Denali State Park to Seward

A post and a few photos from the past week.

The weather was still clear when I left Denali National Park. I knew of a hike nearby, in Denali State Park, that was along a 4000ft ridge and supposed to have epic views of the Alaskan Range in clear weather, so I made the stop. A State Park up here in Alaska would probably be a national park anywhere else.

The 17 miles along the Kesugi Ridge from Little Coal Creek to Ermine Hills was quite possibly the finest ridge top hike I've ever done. I really enjoy being above treeline with panoramic views in every direction. I got to see the south side of Denali and found a well perched campsite.

Views like this the whole way!

One of my best campsites!

Sunrise comes early in Alaska. I got up at 4:00 for this shot. 

Being a thru-hike, I tried my hand at hitchhiking back to my truck when I finished the overnight trip. It didn't go so well at first; I walked about 5 miles before I got picked up by some nice young ladies who themselves were going to trail run along the ridge and wanted to build karma for their hitchhike later that afternoon. 

I give the Kesugi Ridge my highest recommendation for any future Alaska adventurers out there. It's a well marked trail in the state park, so none of that annoying route finding or permit battling that I had in the national park. Just show up and do it. And if the weather is clear, it's a must do.

Upon the suggestion of a friend, I detoured into Talkeetna on my way south for my first "town day" in a long time. Talkeetna is a funky little town (pop 900) with a great rafting/climbing/brewery vibe. I ran into the same ladies that gave me a ride (Kasey and Michelle) and we hung out over dinner, drinks, and live music. Because of their surplus of karma, they got picked up immediately!

After camping in town, I enjoyed a hearty breakfast at the Talkeetna Roadhouse. I spent two hours talking with a fellow solo traveller from San Diego about life on the road before parting ways and continuing south.

The Kenai Peninsula is spectacular, like Alaska in miniature. Whitewater rivers, lakes, glaciers, mountains, forests, and coastline made for a very pretty drive to Seward (pop 2500) on the southern end of the Kenai and home to Kenai Fjords National Park. Between all my bush flights, the rafting trip, and 500 highway miles, I have completed a full north-to-south tour of Alaska, from the Beaufort Sea to the Gulf of Alaska. I feel an east-to-west Alaskan traverse from the Yukon thru the Aleutian Islands brewing in my mind for a future trip!

Seward has a historic downtown and a great municipal park system. I could camp with my truck overlooking the water and have a 3 minute walk to the shops and restaurants of downtown. My first night in town I met a ton of cool folks and ended up closing down the Yukon Bar after a night of karaoke with new friends.

Seward wake up

With the sunny weather the following day I decided to hike in the national park to see the Harding Icefield. The Icefield was amazing! It's the largest ice field in the US with over 1,000 square miles of ice! MUCH bigger than any glacier, in fact, the Icefield produces over forty glaciers. Mountain peaks were buried up to their summits in ice, like islands in an ocean of white.

Harding Icefield and Exit Glacier, Kenai Fjords National Park

While ogling the views I met a number of hikers. I had a rock throwing contest with a crew of sea kayaking guides, trying to see who could break off the largest cornices in the gullies below the trail. Matt and Jules from San Francisco invited me to join them for drinks around the campfire, which I did later that night. It's been so great to meet and befriend fellow travelers. I've had a lot of unique and inspiring interactions in the past week and appreciate all the friendliness and hospitality.

A rainy front settled in, which makes for lazy town days. I'm all caught up on laundry and email and ready to head to Anchorage to meet my guides for the final adventure: 2 weeks of mountain climbing in Wrangell/St Elias National Park. Once I return from that I'll be making the long drive thru Canada back to Seattle in time for other commitments with friends.

Denali National Park

Advisory: This is a LONG wordy post. If you bear with me I think you'll see why - my hike in Denali National Park was the adventure of a lifetime. Being solo for six days, I had a lot of time to journal and I reached a new level with my thoughts and observations. I was so challenged and tried by the wilderness that I felt compelled to write in order to help me better remember the trip as time passes and to further understand and extract the lessons from my experience. The middle is missing accompanying photos; it was too hard to even break out my camera. I wrote it as a standalone article. 

