And the animals came on two by two

In Prince Rupert, Jan and Jim Evans join us. These are friends that go back to our Boston days in the late 70’s. We’ve skied Telluride, Alta and Val D’Isere with them, sailed the Adriatic with them and now the BC coast on Avante. They arrive in rain, but they have their jade sunny weather charms on. They work! The sun breaks out in the afternoon. Our spirits lift. Prince Rupert even takes on a certain charm. We have a last dinner in a fine restaurant overlooking the harbor. The setting sun is in our eyes. It’s so bright and so warm. Pinch me – this must be a dream!

On July 24th, we refuel and head out of Prince Rupert. The day is overcast with light winds. However, in the afternoon, the wind picks up. The Captain says it’s time to raise the sails. As we had not had an opportunity to raise sail since the last backbreaking attempt with Nelson, the Captain’s improvised system of pulley, tackle and winches is still unproven. It’s quite ingenious, not very pretty and protests menacingly with creaks and groans, but it works. The mainsail goes up. The Captain is pleased, and The First Mate and Crew are impressed. The cabin-top electric winch is not fixed, but it is by-passed effectively for now. And … the next morning, the generator overheats and stops. Fix one problem, another takes its place.

However, as we have overnighted in Crab Trap Cove per The First Mate’s trial run as daily route planner, we also have 3 nice crabs in the trap so all is not lost. Bill does necessary trouble shooting on the generator. It appears to be the raw water pump impeller. Do we have another one? Yes! Fixing the generator will be tonight’s job.

We stop for a lunch of crab and salad in a secluded little spot called Port Canaveral. We sit in the sun and enjoy the warmth. It is a wonderful respite, and, little do we know it’s going to be the last of the sun we will see until the last day of this leg. So much for sun-bringing good luck charms. Well, 2 days is better than none. We continue on and anchor for the night at 8:45. It’s a late stop, but The Captain tells The First Mate that Distance Traveled is directly related to Time Needed for that Distance to be traveled. Lunch stops have a negative impact on Time Needed to make Distance Traveled. And that is the end of The First Mate’s first run as daily route planner.

Bill dives, wedges and squeezes into the generator compartment and, with Jim’s assistance, gets the thing fixed. We all hold our breath as he fires it off. It works. The impeller doesn’t implode. We’re back in business! Dinner is very late that night, but it is eaten with tired satisfaction and the knowledge that, with the generator back on line, we will have enough electricity for heat and hot water for real showers tomorrow night. Again, it’s the little things that are important on boats!

We have one big timing issue with this leg and that’s the return crossing of Queen Charlotte Strait – my one and only nemesis on this whole trip to date. We need to cross it on a somewhat benign day or at least a day without gale force or worse winds. We have a day or 2 of waiting time planned into the schedule, but we’d like to get there, get across and use those extra days to cruise around the islands across from Port Hardy before heading in to drop Jan and Jim off for their plane flight out. I, particularly, would like to return to the little floating village of Sullivan Cove. Thus, we are under a time dictate to”keep on truck’n”. Does that explain why The First Mate’s trial run as daily route planner failed? It was a beautiful, well-planned day; it just didn’t fit with the overall schedule. Oh, dear…..


There are several fronts all slowly moving around out there. It’s just a matter of time before we really get hit, but, in the meantime, the building weather and cloud cover is a show in itself.








The evening of July 26th, we motor in limited misty visibility into Helmcken Inlet. The entry in is the narrowest we have yet encountered thus far with steep, overgrown walls. Though there have been narrower, shallower underwater passages to navigate thru, this is the narrowest from a topside perspective. I’m at the helm and with the reduced visibility, I really don’t have a lot of forward view and find myself relying more on the compass and the chart on the Furuno. I am told to steer down the center of the passage, which I do believe I am doing according to my trusty instruments since every time I look up from the compass or the Furuno, all I see are close-in steep walls and the back of some masculine head. Jan is the only one who understands where her body is in relation to my view corridor. The men, one or the other or both, stand in the middle of the boat and make an effective block. The Captain cautions The First Mate again to steer down the middle, and I tell him with mild exasperation that that’s what I’m doing – steering right down the middle of the back of his head. “Oh,” he says and moves to the side only to resume the middle position seconds later as body spatial awareness dims once again. I return to the compass and the path shown on the Furuno. Both can be trusted more than the back of Bill’s head. Bill offers that he will assume the helm on the way out in the morning so I can relax and take photos. That’s fine, and I know exactly where I’m going to stand on the way out!




Once inside, we find ourselves alone in a secluded lagoon anchorage. It’s beautiful, lonely and peaceful. We go to sleep with the sound of a nearby waterfall.













The next morning is misty with fog. Bill motors us out of the bay, and I get to enjoy the views I missed on the way in. What a rare and wonderful place! The isolating mist just adds to the special aloneness of the area.











Relieved of duties, the First Mate can enjoy the views and take pictures of the Captain as he navigates the twists and turns.










Looking back into Helmcken Inlet.










The next day we cross our northbound track again as we motor toward Green Island Anchorage We also encounter our worst weather with constant, often heavy, rains and high winds. Bill and I spend a good deal of a cold, miserable day on deck, and it’s with relief that we finally anchor at Green Island.



