HIGH on the SOUTHEAST
LISA COSTANTINO finds her groove in Alaska’s
Inside Passage.
THE MORNING BREAKS AMID ETHEREAL mists as we glide silently
through milky green waters. Near-vertical granite cliffs, some
reaching skyward to 2,000 feet, enclose us like a secret passageway.
It is a sunken-mountain landscape, and we're looking at the tops of
igneous peaks submerged by glacial force. From timberline to
shoreline, there's nothing but waterfalls, rock, trees, and fallen
clouds. This is Misty Fjords National Monument, and we're a day into
our voyage aboard Cruise West's 192-foot Spirit of '98. I lean on the
railing, breathe in cool wisps of air. Breakfast has yet to be served,
but already the decks have filled with Gore-Tex-clad sightseers,
binoculars at the ready.
My misgivings of yesterday, brought on by the rampant kitsch in
Ketchikan, our embarkation point, have vanished. That compact
town on the Tongass Narrows caters to thousands of visitors,
disgorged daily from up to seven cruise ships, who stampede into
souvenir shops to snap up ulu knives, fish-shaped oven mitts, and
mock moose-dropping candy. Venturing away from all that, I had
loitered on a bridge above Ketchikan Creek, watching fat salmon
wriggle their way upstream. Local color aside, my own agenda is
nature and wildlife, as much as can be stuffed into an eight-day
cruise.
Now we're passing a cliff face reminiscent of Yosemite's Half Dome,
except this sheer escarpment is streaked by rivulets discolored by
lichen, its face broken by shrubbery harboring the rookeries of
pigeon guillemots. Soon we're reentering Behm Canal and drifting by
New Eddystone Rock, a 230-foot volcanic formation protruding
through the fog, which slowly dissipates as we head into open water.
Midafternoon we approach Annette Island and dock at the Tsimshian
village of Metlakatla. As we rumble along in an old school bus, our
guide cites sources of community pride: the new ATM, a teen
center with computers, a seafood-processing company in operation
since 1891. There are 26 teachers in this close-knit community of
1,600, seven churches, and no fast-food joints. Eighty percent of
high-school grads go on to college. We pass the schoolhouse. Even
the idle teens wave at us.
We peruse the onetime home of William Duncan, the Anglican priest
who brought his Tsimshian flock here in 1887 and taught them to
thrive amid the social plagues brought by settlers, build Victorian-
style houses, and educate their children. He also stripped the
people of their names, language, religious expression, and traditions,
an act that has taken nearly a century to redress. Today Metlakatla
children learn traditional songs, arts, and dance, which we witness
in a performance at the village longhouse, decorated in the emblems
of the tribe's four clans.
The sun glitters on the bay as we endure the bumpy bus ride back.
We pass houses marked by modern totem poles. Christian symbology
holds a place in many of the carvings - right next to Raven, Eagle,
Killer Whale, and Wolf.
IF WE HADN'T SIGHTED PETERSBURG in the distance, we would have
smelled it first: In this, the nation's tenth-largest fish-producing
community, the scent of industry is powerful. Thanks to the
entrance through the aptly named Wrangell Narrows and the lack of
a deep-water dock, only smaller ships can call at this charming town
built on stilts, and that's just how the population of 3,300 seems to
like it. With a strong economy from fishing and fish processing (22
million one-pound cans of salmon a year), Petersburg doesn't vie for
tourism dollars as do Ketchikan and Skagway.
Eight of us set off in search of wild things down Mitkof Island's lone
highway. We pepper our guide Judy, an amateur naturalist, with
questions. How much rain do you get? 110 inches annually. How cold
does it get? Not too cold - 35° to 65° F. "Is that a clear-cut?"
someone asks, as we pass a field of stunted trees rising above a
blanket of moss. "That's not clear-cut, that's muskeg," Judy says.
"Here in the Tongass National Forest, ten percent of the land is
muskeg - peat bog."
We do two short hikes, one through temperate rain forest, where
Judy points out shore pine, Sitka and western spruce, elderberries
and blueberries, bracken and lady fern, cow parsnip and devils club,
an old beaver dam. The other takes us through soggy muskeg to the
Blind River Slough, which, on a sun-drenched afternoon, can move
you to tears with its exquisite beauty. Meadows of golden grass run
into stands of western hemlock; salmon and trout jump from the
sparkling stream. We spot bald eagles and a great blue heron, a
harbor seal and a kingfisher, a raven speaking in tongues. Then,
across the river, ambling along the banks, to our elation, a black
bear and her two cubs.