Welcome to the Big Leagues –

A Solo Backpacker’s Journey into the Denali Wilderness

I just got out of the military and wanted to travel before using my GI Bill for school. Alaska was at the top of the list. In between an itinerary of kayaking in Glacier Bay, rafting in the Arctic, and climbing in the St. Elias range, I had a week all to myself and knew just how I wanted to spend it – Denali National Park. Trail-less and huge (at six million acres of wilderness), an opportunity for an extended backcountry trip in Denali makes one feel as if they’ve been called up to the Big Leagues of life list backpacking.

With a few ideas from my seven-year subscription to Backpacker Magazine that I’d been compiling, I went to the permit office. The helpful rangers and I hashed out a 30-mile traverse from the Toklat River to Eielson Visitor Center thru Units 8, 9, 12 and 13. I’d conservatively given myself six days and a high/low route option just in case the recent deluge of rain and snow made things too sketchy.

I was a little nervous going solo, but not overly so. I fancied myself experienced: an Eagle Scout with a BSA “50 Mile Afoot” award and 15 years of backpacking experience, the most recent of which was in the rugged Pacific Northwest where I aggressively pursued mountain climbing and backpacking in Olympic and North Cascades National Parks, much of it solo. I was mostly worried about bears. The only hiker to be killed by a bear in Denali’s history was also solo. My resume hasn’t included much time in grizzly country, save the few weeks I was already in Alaska. But armed with my can of bear spray and the tips from the mandatory safety video I pushed my concerns to the back of my mind.

On the Camper Bus on the way in I met lots of nice folks. Crystal and Josh from Bend, OR were headed to Wonder Lake. A California couple comprised of an avid hunter and wildlife biologist was skilled at finding moose and caribou in the distance. Three guys got off right before me in Unit 8. I was certain my busmates must have felt that I was a badass when the driver stopped at Unit 9 and I was the only one to get off. My pride quickly faded as the bus drove away and I was left all alone to plunge into a willow thicket and start yelling for bears; Denali’s first lesson in humility. Yelling “Hey Bear!” quickly became unnerving. I employed a series of fun yells and yodels, as if I could ignore the reason I had to make all the noise in the first place.

My first day was fairly benign. The sunny weather helped take the chill off my first fording experience. Drinking water that wasn’t loaded with glacial silt was harder to find than I expected, I made the mental note to tank up whenever I came across a clear stream. The icebergs swirling and crashing about in McBride Inlet in Glacier Bay made for the most interesting campsite of my life, but the spot I found for my first night in Denali was the most epic. A wide gravel bar holding the braided Toklat River.  Plush, verdant tundra pockmarked with bomb-like craters where grizzlies went digging for ground squirrels. The multiple hues of orange, red-brown, tan, and black rock and scree of the low alpine. And the spiny, snow and ice encrusted hulks of some lesser Alaskan Range peaks.

Camp One 

Day two included my first mountain passes. I climbed a small steep gully that still held snow in the bottom. I could see day old grizzly tracks in the snow, the gouges from the claws still plainly visible.  I was impressed with the grizzly’s climbing ability  - he picked a good line thru the 5000 foot pass. But he was headed down and I was headed up. 

Griz tracks in the snow

At the top I immediately realized the high route was a no-go and I had underestimated the effects of the wet weather. The recent dump of snow at these heights completely covered the north-facing slopes and large, fresh avalanches were readily apparent. I headed a little down valley to try a second, lower pass. I couldn’t totally avoid all north aspects, but I found a path with streaks of scree as “ribbons of safety” that broke up the snow slope. Or so I thought. The scree was saturated with melt, the rocks hiding a boot sucking mud that proved as slippery as snow and twice as hard to traverse. I am still dumbfounded how such mud could adhere to a 35-40 degree slope.

The last bit of snow right before the pass could not be avoided. As I stepped out into it I became quite concerned about its stability and decided to forgo the traverse. I glissaded down the edge of the snowfield, losing hard earned elevation but acknowledging I made the right decision when I had to stop the glissade every ten seconds to let the mini avalanches I was riding continue past me.  I safely regained the lower pass, descended into Unit 10, and set up camp.