This apparition is me bundled in 3+ layers of fleece plus waterproof gorilla gloves and with face wrapped so that only eyes show. What you can’t see is the torrents of rain plastering the boat. Some day I’ll laugh at this, wouldn’t I?

It’s only drizzling as we anchor which after the heavy rains is almost like sunshine – at least for the soul! Once again, Green Island Anchorage is a haven for me. Not that I care to recall my seizure of unwellness crossing Queen Charlotte Strait on the way north, it was to this very anchorage that we went to recoup that day. It still is just as pretty and welcoming. Only now with the summer cruising season well advanced, we must share it with other boats. How spoiled we quickly become! However, unlike Winnebago campgrounds, cruising boat people, for the most part, seek to honor each other’s desire for quiet and peace. So, as long as you look away from other boats or fan the camera away from them, you can still easily feel and imagine you’re alone.

Jan brought to my attention an article of note in one of our guide books about a couple sitting out a bout of rainy weather on their boat somewhere up here in this country. The husband awoke one morning several and too many days into this waiting for the rain to stop, looked out and saw the bears, eagles, fox, deer and other sundry critters all lined up 2 by 2 preparing to board his boat. He decided the wait was getting to his head. They left in the rain that day. Well, we don't yet see those animal pairs, but it certainly would in no way be a stretch of the imagination if we did.

July 29th – this is the day we are again to cross Queen Charlotte Strait. Bill decides that an early departure is in order to beat out forecasted wind and weather as we have a good distance to cover. Jim offers to assist. First thing when I get up is to fortify myself with a drug cocktail of 2 Bonine and a NoDoze. Jan and I get breakfast going, and just as we’re serving up hot oatmeal, Zing goes the fishing line. We’ve caught a fish to add to the one we caught the day before. Ho-hum -- We are definitely “in fish” on this leg!

We are able to raise sail and tack across the strait thanks to the wind coming around nicely for us. About half way over, Bill discovers that the water maker is not working. He fiddles with it as much as he can while we’re under way, but he can’t determine what the problem is. We certainly have enough water without the water maker for the next 2 days before going into Port Hardy as planned, but that means promised showers tonight for everyone are out. The crew protests, and Bill reluctantly heads us to Port Hardy for water. We fill the water tanks and the fuel ones too while we’re at it. Bill calls the private marina, but they have no space available. None of us wants to stay at the really sad public marina and there are no good nearby anchorages. So, we about face and Bill heads 1 ½ hours across to the anchorage where we had initially planned to spend the night. Since it’s going to be another late evening, I suggest we put the time to good use and get everyone else showered on the way. We arrive in Blunden Harbor. It’s a nice sheltered anchorage, and Bill says we are staying here until we head back to Port Hardy in 2 days. While we all have drinks, Bill cleans the fish and finally gets his shower. Then we all sit down to a rather late dinner. The good news about the day is that the First Mate made it across Queen Charlotte Strait in one piece, but then with the sails up, the boat wasn’t rolling around as we had on the previous crossing. No matter – I jubilantly now know I can take on all Seven Seas! (maybe)

Wouldn’t you know – we wake up to sun on our last full day. We turn Avante into a floating Chinese Laundry, open up hatches, dry out the place and soak up sun. A week of rain is no fun! Bill and Jim work on the water maker. It’s finally decided that it’s another impeller imploded, but not only don’t we have a replacement, neither Bill nor Jim can determine how to get at the compartment that houses the impeller. This one is going to have to be professionally fixed with Bill watching on so that he can learn what contortionist movement is needed or what kind of arcane professional tool is required to get at the compartment where the impellor is housed. This knowledge is necessary if this ever happens on a long passage when we absolutely will need to be making water. For now, Bill and I can easily finish the remaining leg of the trip with the water in the tanks.




When no one comes up with any ideas for exploring, Bill finally takes the lead. We head out in The Dingbat into Bradley Lagoon. We pull ashore and hike in heavy, mossy rainforest which is surprisingly dry after all the rain. That moss really soaks it up and pulls it down deep. It’s fun walking deep in the woods on the cushiony ground cover.

Bill does a study of some tidal rapids and decides he can get The Dingbat both down them and back – so off we go. Once thru the rapids, the waterway opens up expansively and surprisingly. We travel in about 3 miles determined to find the very beginning of this arm of water. We finally come to an end in what feels like a primeval tidal pool. There’s water rippling down, but with the heavy forest growth, it’s hard to determine exactly where it’s coming from. I wonder just how often people venture down here. It’s another one of those million miles from anywhere spots.

After a relaxing, warm and sun-filled day, we sit down to our fourth night of fresh salmon from our 2 large fish. The menu for our first fresh salmon dinner was panko-crusted salmon sautéed in olive oil accompanied with homemade mayonnaise aioli sauce. That proved to be such a hit that no one wanted to try another method of preparation. Four nights in a row! All that changed was the veggies. Hey, if it ain’t broken, don’t fix it! We happily eat our last dinner together of fresh wild salmon.

