for every available resource.

                                                  Hartley Bay - Almost too Perfect

That evening on the dock, visiting boaters gather on dock to socialize and clean their day's catch. Because we are hopeless at fishing, we ask for some tips. They spend time with us, teaching us things, giving us hooks and gear, as well as a whole salmon. We are overwhelmed by the generosity of other on this day.

For the next three days, we push south through Fraser Reach, Princess Royal, Finlayson, and Mathieson Channels. Each day it gets worse, with fog and rain. This is the unglamorous part of long distance cruising. It isn't fun anymore. We wish you were home.

By July 28 we reach Shearwater and tie up at the dock. The docks are crowded with boats not wanting to venture into the weather. We get the last spot. We'll push on the next day. The rain is still coming down. 

Heading South

South to Sitka

Our park permit ends on June 30. So does the good weather. Our plans to sail west to Cross Sound and down the Gulf of Alaska coastline to Sitka are dashed by weather reports calling for 35 knot winds and 12 foot seas. We either lack courage or have abundant common sense, so turn east into Icy Strait, hoping to go down Chatham Strait and take the longer back door route to Sitka via Peril Strait. We do worry about where Peril Strait got its name though.

Whales are everywhere as we depart Bartlett Cove under grey skies and light drizzle. By mid-day the seas kick up, forcing us into Neka Bay inside Port Fredrick. The drizzle turns to hard rain. We're there for two nights, discouraged by the dire weather forecasts. By the second day, Larry is pacing the cabin. We're irritating each other and 36 feet is getting too small. The heater is on all day and the simple act of making a cup of coffee creates dripping condensation on the windows and walls.

                                                                     Bedtime Stories

The crew on Melody agree to leave early on the third morning. The decision seems sound as the early morning is calm on Icy Strait and around Point Augusta, where 18 purse seiners jostle for space, trying to take advantage of a break in the weather.

Soon the south wind has picked up and we are again crashing into a head wind. The short distance between the crests of each wave is the problem. The boat rides up a wave, then dips violently into the trough before slamming into the next wave. It sounds like the boat will split in two. But the water flattens as we turn into Peril Strait and we hoist the jib to boost our speed. Many fish boats pass us, heading the other way. We wish them well – it is a hard life.

Bear Bay is a lovely anchorage, tucked away amongst small islets off the channel. Darned if Helen doesn't see a large grizzly, close by onshore, when she is up in the night. We're quite put out, as we have seen no bears up close as yet. We remain obsessed with the thought.

                                      

                                                               Bear Cubs in Peril Strait

But an hour into the next day's journey, as we head down the narrow channel, Larry jolts Pam out of her early morning fog by yelling - “there they are!” A large grizzly and three healthy cubs, picking among the rocks on the shore. This is rare – normally one of triplets does not survive. The cockpit becomes a hive of activity.

“They are so cute”, Pam calls out.

Larry thinks, “300 pounds of cute muscle and teeth. Okay!”

Momma bear dislikes our presence and leads the cubs away, but we're satisfied.

Sitka – Capital of Russia America

Sitka is a pretty town, looking west out to the Gulf of Alaska and protected by dozens of small islands offshore, one boasting an ancient volcano. The Tlingit called it “Sheet'Ka”, a place lying beside the island of Sheet. The Russians renamed the island Baronof Island around 1750. They began to systematically pillage the resources , chiefly sea otter pelts, and antagonize the natives peoples. Sitka was the capital of Russia America. Eventually, the white man's diseases did what guns could not – almost exterminate the Tlingit from the Alaska. In 1867, the resources depleted, the Russians relinquished the territory to the Americans for a song. New resources – fish, timber, gold, oil and tourists – soon made this the deal of the century for the U.S. We learned much of this, and more, at the museum in Sitka, with its beautiful and sensitive telling of the story of the native peoples of Alaska. The artifacts are stunning.

Russian Orthodox Church - Sitka

After two nights in Sitka, the boat is provisioned, cleaned and fueled. The weather promised a window for us to get down the west side of Baronof Island, across Chatham Channel and into Sumner Strait.

