Pacific NW

Expeditions

Several inches of snow covered the decks of Silent Partner this morning. Daylight came as a relief (as always) after a night of standing watch. Christoph and I stoked the fire and played a heated game of scrabble at dawn, and cooked up some oats and grits. Immediately after the last letter had been played in our game, what we had been waiting and watching for all night, happened: the remainder of the ice sheet broke apart. Ice grated against the hull for a few seconds and then we broke clear of the sheet, drifting down the inlet. “That’s our cue to leave” I remarked to Christoph, and I hurriedly dressed and manned the helm. Our plan was to watch the Sawyer glacier again all day, but we were thwarted in several ways. A vast part of the ice sheet had drifted all the way to the other end of the inlet, choking the entrance to the north arm and Sawyer glacier. We came to yet another grinding halt as the ice became too thick to break. We backtracked several miles and found a small route through to the north arm finally. But once inside, a wind picked up and carried us through the dense iceberg field in front of the glacier. It was too windy for safe navigation, as we were slamming into larger and larger blocks of ice in the wind. We soon retreated from the inlet, but were met, once again, by the ice sheet. It had shifted and was now completely blocking our exit from Tracy Arm. Trapped! Lee and Christoph chopped away at the ice sheet in front of the boat, and we made an attempt at breaking a channel through. The wind picked up more and hampered our efforts, but eventually we were able to cleave the mighty ice sheet in two, and gained open water once again. Once in the the main arm, we were greeted by a blizzard and white-out conditions. Numerous icebergs materialized out of the whiteness, creating a hazard to navigation. We reduced speed, frequently clearing the dodger of ice and snow. Toward late afternoon we made it back to Tracy Arm Cove, and it turned into a nice evening. Our fourth night in this cove, and it is beginning to feel like home! Lee and I went to shore and explored a forest with massive spruce trees. I hiked up a small river, climbed a spruce tree, and watched the mountain peaks turn orange and pink with the setting sun from my perch.

In the spirit of my personal hero Sir Ernest Shackleton, we set out to lodge ourselves in the ice sheet for the night at the head of Tracy Arm. In doing so, it would give us two more days to watch the Sawyer glacier. I cooked up some grits for breakfast, and the sun came out and gave us another fantastic run up Tracy Arm. We paused for a half hour or so to take photos of Silent Partner next to one of the bigger icebergs. Sawyer glacier wasn’t nearly as active today, though anything would be anticlimactic after our last experience there! A bit of wind picked up and hampered safe navigation in the ice flow. As we retreated to the ice sheet, large portions of the Sawyer’s face let go. As we exited the glacial canyon, we picked up chunks of ice onto the boat from amongst the pack of growlers and brash ice. The most prized chunks were those that were from the blue ice, which contained no air bubbles at all and were almost invisible in the water. Lee snagged a few small ones, and then we got a bit carried away. Soon we were hoisting up chunks that were on the verge of being too heavy to heave into the cockpit. Finally, we rigged up a 5:1 block and tackle from the end of the boom and began hoisting enormous blocks of ice into the cockpit, until it was completely full to the brim! If anything, it was a great man-overboard exercise in how to hoist a “person” out of the water, and we all had a hell of a lot of fun doing it. Perhaps all this ice is making us all a little insane. Later on, after tiring of having all the inconvenience of a boatload of huge ice blocks, we threw them back overboard. I had to take my axe to them and chop them into smaller manageable pieces so we could lift them out of the cockpit! Once again we broke a path through the ice sheet until we could go no further. Next, we chopped two holes in the ice off our bow, and lashed Lee’s iceberg poles to the bow, passing them through the holes in the ice. We had a great view of the glacier, and it was a thrill to be in the middle of the immense ice sheet! I started a blazing fire in the woodstove, and Christoph and I played a game of cribbage while Lee cooked up some beans and potatoes. After dinner we stepped out onto the deck and saw one of the most amazing and weird things I’ve ever seen. Darkness had set in, and it had begun to snow, so it was almost pitch black. But from underneath the ice, patches of bioluminescence were lighting up, making the whole ice sheet glow from within, with an eerie blinking pattern! Each patch was 2-3 feet in diameter, giving off a brilliant light– it was the brightest bioluminescence I’ve ever seen. The patches would remain lit for 3-5 seconds, and spread out in all directions from the boat as far as we could see through the darkness and snow. How strange! Later, with our remaining eggs and flour, we baked another huge chocolate chip cookie in the dutch oven. Suddenly, there was a sickening crunch as the boat lurched slightly in the ice pack, followed by a long grating of the ice rasping against the hull for about 10 seconds, and then…silence. I rushed out onto the deck and my worst fears were confirmed: the entire sheet of our port-hand side had broken free and was drifting away from the boat! A slight wind had picked up, putting a new strain on our ice pole anchors, which were now the only thing holding us to the main pack. The enormous sheet of ice on our port hand quickly drifted off and broke up in the night, leaving us with open water to possibly contend with. It would be a long night. I established a night watch rotation, and we took turns checking the anchors every 15 minutes, all night long through to the morning. I actually had quite a pleasant experience on my watch. We kept the wood fire going all night, and it snowed quite heavily for awhile. I turned on the anchor light and watched the snow swirl down and around the boat, the silence complete, save for the occasional groaning and popping as the ice sheet shifted. Watching the snow around the anchor light reminded me of how I used to watch the snow falling quietly in the street lights of Minneapolis at night. “Silent Partner’s” guardian angels proved true to us, and we held fast to the remainder of the sheet through the night. We were a tiny speck of warmth and light, surrounded by an immensity of ice and mile-high peaks, floating on water 1,200 feet deep, hundreds of miles in all directions from the middle of nowhere. For what it felt like, we may as well have been three astronauts, silently orbiting the dark side of the moon.