July 30th is another sunny day. Two in a row! That’s a record for the last 3 weeks. We motor back across to Port Hardy hoping to be able to obtain dock space for the night, but they are still full. We do a quick reprovisioning, and then sadly say good-bye to Jan and Jim. The wind is up to 15 knots, and it’s blowing Avante hard on the dock. After an interesting disengagement of us from the dock, Bill and I eagerly set out of harbor envisioning a wonderful sail under a sparkling sun – and by the time we get to the end of the bay, the wind has died to 5 knots. Winds up here are the flukiest, strangest and most undependable. Come for the scenery, the peace and solitude – but don’t come for the sailing! Fortunately, we knew that ahead of time, but, for sailboats, it still is frustrating.

As we motor south, we hail Port McNeill for dock space. None available. Most of these places are on a first come, first served basis and we are now at the height of the season. We continue south and hail Alert Bay, a small Native Nations’ fishing village trying to make a rally as a tourist destination. To our surprise, they have room for us. We motor in, and, as we pull up to the dock they assigned us, there’s a sign that says this dock is for 40’ boats. Be that as it may, there’s room for all 52’ of Avante, and we take it with relief. Our only worry is low tide, but, according to the tide tables, we should stay floating with just about a foot below us. And, the next morning, Bill’s watching that depth gage and, sure enough, there’s just about that foot of water below our 9’ keel at low tide.

Alert Bay turns out to be a delightfully quiet, picturesque spot, but, for us, any place where the sun is shining and it’s not rainy would be delightful and picturesque! It’s so warm; it actually feels like what we know as “summer”. We have cocktails in the evening sun and then head into town for an early dinner. We’re back on the boat, in bed by 8:30 and there’s not a peep from either of us for 12 straight hours. Captain and First Mate are utterly whipped and in need of R&R before the final leg of the trip. Though the Captain would do just fine with one day, he gives The First Mate two full wonderful, glorious days and a promise of a relaxed last leg of the trip that she gets to have her full say in. Wow! This is cruising! The only must-make date we have on our calendar is August 19th back in Telluride. That is the Wedding Celebration of Judy and Warner, our very first Crew on the very first leg of this voyage. Got to make that event for sure!

The Outside Passage

July 12th, we motor into Sitka weary from 3 days of rain, fog and mist-covered scenery. While on the north leg of this trip, motoring mostly head-on into the wind, we had comforted ourselves with the thought that, when we turned south leaving the Inside Passage for the ocean side of the islands, this same northerly wind would be pushing us south. We could sail! Not so. For the 3 days of travel between Glacier Bay and Sitka, not only do we have rain, the wind (what little there is of it) has shifted around to the south. We are still motoring into the wind!

We meet Nelson Sharp in Sitka. A year ago last June, Nelson, a good friend from Telluride, had helped us sail Avante from San Diego to Santa Barbara. We spend our one day in town doing all those boat chores again. Bill’s tightening of loose connections for the wind reading instruments on top of the mast had not worked. He and Nelson tackle that job sending Bill up the 75’ mast several times. They find a fellow sailor who knows something about these instruments, and it’s decided that the unit probably needs to be replaced. Fortunately, we have one on board. It came with the boat when we bought it. It’s not too often these days that I’m stupified by the price of something, but this thing turns out to be the equivalent of NASA’s pricey toilet seats. $3,900 for a 3’ length of pipe with some electronics on the end. I know you’re thinking that it’s the electronics that are driving the price. Nope – It’s the pipe. Carbon fibre it is, and that makes all the difference. The electronics, if we could get them replaced right now, are about $900. The rest is all pipe. That’s boat ownership. You throw all sound financial reasoning to the wind, if there is one. Though Bill asserts I have never had much in the way of sound financial reasoning, I know for sure I did lose whatever I did have when I agreed to the adventure of boat ownership. However, the instruments are fixed, and I find out that not only is the First Mate delighted, but so is the Captain. Guess he doesn’t think much of those Good Learning Experiences either! Now, we’re all just hoping for a good reason to be using our wind reading instruments.

This is Bill coming down the mast for the last time. In the background is one of those mast-sitting Bald Eagles. This one has its wings hanging down looking like a forlorn imitation of Dracula in his cape. I figure it’s his way of drip-drying after all this rain. Anyhow, I no longer think it bad luck to shoo the critters off. Perching on the instruments at the top of our mast could easily break them again. At $900 a crack to replace instruments plus the time and effort to do so, they can go squat and poop somewhere else! Not on my boat!



July 14th we leave Sitka in dismal weather. It’s not raining, but it is dreary. We head out down the west side of Baranof Island. We are on the ocean-side, but the expected winds are minimal and still from the south. The only good thing is that the seas have “laid down”. This is a term I kept hearing every time we mentioned to a local that we were going to be returning on the outside. “Let’s see,” they’d say. “Around mid-July you’ll be out there? Yup, seas should have laid down by then. Good time to go, but you don’t want to go any sooner.” The Intrepid Mariner on board was never quite sure how to take those words of wisdom, but we are apparently not too soon out here because with no wind, the seas are like glass. Even the Intrepid Mariner is disappointed!

All is not lost this first day out. Just off Necker Bay, there’s a resounding zing on the line. Assuming we are going thru another dress rehearsal with a seaweed fish, we pull in a really nice Spring Salmon. This guy didn’t fight much on the way in, but he sure was mad when we got him on the boat. No worries here about sick fish. He’ll be 2 night’s dinner for the 3 of us, and bait for the crabs.