Sailing out into the open ocean is intimidating. The power of surging water has no equal in our terrestrial existence. Although the air is still at 0600, the rock strewn coastline is heaving long swells that carry the boat up mountains of sea water, then plunge it deep into troughs so that the horizon temporarily vanishes. Cape Ommenay lies 60 miles to the south and there is nothing to do but watch the horizon to keep sea sickness at bay.

The cat is not impressed. She passes the day glowering in the aft cabin.

Nine hours later, the water flattens as we enter Puffin Bay, anchoring back into a tiny cove boxed in by steep mountain sides. Not a puffin in sight, but we see one of these rare birds the day. The setting is majestic! We lounge in the cockpit, listening to vintage Leonard Cohen and feel spiritual.

At 0500 we rise to face another long day. Exiting the bay we are met by a wall of fog and long roller coaster swells. We marvel at how earlier sailors negotiated such waters before GPS and radar. The fog begins to thin as we round Cape Ommenay, its remaining wisps swirling around the lighthouse.

Sea conditions slowly improve as we cross Chatham Strait. Cape Decision has a bad reputation, but it lies peacefully as we round into Sumner Strait. After another 55 mile day, we anchor next to an active marble quarry to await the next day's journey down El Capitan Passage. The passage is a narrow, winding waterway of 20 miles that has been dredged in many places to give it a minimum depth of 7 feet at low water. Seven feet? Our boat draws almost 6 feet. We are not disappointed. The next day, under bright summer skies, we pass through lovely low rolling hills and wind through small rocky islands.

                                                                    Sunset in Alaska

At lunch we stop at El Capitan Caves and climb the hundreds of steep stairs to the cave opening. Two Park rangers are there, with hardhats and lights, and offer us the 2 hour tour. Not knowing this opportunity would present itself and not being properly clothed, we decline. They give us the nature tour instead. We will puzzle for days as to how the U.S. Forest Service can provide this service in such a lightly traveled area.

                                                            Meurelle Islands Anchorage

The next day finds us in the Meurelle Islands, where we have to wind our way through a rocky gap to get into the islet studded anchorage. It's nerve racking, with only a few feet between the boat and jagged rocks. The next morning, DreamWeaver leads the way and we hit a large kelp bed which wraps around keel and rudder. To keep away from the rocks we drag the whole thing out to deeper water and spend 20 minutes backing up in circles to try and dislodge the mess. A coast Guard boat goes by, likely thinking - “there's something somewhat off with Canadians”.

Juneau to Glacier Bay

Last Leg to Glacier Bay

The air drips thick with moisture as we leave Juneau. We dodge a massive cruise ship entering the harbour as we retrace our steps back to Stephen's Passage. By noon the sky brightens and a soft wind catches our sail on a following sea. We glide silently northward to Admiralty Cove, a pretty spot with grassy meadows. Perfect for grizzly bears (Alaskans call them brown bears).

                                            Lighthouse at Retreat Point, Chatham Sound

                                                            

The bears are a no-show but eagles are everywhere. We watch as one strikes the water to grab a surfacing fish. The eagle, however, does not take off again, but lies in the water, floundering. We have heard of this – the fish too heavy and the bird unable to release its talons. It either drowns or flaps its way to shore.

“Save it, Larry!” Pam calls out, not yet realizing that the other crew member lacks the courage to row over and grasp on to a thrashing eagle. But after disappearing momentarily in the water, the eagle flies off to a nearby tree, without the fish, where it sheepishly shakes the water from its sodden feathers.

Lazily, we pass the afternoon, reading and listening to whales blowing at the mouth of the bay. The sun slowly sinks behind the snowy mountains and we realize, with the long northern days, that the sky never truly darkens, even in the middle of night.

The next day's journey is thick with whales ..... and tour boats. We linger only briefly, not wanting to be part of the gawking crowd. As we round Retreat Point, the tour boats vanish in the distance. Melody, following behind, becomes surrounded by a pod of Orca, our first sighting in Alaska.