It was low tide when I awoke, and I rowed to shore to check out the first set of rapids that we would need to transit to exit the narrows. Since it was a spring tide and lower than average, exiting Ford’s Terror could only be done during the 5 minutes of high water slack. I hadn’t anticipated this unknown second set of rapids, and it threw a wrench in my plans, as there was a traveling distance of about 40 minutes between the two rapids. This first set, though the weaker of the two, was foaming with white water this morning. We prepared the boat to enter just as it was weak enough to get through. Christoph and Lee were able to do a very good bow watch as I gunned the engine full out into it, and we proceeded at barely under one knot. Our boat speed crept down to 0.0 knots for a few seconds, and I was about to abort the first mission. But slowly we gained speed, tenth of a knot by tenth of a knot, until we escaped the clutches of the rapids and we were on our way, speeding toward the second set to be there at slack. We were early, but better early than late! I wanted to get out into Endicott Arm so that we could cruise down to the Dawes Glacier for a few hours before sunset, and motor back in the dark to Tracy Arm Cove. It was already 1400, meaning we would only have a few hours to watch the glacier before sunset. I have often dreamed of laying eyes on the Dawes Glacier ever since weather forced us away from it in 2003. Finally, we traversed the second set of rapids without incident, and cleared the shoals and uncharted rocks. I sounded the air horn in victory as we exited the canyon. Out in Endicott Arm, we were met by many huge icebergs that had recently calved off of Dawes Glacier. They weren’t there when we had entered and my heart sank. I knew navigating at night in foul weather amongst all the huge icebergs would be extremely foolish, but we were so close to the glacier, only 12 miles! I refused to let my pride supercede good judgement, and made one of the toughest calls I have ever made on the water. We headed back to Tracy Arm Cove in daylight and safety, leaving behind the glacier. In doing so, we eliminated the opportunity of seeing it tomorrow due to fuel consumption and trip logistics. While extremely disappointed, I gained a deep feeling of satisfaction for having made the right choice. It always pays off to listen to your gut feelings. It just didn’t feel right to me to make that south turn to the glacier. Mother nature’s schedule once again wouldn’t allow for a trip to Dawes Glacier, and it will remain in my mind, for now, an exciting mystery.