We anchor in Yamani Bay and explore in The Dingbat. The area looks more like volcanic rock than scraped and grated glacial rock. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that this rocky coastline has been ravaged by the sea. The cove has a necklace of rocks protecting it from ocean waves. It’s supposed to offer a great sight when the sea is up, which it isn’t, but we can still imagine the effect. The rocks at low tide are covered with starfish. We’re amazed at the sight and dismayed, too. There are too many starfish. That can’t be good for crabs. The next morning we pull up the trap. It’s heavy. It’s hopeful. It’s full of those monsters. In fact, the biggest one we have seen has totally wrapped all its 16 legs around the outside of the trap, and those legs that wriggled thru the mesh of the trap are wrapped around the salmon head. It’s huge and ugly and doesn’t want to budge. They’re called Sun Stars, we’ve been told. That’s much too nice a name.

July 15th is a banner day as far as fishing goes. Two really nice salmon. The cook declares the freezer full – unless somebody wants to jig for a halibut.

We motor to Puffin Bay. No Puffins here. No bears either, but it is a delightful anchorage that feels more like we’re on a pond rather than in a bay on the ocean side of an island.








Looking down, all around the boat, circling the boat, are the largest jellyfish any of us had ever seen. Everywhere you look there are jellyfish. It really is quite pretty watching these creatures silently circle the boat. So many moving so silently, slowly, quietly around the boat. Up one side. Down the other. If they were meat eaters, this would make a good scene in a SciFi movie as they circle in ever tightening circles to eventually squoosh up and onto the boat oozing toward us to overtake …. Just hum a few bars to JAWS, and you’ll be following my imaginings.

We are increasingly running into fog. Early morning fog, evening fog and just all day fog. We’ve been expecting it as the summer temperatures heat up over these cold waters. Fortunately, there is no freighter or cruise ship traffic out here and few to none of the fishing fleet boats. We’re alone in a grey, damp world.

July 16th is a true banner day. We raise sail! It’s the first time we’ve had the sail up since June, and we break our record for the year. 4 ½ straight hours under sail! How wonderful it is to not hear the sound of the motor! We drop anchor in drizzle and mist in Egg Harbor on Coronation Island. There are caves on shore which we motor over to explore and, on the way, are treated to the sight of several sea otters. There’s even a mother with a baby who quickly climbs aboard mom as we motor pass.

The next morning, we leave Egg Harbor enshrouded in fog. There’s no wind, but once we’re off the coast, the wind has swung around to the north and picks up to 10 knots.










We raise the main sail and the spinnaker. There’s a feeling of jubilation – until the wind dies down to 5 knots and starts shifting around. Next thing, we’re motor sailing with occasional sailing in an undecided wind.

In the early evening, with less than ¼ mile of visibility, we begin a very difficult approach into Bob’s Place. There are rocks and shallow areas we need to identify and navigate around. With relief, we drop anchor at 8:45. There is supposed to be an abandoned First Nations village here, but we see no sign of it along the shore. Of course, we’re not exactly sure what we should be looking for, and, with the overtaking rain forest growth, whatever was there to see is probably covered in vines.

On a boat, you get one problem fixed only to find another has taken its place. Wind instrument failure has been replaced by cabin-top winch motor failure. This is the winch used to raise the 150-pound mainsail. Not an easy task if it needs to be cranked up there by hand. However, the men aboard all know they can he-man handle it. I look back at the aft electric winches used for the jib and know I could handle it, too, if necessary. Since there is nothing we can do to fix the potentially burned out motor, we’ll decide how we’re going to raise the mainsail the next time we have occasion to do so.

The next morning, we creep out of Bob’s Place in misty fog. We head to Craig, the only town we’ll be stopping in on this outside passage. It’s a hard-working fishing village with minimal tourist orientation, and we all like the feel of the place. We walk into town, do a little shopping and treat ourselves to pizza and ice cream. Don’t get either of those on the boat!

As we motor into Port Refugio to anchor at the end of the day, we see whales in the bay ahead. After a trying round of attempted anchorings in what was charted as mud bottom but isn’t, we finally are anchored and shortly treated to the sight of a Minke whale feeding its way around the bay. Thursday, July 19th, we pull up our first crab. We now have the ritual of killing, cleaning and cooking crab down to a quick science. The crab is soon dispatched, cooked and in the refrigerator to be served as an appetizer with mustard mayonnaise later this evening.

We’ve been traveling south down the western coast of Alaska. There’s land on the left and ocean on the right – for miles and miles. Though the rocks on the shore are ravaged and worn by the sea, the land and mountains rising up from the coast are benign compared to what we saw along the Inside Passage. There are no rugged snow covered peaks or upthrusted rock mountains. We’re surprised. There are beach areas that Nelson and I agree would not look out of place with a few thatched huts and palm fronds. The only difference is the air temperature. We’re passing by these imagined idylls layered in fleece and bundled in storm gear, none of which is your typical island wear.