My third day began with a meeting of a large caribou herd shortly after leaving camp. I sat down and we watched each other just across the river for 15 minutes before they gave up their curiosity and walked on. In leaving, they showed me an optimal spot for crossing – my knees and a caribou’s knees seem to be about the same height. 

Caribou across the river

There was a good bit of fording back and forth due to cutbanks. Without the caribou to help, I was forced to improvise. Because I couldn’t see the bottom with all the silt in the churning water, I would repeatedly bomb a potential crossing with rocks, listening for a “kachink” that indicated the rock struck bottom or the “kaploosh” that foretold greater depth. Once I found my place, I would strip off my pants– no sense getting them wet, modesty be dammed – and step barefoot into old sneakers pressed into wading duty. In the water I learned that I could handle the current provided it didn’t rise above the second camlock on my trekking pole. More than once I would plant the pole but then step into an unseen deep hole nearby, sinking to my waist as the surging water threated to knock me down. I would emerge from the frigid water with red, stinging, wooden legs and shoes filled with rocks and sand.  I’d put on my pants and boots and continue on my new side until the next cutbank would force me to repeat the whole ordeal.

Ready for fording

I wanted to camp at the mouth of the drainage with the lowest and most straightforward pass into Unit 12. When I rounded the bend I was greeted by an 80-foot waterfall, part of the trouble of using 63K topo maps with 100-foot contour lines. Utterly blocked, I backtracked to my second choice drainage/pass and found a great campsite on a tundra bench above the stream.

Blocked

Camp Three

Day four in Denali turned into what was likely the most trying day of my life.  The idea was to the ascend the cirque and find the easiest and safest path up the north slope to the ridgeline. The ridge, swept by wind and sun, was practically snow free based on my observations from below. I’d continue west along ridge to my desired pass and then descend into Unit 12. And for the most part that’s how it worked out – I left camp in a drizzle, boulder hopped up the streambed to the cirque, found a strip of scree and stable snow and gained the ridgeline. But the drizzle quickly and suddenly worsened up high as I progressed along the ridge. I found myself in a full on shitstorm - snow and sleet blown by wind gusting to 30mph and visibility dropping fast. I faced a three-way dilemma:

a)    Backtrack along the ridge and/or drop down to the right and return from whence I came. I wasn’t at all confident of finding a safe strip of scree to descend the north-facing slope in the whiteout and the avalanche activity on north aspects over the past few days had me genuinely concerned with the rapidly falling new snow.

b)   Drop down the ridge to the left on a south-facing slope. Until I reached the pass, the south slopes were steep and the possibility of getting cliffed out existed. Plus, if I didn’t travel far enough along the ridge, all the slopes on the left led into the same drainage that was blocked by the huge waterfall the previous day, so I’d end up stuck in the valley. 

c)    Continue along the ridge.  In the declining visibility I could use the ridge as a handrail, never getting lost, avoiding avalanches, and knowing that once I reached the pass I could descend a safer south slope and enter a drainage that I knew was passable per the rangers.

I choose to press on along the ridge, but it was not without extreme difficulty. The sloppy wet scree again. And in the few places that weren’t snow free there were deep drifts with new slushy stuff on top. I’d place my boot gingerly to pack down a step, allow it a moment to freeze, and then weight it. Most of the time that worked; when it didn’t I found myself wallowing crotch deep in the drift and I had to flop around and dig myself out and up. My boots filled with snow.

The snow patches also presented a visibility problem. I’d get disoriented in the whiteout, ground and sky indistinguishable. I poked my way forward with trekking poles like a blind man. Plant, plant, step, step. Plant, plant, step, step. Plant, plant…AIR! I’m too far right, too close to the crest of the ridge! Adjust course left and continue. Twice I cliffed out on the ridge. Those damn 100-foot contours again. The ridge was the most gradual feature on the topo and I still encountered gendarmes and steep outcrops.  It was a loose scramble up and over with the wind threatening my balance.