                                                          Feeding in Stephen's Passage

We arrive in Funter Bay for lunch .... lunch for the famous Alaska deer flies. They are everywhere, eager for flesh. Yikes! We zip ourselves in behind the cockpit enclosure and install the window screens.

It's showtime! The next morning, nine large humpbacks greet us at the bay's entrance and use the two boats as a centerpiece for their breakfast table. They roll out of the water, blowing jet streams high in the air, before lazily flipping their huge flukes and starting another deep dive. Sometimes, several heads emerge simultaneously from the water, like synchronized swimmers, before sinking back into their own turbulence. Salmon leap from the water, even though they are not the intended prey. We shut off the engine and drift among them, so thankful for this experience.

                                                          Humpbacks off Funter Bay

After making our way into rock-infested but beautiful Couverdon Bay for the night, we go ashore to pick sea asparagus for dinner. Meals on DreamWeaver are not too shabby. Pam bakes bread, muffins, cookies and gourmet meals. Having the freezer aboard helps. Often we share baked goods with Melody. That night, we have sesame/honey braised duck breast with stir fried garlic sea asparagus. Exquisite!

Icy Strait towards Glacier Bay 

Hoonah is home of the Huna Ttlingit (pronounced klink-it) people and the largest native settlement in Alaska. The name means “a place sheltered from wind”. It has a scruffy northern look and a lot of fish boats. Somebody told us that Hoonah had the best Halibut pizza in the world. Our search for this legendary pizza leads us to Capt. Dan and his wife, Hope, at the Misty Bay Lodge.  .

Huna Klingit Fishboat

“Just closed”, he says. “Electricity's too expensive to stay open if there's no customers”. We obviously looked devastated because he offers to drive up up the road to the competition. “Barb can cook anything”, he explains. Capt. Dan tells a story a minute on the short drive there. A true Alaskan. We don't see Halibut pizza on the menu there, but are introduced to Barb, the chef.

“Sure, I can make a Halibut pizza”, she exclaims. “What do you want on it?” We complete a negotiation on the ingredients and order up some Alaskan White Ale. If this was the “back-up” pizza, we'll have to come back for the real one. It was that good. An hour later we learn that Capt. Dan is waiting in the bar to drive us back to the dock. We are overwhelmed by the hospitality.

Back at the dock, our neighbour boat from Seattle has just caught a large halibut. With insufficient room to keep it, they give each of us large bags of fresh halibut. What a great end to the day.

After leaving Hoonah and overnighting off a shallow spit at Pleasant Island, we radio to Park Headquarters in Bartlett Cove to receive clearance to enter the park. After verifying our permit, they issue instructions.

“Stay one mile offshore, otherwise in mid-channel. Do not exceed 15 knots. Alter course if whales appear and maintain a distance of ¼ mile. Report for your orientation at 1100 hours.” We look at each other, feeling like army recruits in a boot camp.

But the orientation is warm and fuzzy, the pamphlets and video great and the long list of regulations reasonable. As it turns out, shoreline rules only applied to the “Blue Zone”, the first section of the park with a high concentration of feeding whales.

                                                        Mt. Fairweather in Glacier Bay

We're here!

Glacier Bay Wonders

Glacier Park is a 25 million-acre World Heritage Site and one of the world's largest protected natural areas. Less than 300 years ago it was completely covered by ice, a remnant of the last ice age. Because of this, it is a living journey back through time. As the glaciers retreat, leaving a landscape scraped clear to bare rock, one witnesses nature reclaim itself with different kinds of vegetation. The first growth to appear is lichen which looks like velvet covering the huge glacier rocks.

On our first morning in the park, the sun breaks through the cloud cover, illuminating the snow-capped mountains. They look like crystal lanterns strung in a row. After a 2-hour trip to the head of Giekie Inlet, we go north to John Hopkins Inlet, through ice floes to within 7 miles of the glacier of the same name. It is the only advancing glacier in the bay and is full of birthing seals. For this reason, it is closed to all traffic, although we don't think the thick ice would allow us further transit. The view, even from 6 miles away, takes our breath away.