Lazy day! I took my time this morning and cooked up some blueberry johnny-cakes. The bay was glassy calm and offered perfect reflections of the cliffs and mountains. Despite being another sunny day, most of it was spent in the shadows. The canyon is so narrow and the mountains so tall that there is very little sky visible from the bottom. From about 1100 to 1300 the sun crested the ridges, skirted their tops, then sank below again. We idled over to the eastern arm of the”T” shaped canyon, using extreme caution as these are uncharted waters. We encountered yet another set of tidal rapids as we got sucked into the inner sanctuary of the east arm and crossed a shallow bar that got me very nervous as the depth sounder rose to a mere 7 feet below our keel. We anchored in a small cove and observed a sharp drop in the barometer. I tied a line completely across the 500 foot wide cove to two trees, and moored the boat to this line, as well as putting out our storm anchor. We enjoyed the rest of the calm afternoon reading, snacking and listening to the occasional avalanche echo from the canyon walls. Lee went off up the mountain and saw two mountain goats. Tonight I made three pizzas for our dinner. Pizza is my new favorite meal to cook (and eat!) on the boat.

Lee pulled up yet another empty crab trap this morning, save for a few whelks and starfish. I admire his persistence and wish he could get more crabs, but we seem to be choosing anchorages where there are few. Nonetheless, he faithfully rows out each evening and goes through the rigamarole of setting and hauling the trap. We got a lazy 0800 hrs start this morning and motored over to Endicott Arm. Another clear day, wow! It’s getting a little scarey now! My tide tables indicated high water slack for 12:30 hrs, which is what we needed to transit the tidal rapids that lead into Ford’s Terror, our destination. Entering the inner basin, I was horrified to see a wall of white water that seemed to drop 10 feet or so, rushing into the inlet! Ford’s Terror is unsurveyed water, and the entrance has many rocks, shoals, and serious rapids. All we were going by was our depth sounder and a rough hand-drawn diagram of the general area. We proceeded at one knot of speed over to the entrance of the rapids, where we anchored temporarily to wait for slack water. I set out in Modulus and rowed to shore so I could get a good view of the rapids. As I stepped out onto the shore, my radio fell into the salt water and was instantly fried. All contact with the mothership had been severed! I set out overland through thick brush and briars, up a ridge and many cliffs until I crested the summit and could see the rapids. When I saw them, I instantly had to relieve myself! A torrent of solid whitewater was rushing through the narrow canyon, about 1/4 mile long! It was flowing at least 16 knots, if not faster. Unbelievable. “I’m supposed to take my boat through this??!” I thought to myself. I sat on the ridge and studied the rapids for forty minutes or so, waiting for signs of slowing down. Suddenly and literally all at once, the boiling and seething white water halted. Slack water came fast! And I had to act fast to get back to the boat before it reversed! I bolted off the ridge and plowed through the brush, throwing my bag to the base of a cliff and jumping down after it. Once in Modulus, I pulled for all I was worth on the oars. Silent Partner was the picture of leisure when I returned. Christoph was washing dishes in the cockpit and Lee had a fire going in the stove. “Raise the anchor and start the engine!” I yelled from afar. Sweating profusely, I leapt into the boat and we raced into the rapids. Just in time! By the time we got through it was already coming in strong against us. True slack must have lasted a minute or so! We had gained the inner chamber. Massive, towering verticle walls a mile tall lined the entire four mile canyon that led to our anchorage. We were locked in, in one of SE Alaska’s most remote, uncharted places. No VHF radio reception, and satellite reception was spotty. I will not even attempt to describe how sublime the scenery was inside Ford’s Terror. It gave me a feeling of extreme privilege just being there. We couldn’t wipe the smiles from our faces. When Silent Partner brings me into a place like this, I am always struck by this fact: I am surrounded by ever-changing sheer beauty and incredible natural phenomena, and yet my whole home is right there with it! If I get cold, I can go down below and dig out my favorite sweater, or get a drink of OJ, or pull a book from my bookshelf. All while being in the most amazing places on this planet. Simple pleasures! I love Silent Partner, and today she has taken us to an exceptional place. We anchored off a steep-to mud flat at the head of the west arm of Ford’s Terror. The only sounds we heard were the gentle rush of the waterfall, a kingfisher, and avalanches coming off the 6,000 foot tall cliffs. For the rest of the afternoon we had soup and sandwiches and potato chips, eaten in the cockpit as we craned our necks to view the mountains above us, and just relaxed.