My GPS died and my cold numb hands fumbled with the battery swap. The light layer I had on underneath my shell seemed fine when I left camp but it was now wet from precipitation and sweat from exertion and the building fear in my gut. “This is how people die out here,” I thought to myself. It was sobering and saddening to think I could actually perish on the ridge in the declining weather if I didn’t make the right decisions. I thought about using my emergency beacon, but it wouldn’t do any good to send a helicopter in the storm. I thought about home, but I forgot to pack my “Dorothy Approved” magic red slippers. I cussed and swore at the storm, but it did no good. The frustration brought me the closest to crying I’ve ever been in recent memory. But whining and wishing wouldn’t get me off that ridge. Only I could do that for myself. I switched to positive thoughts focusing on my fitness and my resolve. “I’m still fresh, I can keep going. Moving keeps me warm. I could find a place to bivy if I had to. I’m not out of the fight ‘till I’m dead."

I eventually made my pass and descended the drainage with zeal. My only worry now was an impassable waterfall. The canyon narrowed. There was no choice but to slop through the water but my boots were soaked anyway. I soon found myself peering over the edge of a 20-foot waterfall! I was able to carefully scramble around on loose rock and scree. After that, I was home free; I descended the drainage until I came to the first suitable campsite. Weary and wet, I set up the tent, stripped my sopping layers, and crawled into my sleeping bag to warm up. Dinner could wait.

In camp that night, sleep was fitful despite my exhaustion. I kept questioning if I made the right decisions. Did I continue out of a stupid sense of duty to my permitted itinerary? I’d like to think not but the thought of turning around is seldom appealing.  I ruled out “summit fever” of some type. I could not have cared less about passing up and over Green Dome at 6400 feet, the highest point on the ridge. It was simply an obstacle to be surmounted on the way to my safe passage down. Ultimately I concluded, in a twisted sense of irony, that despite the challenges of the ridge it just felt safer and more certain than the alternatives; the shortest and most straightforward way to safety was up and over, through the teeth of the storm. I reminded myself that I was in my tent, warm and dry in my sleeping bag, safe from the ravages of wind and wet, so I must have done something right. 

Denali wasn’t done with me yet. Unbeknownst, the previous day’s precipitation had swollen Sunrise Creek, the larger drainage I would have to descend on my fifth day. It was a raging, frothing torrent of silt-laden whitewater. I could hear rocks bouncing along the bottom of the creek – it sounded like a bowling alley on league night. I knew that conditions like that mean that the water isn’t safe to cross. But what were my options? Even if I wanted to call my trip right then and there and head out, my only options would be to either descend Sunrise Creek and reach the park road in four miles or backtrack up and over the same passes from the day before, now laden with new snow, and reach the road in about ten miles.

Sunrise Creek pinballed back and forth against cliff faces repeatedly over the next mile. I couldn’t pick a side and stay along it for longer than 120 yards or so. I entered what I called “super fording mode,” stripping below the waist and refusing to swap from soggy wading shoes into pants and boots, or even to dump the pebbles from my shoes to save on the transition time. I ended up crossing the dangerous, icy waters 15 times.

The "mellow" end of Sunrise Creek looking back up the canyon. 

At the end of Sunrise Creek things leveled out into a wide gravel bar. I didn’t know it from pre-trip planning, but I could actually see Eielson Visitor Center and the road off in the distance, high on a ridge overlooking the valley I was in. I stopped to contemplate the scene. Denali National Park had proven quite challenging. I came expecting the wildlife to be the biggest obstacle to my safety; I completely underestimated the terrain itself. I was awed by the raw power of nature – of biting storms and gushing streams. Here I was, a hotshot Lower 48 backpacker, and I felt as if Denali and Alaska were handing me my ass. To continue in the backcountry after the trials I had endured thus far, when “civilization” was visible a few miles away, seemed contrived and foolhardy.

I sat for a long time. I was tired and challenged, but not beaten. I had made acceptable decisions thus far and came about 20 miles through rough country. The sun came out for a moment. I warmed up and dried off. I ate a snack. I had another day’s worth of food and reading material, per the original plan. I stood up, shouldered my back, and continued into the backcountry.

I’m glad I did. The Contact Creek to Wolverine Creek pass was the lowest and easiest yet and the views from the top were the best of the trip. Wolverine Creek was a joy to descend, the clear waters flowing through a wide drainage, no serious cutbanks, and nothing that couldn’t be forded with a little dry rock hopping. I relished the final night of solitude before returning to the masses along the Park Road and looked forward to my final night at Wonder Lake, hoping the clouds would break and I could glimpse The Mountain.  