As I just mentioned, for miles and miles of motor-throbbing cruising, we are making our way down the coast. Miles and miles …land on the left, ocean on the right … as far as the eye can see …and even further. Finally, the First Mate declares that she’s had enough. There’s got to be a place to duck into for lunch. Sure enough, 4 miles ahead is Waterfall Bay. We head on in and down several miles of fiord-like wilderness. There are 2 waterfalls and a ton of aquatic birds. We anchor below one waterfall and have lunch. What a great break in a dreary day of motoring! How I would love to launch The Dingbat and go exploring, but we have “miles to go before we sleep”. Miles and miles.

Bill and Nelson are totally enjoying this wild coastline. We haven’t seen another boat in 2 days. We’re covering great distances each day. The First Mate yearns for the opportunity to stay in one place for a while and to explore. I am exasperatedly told that the next passage is mine to plan. Okay, Captain, Sir, just you wait!

July 19th, we anchor in a huge bay called Port Bazan. It’s secure with heavy-duty sticky mud. The anchor and boat aren’t going to go anywhere. Bill declares this a martini night. The Captain only treats himself to one of those when he feels absolutely secure no matter what Mother Nature could call up. The next morning, Nelson pulls in 9 crabs. Nine crabs! Wow! Unfortunately, only 2 are male, but we’re still delighted with the haul. More crab appetizers tonight.

The next 3 days will be long stretches of water with Prince Rupert as our final port. There will be no hope of lunch stops, but we’re still hoping to sail. The one improvement we do have is that skies appear to be lightening up. We’re not in constant rainy drizzle. It’s getting warmer. When we anchor in Nichols Bay, we actually sit out on the deck in cotton shirts enjoying the late afternoon sun. Things are looking up. Maybe, just maybe, sun and sailing tomorrow. Hey, it doesn’t hurt to hope – even with the barometer falling!

We do get to raise sail again, and, without the electric winch, it’s a job worth thinking about. I was happily sitting below warm and cozy when I heard the commotion of sail preparation-to-raise noise going on above. Oh, no, here we go … “Do you need my help?” I ask with forced enthusiasm. “No, we can handle it,” comes the manly reply. Bill runs the main sheet back to the port electric winch. Guess he really doesn’t think cranking the sail up by hand would be that much fun. The aft winch should work in theory, but it’s not working in practice. The sheet goes down to it at too great an angle and keeps slipping upwards and tangling. A different rigging is needed to reduce that angle, but, for now, he’s going to crank it up. The First Mate springs into action and lends a back-breaking hand. Inch by half inch it creaks up. Finally, it’s declared to be up enough for “government work”. We motor sail along with Bill and Nelson working out a way to more efficiently (ie: with less effort) raise the mainsail the next time.

Our last night out is in Brundige Inlet. On the charts, we cross our track from our trip north six weeks earlier. What a convoluted feeling that is! The Alaskan part of our trip is over. Juneau and back. 59 degrees north latitude and back. We feel triumphant and sad at the same time. It’s been a grand voyage. It can’t be over yet, and it’s not. There’s more ahead. Places to see and go. The end of the trip is Canoe Cove, just north of Victoria, but like Scarlet, I wouldn’t think of that now. Tomorrow.

For right now, we are back in Canadian waters, and there is something nice about returning to an anchorage or a harbor that is known. Piloting is so much easier. We know just where to go and whether or not we can rely on the charts. The first time into Brundige Inlet had been at low tide, and we had threaded our way thru shallowing, narrow waters. We tell Nelson what a challenge the entrance is, but this time we’re at high tide and it’s a piece of cake. The first time we had had trouble setting the anchor. This time it bites in quickly. Everything is easier, better – except for the Black Flies. All thoughts of enjoying the warm evening on deck are quickly squashed as the nasty little biting pests drive us below.

We know we are getting closer to Prince Rupert. Though we still do not see compatriot cruiser traffic, the fishing fleet is out in force. The many boats with their huge nets out make an interesting maze for us to motor in, around and thru.

On July 21st, we motor into Prince Rupert in rain. Rainy Rupert is its nickname and rainy it is. The boat’s beginning to mold. I’m beginning to mold. Will it ever stop? Fortunately, there is adequate shore power. We connect, get some heat in the boat and start to dry things out. What a joy that is! The one thing about living on a boat is how thankful one becomes for small things. Dry socks, warm hands, windows that don’t drip with condensation. Who cares what’s happening in the world at large? My feet are dry, my hands are warm and we’ve stopped the growth of mold. Now, tell me, could there be other things more important in one’s little floating world?

59 Degrees North Latitude

July 7th, we motor into Barlett Cove inside Glacier Bay National Park for our 11:00 Park Service Orientation Lecture. The day is beautiful, and the bay is peaceful with distant mountain views. It’s hard to believe that the land of glaciers is just a few miles away.



As we head north into Glacier Bay, something, however, changes for me. Maybe it was that lecture, but I begin to feel a jumpy uneasiness. As we motor deeper into Glacier Bay, the scenery takes on another character. The white snow-covered fortresses that distantly drew us north are being replaced by rocky, jagged, snow-crusted behemoths, coldly menacing and forbidding. There’s Mt. Fairweather at a formidable 15,700’ above us. Where sailing in Desolation Sound had reminded us of Telluride’s San Juan Mountains, these mountains here are the San Juans on steroids. There’s a Himalayan upthrust about them. I did not feel this anxiety in Misty Fiords and Tracy Arm. What is bothering me about this area? Though also glacier carved, vegetation had taken over Misty Fiords and Tracy Arm in abundance. The areas were choked with tall standing pine. The snowy peaks were off high in the distance. Here in Glacier Bay, the forests are not grand or abundant. Much of it is scrubby, just barely hanging on. There are vast areas of exposed, rough scraped glacial rock and the snow comes right down to the sea. The very starkness gives a feeling of life hanging in the balance. One missed step, and you’re history. It is a colder, more brutal and unforgiving wilderness up here, and I am not comfortable with it.