Unaware of the colossal events that were to unfold before us later in the day, we rose at 0400 hours and set out from the cove, bound for the glaciers 21 miles away at the head of Tracy Arm. A bitter cold wind blasted down from the valley for the first few hours, but the scenery was out of this world. Despite the cold we felt compelled to stand up above the dodger and crane our necks skyward so we could gaze at the peaks high above. Everywhere, massive domes and solid granite slab rock ascended nearly vertical from the waterline to heights averaging 6,000 feet. Even 10 feet from shore, the depth sounder displayed a blank screen, too deep to take a reading. Further up this marine canyon, the water turned a deep emerald green color (due to glacial silt), snow-level dropped to sea-level, and we started seeing icebergs. The icebergs in Tracy Arm are spawned from the two enormous tidewater glaciers at its head, “Sawyer” and “South Sawyer” glaciers. It was a wonderful 21 mile trip as we snaked our way through the canyon, weaving around icebergs that grew more numerous as we approached the glaciers. We first attempted an approach to South Sawyer glacier, but to no avail. We were met by a vast sheet of ice that stretched out some 3 miles from the face of the glacier. The edge of the sheet was quite thin, and Silent Partner did her best to break through. For a mile or so we plowed through the sheet, our wake a 9 foot wide trail of open water and chips of ice that sounded like glass breaking as we passed through it. Eventually the ice thickened and we had to reduce speed. We then reached a point where the bow was unable to part the ice, and the boat slowly rose up on the sheet and came to a gentle stop. We had reached the end of the road, a mere 2 miles from the face of the glacier. The icebergs coming out of the arm, however, held the promise of an open route to the Sawyer glacier. We turned around and hacked another channel out of the ice field. The approach to Sawyer glacier is a narrow slot, choked with pack ice, with boulders that cascade into the water from the unstable moraine fields high above. Using the poles that Lee had cut yesterday, Lee and Christoph were able to push the smaller chunks of ice–brash ice and growlers, away from the boat. The ice field became quite thick, and we proceeded at .5 to 1 knot of boat speed for the last mile until we were, at last, near the face of the glacier. To attempt a description of what it was like to be next to a tidewater glacier would be impossible. A verticle wall of blue ice, 250+ feet tall, commanded the entire view. We were dwarfed by its immensity. Occasionally, car and house-size chunks of ice would crack off the face, creating roaring and booming noises that resounded throughout the ampitheater of ice, echoing off the canyon walls, and sending out plumes of spray and large waves. Sometimes the glacier would send forth deep rumblings from within, as it pushed its way to the sea. It sounded like some giant gears being set into motion, and created quite a bit of seismic activity. We spent the whole afternoon drifting in the ice pack and enjoying the sounds and constant barrage of the falling ice. The weather was cooperating fully- sunny and not a hint of wind. Suddenly, a few large chunks of ice let go near the top of a monolithic ice column, followed by larger and larger chunks. The noise increased to a deafening roar as torrents of house-sized chunks fell from the column, sending forth such a spray I still cannot believe. I remember looking up and seeing a huge grey cloud of ice missiles and dust, which almost blocked the view of the glacier itself, save for the very top. Then, slowly, the top of the column shifted to the right and began swinging out like a giagantic pendulum. The entire column was coming down. For a second or so, I stood frozen and in awe of the forces that were being set into motion. We were in a relatively safe position, but I still needed to take immediate action to ensure our safety. None of us remember exactly what it sounded like when the column came down. I think we were all yelling, trying to hear each other above the deafening roar. As I put the boat into gear I saw the first shock wave erupt out from the cloud of ice. It was a wall of water and icebergs 15 feet or taller. Silent Partner was smartly positioned behind a thick field of ice, which dampened all the breaking effects of the shock waves, but I still had to prepare for the surge. I made my message clear–“Get inside the boat NOW!” I yelled. I took the first swell head on, as the boat was elevated 20 feet, then turned her around and proceeded full-out down my pre-planned “emergency exit” route. The first wave of ice, a tumbling 10 foot wall, pressed outward from the impact zone at about 50 knots of speed. We rode the next series of shock swells clear out of the bay, where we remained for half an hour until things settled down and the new ice packs and currents established their new patterns. We could find no words to communicate the events that had just taken place. After a few gasping laughs and congratulating each other, we just described and re-described the collapse to each other, over and over again for the rest of the day. But the day wasn’t over yet! A few hours later, the familiar ice chunks again began to rain down, this time from an ice cave on the far right-hand side of the glacier. As we watched in disbelief, the entire cave and right-hand side disintegrated into the thousand- foot deep waters below. “We’re safe here, we’re safe!” I screamed to Lee and Christoph. I wanted them to enjoy to its fullest this equally-enormous collapse. We were further from the fall-out area, but still were effected by the surge. I put the boat into gear and said “She’s coming down, gentlemen, it’s time to leave”. Silent Partner proudly and victoriously rode the shock waves out of the canyon, as it filled in and was completely choked with new icebergs. “It’s time to go home, boys”. On our way out, we stopped by a waterfall that had grabbed our attention. Earlier, we saw many boulders falling near its base. Hundreds of large rocks were being shot out into the water. They sounded like rapid-fire gunshot as the boulders belly-flopped from 1,000 feet above. It was a perfect end to our day. We motored back in triumph to our anchorage at the head of the bay, having proudly witnessed first-hand mother nature at her most intense state. At anchor, Lee prepared a delicious carrot soup, and we sat up late around the wood stove, recounting the events of the day.