In the morning on Day Six I followed a game trail descending Glacier Creek. The mosquitos swarmed so sudden and so intense that I flew into a mild flailing panic breaking out my headnet and repellant. I squished the few that had been captured inside my headnet into my beard, the coppery scent of my blood mixing with the smell of DEET. I soon spotted the park road and the Visitor Center once more, setting off on a beeline across the well braided, knee-deep Thorofare River and up the steep slopes beyond.

Once I got off the bus and sunk the road behind me, I saw no one for five full days – my longest time alone to date. The first person I saw at the Eielson Visitor Center didn’t see quite the same Matt Kearns that walked south from the Toklat River Bridge. The smears of dried mud, wet boots, and tired shuffle only alluded to the full story: that this trip was the biggest challenge and the pinnacle of adventure in my life so far. I had 30 miles of Denali’s best backcountry to myself for nearly a week. I developed a deeper respect for all wilderness, and the humble confidence knowing that I could make it in the Big Leagues. 

Sunset on Denali from Wonder Lake

Kongakut River, Arctic National Wildlife Refuge

Wow, what a trip! These big weeklong+ trips are harder to write about than I thought they would be. So much stuff going on and too much to cover. Therefore I will write only a "brief" synopsis and let the pictures do the talking.

After I left Juneau I took the ferry from Haines, AK and then drove thru British Columbia and the Yukon back into Alaska. I met my rafting counterparts and the guides in Fairbanks. Aside from the guides, which I was (happily) mistaken for by other clients - a sure credit to my beard, I was the youngest by far as all others were retired.  Despite the age difference, we really gelled as a group. My favorite people on the trip were the other "bachelors" (wives opted out of Alaska). As a retired ecology professor, Earl from Michigan was a wealth of Arctic knowledge. And my "raft buddy" Jacek, was a hilarious Polish-American with a rich accent and some of the best stories I've ever heard.

We flew from Fairbanks to Arctic Village to meet our bush planes. Last post I mentioned that I set a record with the smallest plane I've ever been on... well that was promptly broken when I boarded a 4 seater. The planes (and pilots) were amazing. These things could land on gravel bars beside the river and only needed about 90 yds to take off and land fully loaded. Yes, 90 YARDS. The hour and a half flight from Arctic Village took us over the Brooks Range and the Bearing/Beaufort Divide.

Kongakut River from the air

Rafting the Kongakut River was far more "engaging" than I expected. We all paired off in inflatable canoe-raft hybrid craft that handled like fat pigs. The guides were only in the front boat (navigating) and rear boat (picking up flippers), so it was completely on us to take the channels indicated by the guides and to maneuver through Class II-III rapids and dodge the rocks. I relished the chance to really paddle the river myself. Happy to say that Jacek and I proved a good team and we didn't flip.

The pigs

Heading down river

Me and Jacek 

River overflow would freeze in sheets along the bank called aufeis ("off-ice"). Bet I could bottle this and sell it for $4. 

Looking ahead to the third day's paddle. We entered the "canyon" and the rapids increased to Class III.

We would paddle for a day and then set up a camp and hike the next day. This allowed us to take a nice leisurely pace since we weren't packing up each morning. The hikes were great, giving views of mountains, tundra, wildlife, and the river ahead. Hiking in the tundra was a novel experience, the ground was very lumpy due to the permafrost and very boggy in the spots between humps. Made for hard going from time to time. And the scale of the terrain is something that cannot really be conveyed. It was amazing. Everything was so open and grand, but lacking any real trees or objects to provide any reasonable reference point and making it difficult to gauge the distance or elevation of a hike.

My favorite hike was a scrambly adventure up what is likely a previously unclimbed rocky outcrop 2000ft above the river.

Our climb took us up the highpoint on the left side of the ridge. Second pinnacle counted from left to right.

Jacek had the wonderful foresight to smuggle along some beer and let me tell ya', a river-chilled Alaskan Amber at the end of a steep hike or hard day of paddling was the best.

And the wildlife was AMAZING. We were right in the heart of the migration of the 100,000 strong "Porcupine Herd" of caribou. Not a day went by that we didn't see any caribou. They were often in groups of 20 to 200 and all seemed to be in a hurry to keep heading north. Very fast creatures.