However, unbelievable as it certainly is, after several dreary, rainy days, we are treated to a “Chamber of Commerce” picture perfect day. With a day like this, how can I make my case that I was uneasy with it all? But I was, and poor Bill will miserably confirm it. Until we reached 59 degrees north latitude at the northern end of Glacier Bay where Bill declared he had seen enough glaciers and we were heading south, I was nervously irritable. Once he announced that we had gone as far north as we were going and it was south from now on, I felt an uncontrollable, spontaneous surge of relief, and, if not true happiness, at least the inkling of it.

*****************************



Halfway up the bay, we pass Marble Rock with its aquatic bird and seal rookeries.








Near the northern end of Glacier Bay, we head down Reid Inlet and anchor for the night below Reid Glacier in a barren, cold glacier-carved bowl. It was magnificent in its starkness, but overbearing and ominous, too. It felt a thousand miles from civilization.









There was unexpected beauty, too. We look out at 10:30 before heading to bed and are treated to a gorgeous sight.












The next morning the weather is misty and overcast. Bill did not need to add to my discomfort by telling me the water is a bone-freezing 39 degrees, but he does.












An uneasy First Mate at the helm.







The approach to Johns Hopkins Glacier has the First Mate on squawk alert. Bill can’t imagine what for. It’s so deep that the depth meter can’t even find the bottom for a measurement. We can drive almost up to the glacier and still have plenty of water below us. Bill appears to be piloting forward to do just that, but remembering how quickly these depths can shore up, the crazy squawk meter sounds off to Bill’s irritation. Fortunately, a ¼-mile stand off from all glaciers is advised due to possible calving of icebergs and the tidal waves ensuing.






Tortured rock, formidable landscape. Need I say more?












Grand Pacific Glacier straight ahead with Margerie Glacier on left. The day is beginning to clear with blue skies threatening.





Two kayaks below Margerie Glacier. See those small dots on either side of center? We stop the boat and drift with the ice. You can hear the glacier cracking and groaning. The pressure building up must be tremendous. Every once in a while, a large junk resoundingly cracks off and falls into the water. How long had that ice been there? Unbelieveable.










Ice sentinels march forward. Margerie Glacier is an active glacier with frequent calvings. It is also at 59 degrees north latitude. About face, Avante! Go South, my boat, go South!










Bill watches the ice slide by Avante’s hull.









With impending rain, we head into Blue Mouse Cove to anchor on our last night in this land of glaciers, rock and ice. After dinner I peak out to make sure all is still right with my world. I hear a rooshing sound and follow the sound to a whale’s fin just going below surface. It’s dinner time for the whale, and she’s making her way around the perimeter of the bay inhaling krill and coming up regularly for a breath of air. It’s a Minke Whale -- one of the smaller ones weighing in at a mere 7 tons or so. We watch her for quite a while and are amazed to see her swim and dive just a few yards from shore. She’s so close to the surface that we can easily follow her progress by watching the bubbles. What a treat for our last night in Glacier Bay!

July 9th dawns with rain, and the weather forecast is of a stalled low front giving rise to 4 or more days of rain. We had hoped to head down the west side of Chichagof Island where we would be open to the ocean and might find enough wind to sail again, but it’s a rugged coastline requiring exacting navigation and is no fun in poor weather. Instead we will stick to the Inside Passage and know we’ve got 3 days of dismal motoring ahead of us to get to Sitka. But, oh, you Weather Gods out there – I’m not complaining. Every time we have really needed blue skies and sun, they’ve been there for us.

Juneau

Bill and I are on our own with a few days leisure before our permit to enter Glacier Bay National Park on July 8th. We decide to stay in Auke Bay 15 miles north of Juneau for 2 or 3 days to catch up on things and then head up Lynn Canal to Skagway. We rent a car and drive to Mendenhall Glacier. The glacier is impressive, but our real surprise was how attractively planned and built the tourist center and walking paths are. Definitely a lot of forethought had gone into planning this setting. Even though there was the usual crowd of cruise ship tourists, it was still pleasant walking around the area.

This picture gives a good idea of how much the glacier has receded. It was taken from the tourist center. Fifty years ago when the tourist center was built, it was constructed at the base of the glacier. Now the glacier is a mile away. The plants in the foreground have established themselves in the time interval, and the mud flats below the glacier will gradually do the same.

We drive into Juneau to look around and have dinner. The “look around” consists of a drive-by. When we see the crowds of cruise ship tourists milling around the few short blocks of down town and the “come hither” stores, we figure we have seen enough of down town. We head up into the residential area which is quite interesting with its zigzag streets winding every which way and steep staircases connecting all else. Up here, on a clear day, the views across the channel must be phenomenal. We slowly wind our way back down marveling at the guardrails strategically anchored in to keep cars from careening around curves into the living rooms of the houses built below the grade of the street. How do they drive up here in the winter?