                                                             John Hopkins Glacier

Two more glaciers to go for the day – Reid and Lamplough, then we snug in for the night behind Russell Island next to large shoal of gravel deposited by a now-departed glacier. The sound of cascading distance water falls lull us to sleep.

                                                     DreamWeaver at Lamplough Glacier

The next morning gets even better. We head into Tarr Inlet, smothered in crystal air and brilliant sunshine. Margarie and Grand Pacific Glaciers lay ahead. But first we must again navigate 6 miles of floating ice, slalom-like, sometimes coasting in neutral to avoid hitting ice with a spinning prop.

                                                        Close up to Margarie Glacier

Margarie is a 250 feet high and one mile wide, a stable glacier that flows into the sea at the rate of 8 feet per day, continually calving off its daily ice into the inlet. It shimmers shades of white and blue. We are careful not to advance too close because calving ice can create a tidal wave big enough to capsize a small boat. We shut off the engine and drift in silence, that being broken every few minutes with thunder-like cracks and explosions within the ice as the stress of glacial movement gives way. We realize now that the thunder we thought we heard last night was actually the glacier, 6 miles away.

Adjacent is the Grand Pacific Glacier, which recedes 35 miles back into Canada. Its face is black and sinister looking because of the silt and rock it leaves behind as it recedes. Its beauty is in the swirling ice currents that flow around the encompassed mountains, making it appear extra-terrestrial.

                                          Looking into Canada past Grand Pacific Glacier

Back in our earthly reality, we note from our instruments that our global position is latitude north 59 degrees 62 minutes, our most northerly route in our journey. We have traveled 1350 nautical miles since home port.

We anchor in late afternoon in Blue Mouse Cove, looking across at the soaring peak of July Fourth Mountain. A large grizzly bear ambles along the rocky shore, a lone humpback feeds off our port side and two harbour porpoises cruise by. Like a nature show. That night, clouds roll in and a soft rain begins to fall. Mountains recede into the mist grey predominates. We decide that the next day is one of non-travel. No sensory stimulation, just lolling in the cockpit resting. 

However, the whales have other plans. A mother and calf enter the cove to feed for the day, cruising a pattern that often brings them close to DreamWeaver. Each time we scramble, camera in hand, looking for the National Geographic photo. But the whales always take us by surprise, going deep, then shooting out of the water close by, mouths open or giant flippers waving. The shutter clicks on empty water. A calf breaks away and heads for the boat, We see his body just below the surface alongside DreamWeaver, he pauses and moves to the stern. Pam yells, “Oh my god! Oh, my god!”, as his 35 feet brushes by, inches from our hull.

                                                                         Sail Past

"Look at the baby", she calls out.

"That's the baby?" Larry answered. "There's a bigger one?

Part fear and part exhilaration as we watch in awe as the baby reunites with his mother. We believe he was as startled as much as we were.

                                                     Close Encounters of the Whale Kind

As if that is not enough two more whales come in, another mother and calf. The show extends into evening, nearly 4 hours of feeding and watching these magnificent mammals eat their fill.  Terns squawk and hover over the whales as they stir up food for them. We settle down in the aft cabin, nestled in with our books, and hear one last spout of a whale perhaps saying 'good night', then all is quiet.

By the 4^th day in the park, the weather continues to worsen, so we head back to Bartlett Cove in preparation to head south. We feel that we have seen everything, in the best of conditions. But the park has one more presentation. Marble Island has a large colony of Steller Sea Lions, as well as hundreds of Pelagic Cormorants and Arctic Terns. We hear the sea lions before we see them – roaring, snorting and grunting. They look like large brown sausages lolling on the rocks, the huge 2000 pound males in the centre, bellowing loudly with heads held high. Kings of the rock. The younger ones frolic in the deep water, leaping and twirling, like ballerinas. A young male – a sentry? - swims to the boat, looks us straight in the eye and snorts loudly. “Piss off!”, he seems to say.