NEVER WAS THERE A MORE DRAMATIC office view than from my top-
deck patio table, where I've planted my laptop under the cloudless
sky. We're heading into Tracy Arm, a 30-mile-long, granite-lined chute
enclosing a sculpture garden of blue, white, gray, and crystal ice,
bobbing in opaque water that glimmers like an emerald. Sheer cliffs
bulge with hanging crescents and knobby outcroppings created by
water freezing in the cracks, then expanding until chunks of rock
break off and tumble into the sea.
For half an hour it's calm. Then, 17 miles in, the wind rises, whips the
ship 90 degrees, and deck chairs fly left and right. I clutch my
laptop, plant my legs wide, and laugh nervously at the thrill ride. It
seems the wind gods have pointed us in the direction we came. You
have to stay flexible in this land. Weather changes by the minute:
Yesterday, in the space of maybe two hours, we had a blanket of
fog, some clearing, clouds, a sprinkling of rain, a cool breeze, and
blazing sunshine.
Back in Stephens Passage, the vistas broaden and the decks clear. A
group from Australia chats in the salon; a couple from California plays
cards with their daughter and son-in-law. Two schoolteachers from
Phoenix swap tales with a British doctor. Many others, I suspect, are
snoozing. The afternoon is as delicious as can be. What could
possibly improve it? Orca. Not just one but 20 or more, traveling in
pods, riding the surface, exhaling great plumes of water. We're
enthralled, and even members of the crew steal moments between
tasks to snap photos.
The whales follow alongside us, splashing 100 feet or so from the
ship, and the day's wonders aren't over yet. As we approach Chatham
Strait, we turn away from the orca - and into a pod of humpbacks
that treat us to their own version of the Olympics: backstroke,
breach diving, synchronized fluke flips. We stay with them for hours,
engine off, rocking on the waves. Each breach wins enthusiastic
applause. The man to my left shouts, "Attaboy!" and cheers wildly.
When eventually the whales go their way, we go ours, to dinner, an
evening lecture on Native American art, and bed.
And then, at 10:57 PM, a call comes. "The Northern Lights are out!"
I stumble out of my cabin and up to the top deck. Above the
mountains, a misty, greenish glow is shifting shape, reaching high,
intensifying and dimming in the clear night sky. A hint of red edges
the brightest glow. Composed of electrons and positive ions, the
aurora pulls like iron filings toward the earth's magnetic field.
Watching the light pulsate, the tendrils starting at 70 miles above the
earth and extending upwards of 200 miles, is a thrill broken only by
the occasional flash of a meteor's tail.
Seeing the aurora borealis has always ranked high on my "must do
before I die" list. Now it ranks up there among all-time extraordinary
experiences - those that combine majesty and spiritual stirrings with
a delight in natural phenomena and the science behind them. After
today's whale show and now this, words like "lucky" and "blessed" and
"miracle" have become keywords to describing our experiences.
"If you weren't religious before this cruise," says the woman next to
me, in pajamas, not breaking her gaze from the lights, "you have to
be now." I nod. This is where science and religion coexist, in the
literal heavens.
AS A TOURIST DRAW, SITKA IS SOMEWHERE between Petersburg and
Ketchikan: Cruise ships visit here, but the residents limit their stops
by regularly voting down dock construction, leaving ships to park
offshore and tender visitors like us ashore. Ten of us don life jackets
and board an inflatable for the ride to Camp Coogan Bay. We get a
quick paddling lesson, wiggle into tandem kayaks, and cross the
tidewater cove's silky surface, disturbed only by the thrashing of
salmon darting out of our way. Our guide Neil plucks a sunflower sea
star from its rocky hold and passes it around. I feel its thousand-fold
tube feet exploring my hand. We near the bay's head, a wide tidal
flat oft-visited by bears, but today the meadow is empty save for a
swarm of dragonflies.
Neil points out Mount Edgecumbe, a snow-topped inactive volcano
and site of the region's most colorful April Fools prank. Apparently
local wag Porky Bikar got up early on April 1, 1974, hired a chopper
to help him transport hundreds of old tires to the top of the
volcano, then lit them on fire. Residents woke to see smoke billowing
from the mountaintop. The volcano was "erupting"!
We head back, our paddles increasingly orchestrated. A bald eagle
swoops overhead, alights on a branch, calls out in a strange croak. A
chipmunk chatters an alarm. We take it all in, dipping silently into
green glass.
A BLAZING SUN CAN SAP THE COLOR from a glacier, but it's a worthy
tradeoff. Our day at Glacier Bay National Park could not have
dawned more radiantly for what is, for many, the highlight of the
trip. Here the air is considerably cooler, golden leaves of alder and
cottonwood flutter in the green tapestry, and red huckleberry
bushes sparkle amid bronzed beach grass. Add to this the blue-gray
granite cliffs, the bottle-green water, an azure sky, and brilliant
white flecks of clouds above, ice below. You want to drink it up, a
visual elixir.