We park the car and head out looking for a restaurant which, to our surprise, proves to be difficult. This is Juneau, one of Alaska’s major cities. It’s their government seat, for goodness sake! There are plenty of bars, but no restaurants. I wonder out loud where people eat around here. A security guard interrupts my wonderings and gives us the name of 3 places. Two are in hotels and one is a fish and chips place down by the harbor where the cruise boats are. He’s stumped for another place, but we thank him. As I have already said, Alaskans are friendly and talkative. Most seem to like or at least tolerate their befuddled tourists.

While on our restaurant search, I recall friends mentioning that fur coats are good items to buy in Alaska. So I ask Bill if we couldn’t find a fur store and take a look. I have had in mind that a mink vest would be of benefit in Telluride. To my utter surprise, he says to go ahead if that’s what I want. “Whatever my Suzie wants,” are his words. Off we go in search of a fur store which proves easier to find than a restaurant. We walk in and are immediately assaulted by this saleswoman with a southern accent. Sure she grew up around here! When I tell her that I’m looking for a mink vest, she promptly pulls out this bright pink one. I tell her that’s not quite what I had in mind. She leads me over to a rack, and it all looks like Filene’s Basement with mark down prices. Get me out of here, I think, and look around to see that Bill has already bolted. I now realize that the reason he had agreed so easily to my quest was he foresaw no threat of success for the venture. So much for my mink vest. I am informed later that our friends go to a furrier in Anchorage where they chose their pelts and work with the shop to design their coats. That’s what I want, but I wouldn’t find that in the tourist shops of Juneau, and we’re not going to Anchorage.

We end up at the Zen Restaurant in the Goldbelt Hotel. For all the tourists we saw in town, this place is almost empty. We are one of three occupied tables in the restaurant, but we do have a rather nice dinner served by a totally inattentive waitress. A nice sideline to an occasional dinner on land up here in Alaska is that it reminds the Captain of the appreciation that should be accorded his First Mate.

We return to the marina at Auke Bay glad now that Avante’s mast could not fit under the bridge into Juneau’s harbor. All those mega cruise ships and the crowds would have driven us crazy. Auke Bay is a quiet marina, more of a local’s and fishermen’s marina. They do have a few tourist excursion boats around, but the crowds, never numbering more than 40 at a time, are whisked away quickly. They do not have any tourist shops, and, though of marginal quality, they do have the minimum necessities we need (ie: showers, laundry, propane, convenience store and free Wi Fi at The Waffle House). They also have Bald Eagles flying around the harbor and landing on boat masts. Bill takes a picture of one on Avante’s mast, and then promptly shoos him away with a halyard. In horror, I tell him that doing so is bad luck. It has to be. That’s our National Bird. You don’t just shoo him away. You let him be. “Not to poop all over my deck”, says Bill. “Well, don’t do it again”, I respond and am immediately ignored. This isn’t The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and we’re not dealing with an albatross, but still bad luck is bad luck.

The harbor also has salmon, and you can fish for them right off the dock or off your boat. The rod we have on our boat is a heavy-duty deep-sea fishing rod with minimal flexibility. It’s all I can do to hold it, and the only way I can crank the handle while holding it is to have its end secure in the bracket on the boat. On the docks, the rods being used are light and flexible, similar to fly fishing rods. Bill will not buy me such a rod. Fortunately for him, I’m busy cleaning the boat, provisioning the boat, organizing stuff again which is a constant activity on a boat and doing other sundry things. I really don’t have time to fish, but, if I had that rod, I would. He knows I’m not pleased with this pig-headed decision so one afternoon he “bags” me a salmon. Bought it right off the dock he did! Gave it to me in a white plastic garbage bag he did! Local fisherman was selling his day’s catch. So now I have a salmon, a rather big one, too, and what I haven’t mentioned is that I really don’t know what to do with a salmon or a halibut or any fish once it’s out of the water. The closest I’ve come to preparing a whole fish is a trout. They’re only 8 – 10” long, but this guy is almost 30” and a bit much to handle. It’s too big to cook whole because it wouldn’t fit in any pan I have unless it’s cut in half. I get out my 2 cruising cuisine cookbooks and read their descriptions on cutting up your catch. Pretty much the same technique I use on trout. We prefer fillets to steaks, and the books say that you use one long stroke to cut the fillet from the bones. Short strokes tend to mess up the flesh. Well, I try long strokes, but it must be a technique that improves with practice because for me bones get in the way or my fingers do and I end up with those short strokes that make a mess of the flesh. So I just cut off the really jagged pieces and clean up areas near the bones that I missed. All that will go into a fish stew, and no one will know the difference. And the not very pretty fillets will look just fine when poached, baked or sautéed. That fish will give us four meals plus the stew. Not bad for a day’s “bagging”!

