Pacific NW

Expeditions

“Silent Partner” got her first taste of the Gulf of Alaska today. It marks a new era for her and in my sailing career. The Gulf demanded, and got, all of my humbled respect. I sprang out of my berth early after listening to a good forecast: we had a brief window in which to make it to Lituya Bay, 70 miles to the north. In the Strait we ghosted through thick fog banks and glossy waters. Every two minutes I blared the fog horn and listened for boat engines, and kept to the side of the channel. We were most likely the solitary vessel upon the waters again, as usual. An hour later the fog curled through the tops of the green spruce trees, revealing spectacular mountains in all quadrants. A brisk easterly kicked up against a flood tide as we transited Cross Sound, creating steep seas. We skirted Cape Spencer giving its rip tides a wide berth. It was a proud and bittersweet moment for me as we bid farewell to the Inside Passage and struck out into the wild, wild Gulf of Alaska. Almost immediately the landscape changed from the collosal mountains of SE Alaska to the impossible Fairweather Coast. I was blown away. An unbroken phalanx of towering pinnacles of rock and ice achieving heights of 19,000+ feet stretches hundreds of miles to the west and north. Near Cape Spencer we sailed by a sea arch 120 feet tall with 60 foot trees growing on top of it. The mountains behind it are so steep and windblown that not a speck of vegetation grow on them. At their base, in the water, we were buffeted by swells, williwaws, and a nasty chop developing from the east. As I gazed up at the arch and the striking coast I thought about cathedrals, lightening bolts, castles and church organs. Then the glacier country began. Countless gargantuan fields of ice cover hundreds of square miles, spilling from any one of the dozens of 10,000+ foot peaks. Many glaciers came right down to the sea face. Miles out to sea, where we were, the water contained so much silt that you couldn’t see the end of your pinky if you immersed it. The whole sea became a dull blue-gray cobalt color. Never before have I seen on such a massive scale such a dramatic display of natural forces in motion. At 1735 hrs under (thank god!) favorable conditions we transited “the chopper”, an extremely dangerous and finicky bar that leads into Lituya Bay. It has the reputation of having killed hundreds of people who got sucked into the swift tides of the narrows and grinding boats to pieces on the 30-foot wide boulders that make up the entire beach. We had an uneventful time with it, which is just the way I like things to go aboard “Silent Partner”. A fierce east wind funneled off the 13,000 foot peaks at the head of the bay and blasted out the entrance. However, we were thankful for relief from the swell, and sought refuge behind Cenotaph Island. We dropped our trusty storm anchor, the good old Forfjord, and all our chain, and held fast instantly. Held almost too well….The sweet smell of cottonwoods blew off the island to the boat. All through the night intense williwaws screamed down the inlet at a velocity “Silent Partner” has never known. It was maddening. Bleary-eyed I stared at the GPS all night and checked the anchor rode, which was bar-tight. Higher power granted us firm holding through the night, and we didn’t budge an inch. I slept fitfully.