 

                                                           Marble Island - Glacier Bay

We pry ourselves away, and pass back through the Blue Zone, dodging countless whales, who don't seem to respect the “boat zone”. It's Helen's birthday, so we walk the nature trail and enjoy a meal at the Glacier Bay Lodge.

The next day, the winds have reached 20 knots, with tidal conditions that prevent our planned trip west out to Cross Sound and the open ocean side of Chichagof Island. We stay in port to wait it out.

Glacier Bay has more than met our expectations. It was worth the many long days and miles of travel to reach this destination. Pictures and words cannot fully convey the wonder and awe we have experienced within Glacier Bay. It is a memory deeply embedded to bring out at future times when we reminisce about this magical place where evolution is occurring before our eyes.

Ketchikan to Juneau

Wrangell

With over 300 miles to Glacier Bay we are happy to leave Ketchikan and resume our progress northward. Low cloud and drizzle are creeping in, so we decide to leave the larger Clarence Strait, where waters can get rough, and take the less traveled route through Ernest Sound, then up through Zimovia Strait to Wrangell. Wrangell looks and feels like the wild west as the name might imply. The Tlingit Nation occupied the site for generations, before the arrival of the Russians, British and then Americans. Being situated off the delta of the Stikine River, it became the gateway to several gold rushes. We stay overnight at the dock, explore yet more totems and have bad pizza in an dark, stuffy American-style bar. All part of the experience.

                                                                                    Tlingit totem in Wrangell

Leaving the harbour in the morning, the water turns from icy green to murky brown, as if someone had drawn a line through the water. This is due to the silty runoff from the mighty Stikine River. These unusual sea colours are due to the fact that fresh water floats on salt water, so we are always sailing over the top layer of fresh water. We speculate that the boat must travel faster in the less dense fresh water.

Two hours later we enter Wrangell Narrows, a 22 mile narrow, twisting waterway with fast currents and turbulent rip tides made worse by the huge spring tide changes of almost 20 feet. With 66 channel

markers to negotiate, we feel we are in a real life video game of Pac Boat. As luck would treat us, we don't encounter the expected Alaska State Ferry, which occupies the entire channel on its trip through.

                                                                  Negotiating the Narrows in the mist and rain

Petersburg

Facts about Petersburg. Annual precipitation is 109 inches. That's wet. In late June there are 18 hours of daylight (Pam wears a eye mask in order to sleep). Norwegian is cool. Fish rule.

Of course we arrive in the rain and set out to explore the town of 3000 people. We ask about all the Norwegian flags and are told that Norwegian settlers first came here in 1897, attracted to the very lucrative fishery. The harbour master tells us that most people who come here eventually become Norwegian. But back to fish. The town smells like fish, and fish boats come and go constantly, disgorging their catches. We set off to find fresh halibut for dinner, but find the price is $25 per pound. Huh! We left the dock without halibut. Later, we sit in the cockpit, looking at the grimy dock, taking in the scene – fishermen yelling back and forth to each other with cheerful banter, motors from the processing plants humming, the clanking and banging of tools making repairs. Is this the real Alaska?

While enjoying our glass of wine at “Yard Arm” (theoretically, the end of day drink happens as the sun passes over the yardarm but have adjusted the time drastically to suit the needs of the retired and the Alaska daylight hours), we realize that we have now passed the 1000 mile mark, which represents over 200 hours at the helm. Unlike open ocean cruising, one really does have to be at the helm at all times. Speaking tedium, we wonder what life is like in the winter in this rough-edged town, where isolation, constant rain and long dark nights must cast a gloom over the human psyche.

The following two days it rains. We bail 20 liters of water from dingy twice a day. In Portage Bay, huge 10 meter long seaweed drifts in, wrapping itself around anchor chain and rudder, requiring the use of the boat hook to unwrap the long tendrils. We decide to stay there the day, taking a “weather day” because the heavy rain makes navigation difficult. But by afternoon, the rain stops and we catch a fast current north, making 8 knots to Cleveland Passage.