We’re ready to leave Auke Bay and Juneau, but our enthusiasm to continue north to Haines and Skagway has dimmed. We’ve had enough of tourists, crowded harbors and marginal facilities. The descriptions of the marinas in Haines and Skagway don’t give us any hope of improvement. We find out that we may be able to get into Glacier Bay a day or so earlier. One must call at 7:00 in the morning to find out if any slots are available since only 24 boats are allowed in at any one time. Bill calls on the 3rd. The line is continuously busy. When he finally gets thru, all available slots for that day have been filled by earlier lucky callers. He tries again on the 4th. Same thing. There’s only so much patience this guy has, and he wasn’t given much to begin with. We decide to leave Auke Bay and head in a general northerly direction maybe to go to Haines and then just do a motor by of Skagway to say we’ve been there. The weather, which the day before had been tee-shirt and shorts warm, has turned cold and dismal as luck would have it (See, it’s the revenge of the Bald Eagle) Intermittent showers become constant rain. The scenery, what we can see of it thru rain and fog, is uninspiring. Instead of continuing on 4 more hours to an anchorage that will allow us time to get to Haines and Skagway, we anchor early with the hope to still be able to get into Glacier Bay a day earlier; If not, we’ll just gunkhole around for a few days, happily dropping anchor in coves as we meander our way to Glacier Bay by July 8th. Even with the rain and chill, it’s nice to be out of harbor and anchoring in quiet, lonely coves again.

July 5th, Bill calls Glacier Bay by satellite phone and gets thru on the first dial. Must have been all the $$ cajinking across the airwaves. We’re told we can get in on the 7th. Only one day earlier, but that’s a help. Rain continues, and it’s getting colder. We’re hoping for a good weather window when we get to Glacier Bay. If not, we’ll see what we can see and maybe leave a day early from there giving ourselves more time to get to Sitka.

Last night we dropped our crab trap in the midst of a lot of traps. The head of that salmon, the one that Bill had “bagged” for me on the docks in Auke Bay, was in the bait trap. We knew for sure we were going to have crab for dinner tonight, but no such luck. (I’d blame that on the Bald Eagle again except that we’ve had this kind of luck since Day One.) The trap was disgustingly empty! Tonight, Bill baits it the old-fashioned way, he says. He runs a cord thru the mouth and gills of the salmon head and leaves it tied and floating in the trap. For good measure, I chop up some herring for the bait trap itself. Again, there are a lot of other traps in this bay. Tomorrow will be the day! We go to sleep with rain pattering on the roof.

July 6th – We wake up to silence. No rain! But the low, heavy, grey cloud cover tells us more rain is on the way, and, sure enough, it soon is raining again. Bill comments that there is no way he could live in Alaska with this weather. I readily agree. I guess all this natural beauty has to have a downside or it’s name would be Alaskafornia.

Today’s crab catch is 5! Three, unfortunately are small and female, but 2 are of good size and male. Maybe, just maybe, we’ve found the secret. A bait box with perforated holes allowing good smells to waft out is not enough. These guys want to gnaw on the real thing – a fresh salmon head. The head, of course, is gone. To my surprise, as soon as we head out into open water, Bill announces that we need another fish head and he’s rigging up the recalcitrant fishing rod with determination. I guess the guy likes crab more than fish. If the procuring of fish heads in order to catch crabs is what it takes to make an enthusiastic fisherperson out of him, so be it.

For those of you who may not have followed the description on how to tell male from female crabs, here is a graphic presentation. The female (above) has a round abdomen shaped like a beehive. The male’s (below) is narrower looking more like a lighthouse.

The rain has stopped. It’s turned into a fine overcast day, and, in very light wind, we motor down Icy Strait to our next anchorage. I know the water is cold up here, but I really don’t need a name like “Icy Strait” to remind me of what’s just a few feet below my feet.

We see a pod of humpback whales coming up for air. Pow, Pow, Pow – the plumes of spray follow one after another like the finale of a fireworks display. It’s thrilling. Then we see the arch of their backs and the flip of their tails as they go down again. They put on a show like this 3 more times as they swim up the coast. One more final graceful arch of their tails and they’re gone. What an amazing sight!

Our first choice of anchorage in a bite off Pleasant Island isn’t going to be a good one with the anticipated wind direction. Instead we anchor across from Gustavus in what really is a fairway. The land around Gustavus surprises us with its gentleness. We had expected a rugged, tortured looking mountainous area at the gateway to Glacier Bay. Instead it is verdantly green and mellow with sandy beaches leading to the water. There are snow-capped mountains, but nothing that bespeaks of a glacier area not too many miles away. It could be springtime on Lake Geneva!

We drop anchor and jig for Halibut. At first there’s no success for either of us, though Bill does bring up an octopus which we let go on its merry way. Having had one not-to-be-repeated any time soon experience of cooking an octopus about 20 years ago, I’m still not ready for a second attempt and may never be. Bill next baits a double hook arrangement with a herring cut in half. This was my idea as I figured a cut up herring would have more blood and gore smell appeal to any passing fish. It worked. Within seconds, Bill snags a Halibut. Well, more a flounder, but it’s a fish! He rebaits the hook, gives it to me, and, to his surprise because he had already told me I didn’t have the right technique, I even manage to snag one and pull it in. Worried that I would lose it, Bill counseled me the whole way in. Well, the fish and hook stayed connected, and I brought in my first fish ever! It wasn’t trophy size, but it was a fish and an edible one, too. What a day! Two crabs in the morning and two Halibut this evening. Fish heads for the crab trap next time we bait it. We are learning what works, and we are almost living off the sea. I love it!