Christoph and I saw, perhaps, one of the finest moon-sets ever this morning from the middle of Frederick Sound. It sank almost full into the snowy pinnacles of Admiralty Island, until it looked like a glowing dome of snow itself. Simultaneously, the sun was rising and lighting all the mountains up a soft pink and orange color. Admiralty Island holds one of the highest concentrations of grizzly bears in the world. Native Americans used to call the island “Fortress of the Bears”. As we rounded Cape Fanshaw, I cooked up some blueberry johnny cakes for breakfast. After gaining the cape, we were bombarded by dolphins. One pod shot toward us, and alerted other pods. Soon, pods were closing in from all quadrants, barraging the boat with plumes of spray. They completely surrounded the boat for 10 or 15 minutes, then disappeared as quickly as they came. Later in the afternoon a strong head sea developed, and we took it on the nose for the rest of the day, pounding into breaking rollers. We fought our way into Holklam Bay in the late afternoon, where we plan on spending the next week exploring it’s two great arms, Tracy and Endicott Arm. I turned on some Beethoven really loud as we entered the bay, which is dominated by 6,666 ft Mt. Sumdum and the Sumdum glacier. We enjoyed the rest of the day in a calm anchorage called Tracy Arm Cove, and rowed to shore to explore the mountains and rivers. Lee cut some trees and fashioned them into long pike-poles, which we will use to fend off the icebergs tomorrow when we enter the thick ice packs at the faces of the glaciers. We have had some green bananas on board ever since we bought them in Port Hardy, and they will not ripen. Now, they are showing signs of rot. Disgusted with the state of the bananas, we hung them from a string inside the cabin and let them swing around all day in the waves, bouncing off the bulkheads. And tonight, at sundown, Christoph and I keel-hauled them as punishment for not ripening properly. We each tied a line to the bunch, cast them overboard, and dragged them under the ship, from bow to stern. After dinner Christoph mashed them up and baked them into a delicious banana bread in the dutch oven. It was bon appetit! Tomorrow we will sail to the head of Tracy Arm to watch its tidewater glaciers calve chunks of ice into the sea. I am so excited I can hardly sleep, I feel like it’s Christmas Eve!