The big ships move in and out of Glacier Bay, typically making one
stop at Johns Hopkins or Margerie Glacier. Our little vessel stops
where it wants, for as long as it wants: at South Marble Island, rife
with sea lion and seabird colonies; near Sandy Cove, where we
watch a pair of mountain goats pick their way down granite
precipices to a narrow shore, then continue right into the water.
The 65-mile-long bay, buried and exposed by glacial ice over the
ages, opens benignly enough. But gradually the clusters of forest are
replaced by ice: small cirque and dramatic hanging glaciers, ice
fields, snow capping raw peaks. We maneuver through chunks that
grow larger the farther in we go. As we approach Johns Hopkins
Glacier, ice covers most of the water's surface; it looks like asphalt
covered in rubble and clods of dirt that turn out to be harbor seals,
hundreds of them, draping their fat bodies over small ice chunks.
The ship gently pushes through, and the seals slip into the water.
Blues and browns, deep ice and silt ribbon the glacier. The captain
cuts the engine, and almost immediately there's thunder in the ice.
We await the aftermath. A chunk splashes down and we cheer. This
is how the rest of the afternoon goes: We wait, hear a thunderous
crack, watch as ice plunges into the tidewater, and ride the rippling
repercussion.
AS SOON AS WE DOCK IN SKAGWAY I set off walking. It's not yet 8 AM,
and only one big ship has docked so far. Nearly everyone on the '98
has opted to ride the White Pass & Yukon Route Railway, but I need
to stretch and decide to do the two miles to Jewell Gardens on
foot. I wander on my own, savoring the morning amid dazzling flower
beds, giant broccoli heads, and rusting bed frames (relics from the
town's former red-light district) overflowing with nasturtiums.
By midday, Skagway's population of 860 will swell to 8,000. Haines, on
the other hand, is practically devoid of tourists when we arrive later
that afternoon. Sprawled pleasingly on the Lynn Canal, this town of
2,600 presents an alternative to Skagway's bustling commercialism.
Here the Chilkat band of Tlingits share real estate with descendants
of Fort Seward soldiers, wilderness guides, and a growing number of
artists and off-the-grid types. While galleries and army-barracks-
turned-B&Bs are the chief attractions, Haines' biggest claim to fame
lies about 20 miles to the north: the Chilkat River within the 48,000-
acre Alaska Chilkat Bald Eagle Preserve, home to the world's largest
bald eagle population. At the launch point, nine of us climb into a
jet boat and wrap up in waterproof blankets. We've finally hit the
steady rain we all expected.
The tour proves somewhat of a bust: Rather than an abundance of
moose, bears, and bald eagles, we see only a couple of the latter
and a pair of trumpeter swans. Still, the trip has its charms: the fog
lying low on the silty river, mountains bathed in chiaroscuro. On our
return, the affable tour operators give us a 50-percent discount and
steaming cups of hot chocolate.
JUNEAU LOOMS IN THE CABIN WINDOW bright and early. In a few
hours we'll be airborne, bound for home. But not just yet. My self-
imposed biggest challenge of the trip, glacier flightseeing, awaits me
at the other end of the airport. I suit up in cold-weather gear and
board a helicopter. Not the easiest of fliers, I'm a little nervous. I've
never tackled helicopter flight before.
Climbing quickly in altitude, we whirr toward the Mendenhall,
Juneau's claim to glacier fame and one piece of the 1,800-square-mile
puzzle that makes up the massive Juneau Icefield. We soar above the
medial moraine; crest a mountaintop; zip past dark peaks draped
with hanging glaciers, mist-covered ice fields, odd rock formations,
and low-hanging clouds; and set down on the glacier with a
surprisingly light touch that leaves me utterly elated. Our guide
Corey quickly gets us strapped into crampons. Walking on the ice is
disconcerting at first, but soon enough I learn how to keep my
weight over my heels and find my balance.
The glacier is a frozen lake of white and pale blue, dusted here and
there with dirt. There are drifts, small crevasses filled with
shimmering water, flat stretches of rippled ice. Corey points out
features in constant flux: This crevasse was an indentation a week
ago; that waterfall didn't exist the last time he looked. He
demonstrates how to climb an ice wall and I decide right then that
I'll be back next summer to tackle the daylong glacier trek.
I'm feeling emboldened from the helicopter flight, from kayaking,
from spotting bears and humpback whales, from riding the waves of
newborn icebergs. I've gotten my nature break and then some on
this trip. For a cruise focused on outdoor splendor rather than
indoor glitz, you don't need more than this: the wild Alaskan
scenery, hot beverages to warm your hands, and the desire to
experience the wonders beyond the deck railing.
© 2005 Lisa Costantino, as first published in VIRTUOSO LIFE magazine.
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