Leaving there the next morning, the clouds pull back, allowing the sun to dry the sodden air. Two pair of Humpbacks feed off our port and starboard , their giant flukes gracefully sliding under the glassy water. Later, a pod of Dall Porpoises converge on us, taking turns to “ride the bow”, a playful ritual whereby they swim inches off our bow, just under the surface, then breaking out to leap out of the water. Larry dances on the bow with camera, trying to catch a photo, while Pam frantically points in all directions, trying to keep track of our fast moving friends.

                                                                  A daily occurrence – the fluke of a humpback

As we enter Tracy Arm, we are greeted by large chunks of floating ice called “Growlers”, small icebergs up to house size. Tentatively, we creep closer to take a photo of the crystal green translucence of a bigger one. Hundreds of Harlequin ducks and a large group of bald eagles greet us into the anchorage at the mouth of the arm. This will be our “base camp” for the next day's 10-hour round trip into Sawyer Glacier. In Tracy Arm there are no anchorages.

We pray for sun the next day to view the glaciers, as most boaters experience heavy fog and rain. The gods bless us again - at 5 a.m. the sun streams into the cabin, gently waking us. We negotiate around a large growler to exit the anchorage.. Camera shutters click. Over the next few hours the ice pieces increase in number, including thousands of “bergy bits”, smaller than growlers, but still big enough to do serious damage to propeller or rudder. Massive rock walls rise on both sides of the channel. 

                                                               Tracy Arm with M/V “Swell”, a dive boat from Nanaimo

                                                                                Tracy Arm - pausing to reflect

                                                               Amidst the bergs in Tracy Arm – Sawyer Glacier

By the time we reach the fork in the channel, it is apparent that the channel to North Sawyer Glacier to blocked with ice. Melody tries a north route to get to South Sawyer and we try the south. They disappear and reappear amongst the ice. Black spots on ice floes turn out to be seals giving birth to pups. We creep closer, in awe at what we are experiencing.

                                                                    Seals birthing at foot of Sawyer Glacier

                                                                                      Seal with new born pup

North Sawyer Glacier comes into view, as high as a 30 story building, like a crystal dragon creeping through the mountains to the water's edge. We shut off the engine and drift silently among the ice floes. It's like floating around in a giant margarita. We do not talk – there is nothing to be said.

Our two boats eventually reunite and we sit, floating, engines silent listening to the crackling of the icebergs shifting and breaking around us. We do not want to break the spell. Around the corner, not 500 meters away, the bow of a huge cruise emerges grotesque in its size in such a beautiful place. The name is Carnival Spirit. We all laugh - the spell is broken, but not forgotten.

                                                                                        Eagles on a cool perch

The next day, we weave around a large iceberg upon which 9 eagles are perched. Click! Click! Then another pair of humpback whales. Not wanting to arrive in Juneau in late day, we stop in Taku Harbor. Being Friday night, the dock fills up with week-enders from Juneau. It's party time at the dock. We get in the spirit, as does a brown bear, who hovers around the top of the dock ramp. What fun!

To get into Juneau we must pass under a bridge that specifies a 52 foot clearance on the chart. Our mast is 52 feet high, so we read what information we have in order to find out what this means. 52 foot clearance at low tide? High tide? Oh, but Americans calculate tides differently than we do, and for the life us we can't figure it out. A local at the dock advises that a recent survey of the bridge discovered that the clearance was actually out by 2 feet but she couldn't remember which way the error was. Alas, a sail boat arrives skippered by the just retired Juneau port manager who explains everything to us. We'll be fine at the minus tide for next morning.. Everyone groans because low tide is at 0930 so we have to leave Taku at 0600 to get there in time.

Juneau is the capital of Alaska. It's busy with fish boats and cruise ships, but otherwise drab on a rainy day. But the laundry is done, the galley restocked, the cabin vacuumed,and water and fuel tanks filled. Tomorrow we begin the last leg to Glacier Bay, with lots of time to meet our June 25th entry date.