Lee’s Breezeway lived up to its name–very windy last night, williwaws sweeping down from the mountains above. It was much warmer this morning and we continued our transit of the narrows in sunshine. Around noon we reached Petersburg at the north end of the narrows. Petersburg is a fishing town set in a pristine setting and surrounded by towering peaks in all directions. Absolutely incredible! We obtained fuel, water, food, and temporary moorage, and spent a few hours walking around the town. Christoph found the best baseball diamond he’s ever seen, up above the town. The field was set up on a plateau with a line of jagged peaks as a backdrop for the outfield. Passing one house, we saw a strange sight: a dog that looked like half-wolf, half coyote, chained to a tree with two other dogs hanging dead from the branches above. I wanted to get a picture of this odd residential scene, but was too hesitant to produce my camera, lest the owners should emerge from the house. Only in Alaska! Leaving Petersburg, we swung out into the mighty Frederick Sound, and saw three of our firsts for the trip: the first glacier seen from the boat, the first iceberg, and (about time!) the first whales (orcas). This evening we are in Portage Bay, on the edge of Frederick Sound. Lee found some fresh wolf tracks on shore, and we had spaghetti for dinner. The bay is huge, shallow, and we are securely anchored in its center. Plenty of swinging room and dragging distance should the wind rise in the night. Silent Partner is so small and this country is so immense. Silent Partner is the center of our universe, a tiny capsule in which we carry out all of life’s necessities.

Early departure in the snow! Christoph and I awoke in the pre-dawn hours and got the boat under way to make the tides. Every morning Christoph faithfully hauls the anchor and scrubs the mud off it without complaint. It is a chilly early morning chore and I am lucky to have such good crew. Throughout the morning the snow thickened and we saw several pods of dolphins amongst the blizzard. We made our way past Anon Bay Bear Preserve, which has 25 resident grizzly and 40 resident black bears, and then we swung into the fabled “Eastern Passage”. The Eastern Passage is the least-travelled waterway between Ketchikan and Wrangell, and also the longest distance. We were rewarded by seeing the most incredible string of towering snow-covered mountains from one end of the passage to the other. At its north end, we came out by the Stikine river delta. The delta is so massive it took us 5 hours to sail across its mouth. Under the mainsail alone, we had another great tack westward across Sumner Strait and into Wrangell Narrows. The snow got really thick and we were hitting boat speeds of 9.5 knots in the strait. Wrangell Narrows looked like Christmas: green evergreen trees, red underbrush and seaweed, and white snow. It was very pleasant, and produced in me a deep feeling of contentment. We anchored behind a series of islands and reefs about 5 miles into the narrows. The wind and snow picked up to a fevered pitch later in the evening, and we named our anchorage “Lee’s Breezeway”. Tonight we are sitting close by the wood stove, it is a comfortable 75 degrees inside the cabin as the snow swirls outside. Christoph produced the most amazing dinner tonight! I was dozing off into a good dream when he placed before me a steaming plate of “Swimming Rama”. It was restaurant-quality, and I savored every bite.

The morning was again clear, with 25 knots of wind on our nose. Clarence Strait was ugly and we pounded into it for hours and hours, waves sweeping the deck, but we remained dry behind the dodger. It was our first taste of Alaska’s bigger, wider and windier waterways. Around 2PM we entered Ernest Sound and had a fantastic 22 mile tack into Santa Anna Inlet, where we spent the night. Thousands of moon jellyfish (non-stinging) filled the bay, looking like ghostly baseballs. Ice lined the shores, and an old rusting steam donkey lay neglected on the beach. Near sundown we explored on foot a river that empties into our anchorage. The river led up to a lake, and what we found there stopped all three of us in our tracks, speechless. There, in the still evening twilight on the lake, were a dozen or so trumpeter swans. They called out as they slowly paddled around the lake, and their calls echoed and reverberated into the snow-covered mountains and hills beyond the lake. While I cannot find the words to describe it, I can say the whole scene and the echoing trumpet calls were sublime, they sent shivers down my back. I will never forget that sound, nor the effect it had on me. A truly amazing moment in time. We walked back to the boat in silence, and on the way Lee and I found a set of wolf fangs and teeth in the moss in the woods. For dinner we cooked a pizza of Alaskan proportions. It was so large that it continued to cook itself hours after we took it off the fire, and it was, of course, delicious.