Caribou crossing the Kongakut

They always travel in single file, presumably to save energy when tromping through snow. And both male and female caribou have antlers. The females shed them once they give birth. Then mice eat the antlers and poop out the calcium, which is then absorbed by the grass, which is then eaten again by the momma caribou, which gives her calcium-rich milk for her calf. Basically they import the extra calcium they need from the rest of their feeding grounds. Isn't nature cool?

Toward the end of the trip (we were floating north toward the coastal plain and their calving grounds) I saw at least 1,000 caribou from a small rocky outcrop above the tundra. (Hard to see in the picture below, but they are in there).

This photo was taken at about 11pm. The sun never set the whole time we were up there (overlapped with the solstice). It was hard to get used to.

And we saw a ton of wildlife besides caribou, including Dahl sheep:

A Grizzly (the blonde dot, about as close as I care for).

Grizzly tracks by camp!

And a wolf. Just kidding. I wish. These tracks by the river were as close as we ever came.

We also had some aquatic creatures. Earl and Mario, our guide caught a couple Arctic Char that we ate for dinner one night. Excellent meal. I caught an Arctic Grayling later in the trip but it was small so I let it go. But I've finally outdone my father - that grayling will probably be the only species of fish that I've caught that Dad hasn't!

And not to leave out the Arctic flora, Mario and Earl knew their plants and passed along some of their knowledge. Too early for berries, but we snacked on some colt's foot, like a salad green. And we found lots of these guys - lapland rosebay, a member of the rhododendron family. A little WV in AK!

As I said, we were heading north. By the end of the trip we were within a dozen miles of the Arctic Ocean. We didn't paddle all the way down because the river braids out and gets heinous to navigate and paddle in the shallow channels. So we hiked up a peak and were able to lay eyes upon the Arctic and the pack ice! Great way to finish out the trip.

Heading down to Denali next. The bears will have their choice between a soft Matt-taco (me in a sleeping bag) or a hard Matt-taco (me in my fiberglass truck canopy).

Juneau

Before and after my Glacier Bay trip I spent time in Juneau. I want to thank James and Crystal Dooley for putting me up for a few days and feeding me. We had a few beach campfires, I had my first taste of moose, I got my fill of the Alaskan Brewing Company, and I met a number of their friends in the community, including some fellow CGA grads that I didn't know were in town. 

Juneau has a rich history, most of which deals with mining. Crystal and I toured the old mine sites and learned that Juneau was the most productive hard ore mine in the world, mining $158 million in gold by the time everything shut down in 1944. We also did a walking history tour of Juneau. It was designed for locals so a lot of it was over my head, but the most interesting factoid that stuck in my brain was that Juneau's streets were once made of wood. Yes, the streets. Seems like a terrible idea. 

We took advantage of a great sunny day to hike to the top of Mt. Juneau. Killer view of town. Popular cruise ship destination as well, and the downtown area was again filled with t-shirt and junk stores for the tourists. 

One of the coolest thing I did in Juneau, besides a ride along with JPD's finest (Officer Dooley), was a hike to the Mendenhall Glacier Ice Caves. You've probably seen these things on "top 10 places you won't believe" or some other Internet list like that. The hype exists for a reason. The ice caves are AWESOME. I hit these up with Jason before he flew out.

Everything about the caves was surreal. They were amazingly blue and the dense ice was polished smooth, like Mother Nature's stained glass. Don't miss these if you are ever in the area. Get a local to show you the way, it wasn't the most straightforward. Thanks Dan!

Now it's off to the Juneau-Haines ferry where I'll link up with the continental highway system. After a drive thru Canada, I'll arrive in Fairbanks on June 11th to start my ANWR rafting trip! This drive will be the first test of my truckbed camper set up.

Glacier Bay National Park

This adventure in Glacier Bay began with a Facebook post. I needed a partner, as all the kayak rental companies refuse to rent to solo paddlers, I'm sure for risk and liability reasons, and I really didn't want to be on the water by myself anyway. So I solicit for a partner a couple months ago on Facebook and Jason Acuna comes thru. Jason is the kind of guy down for any adventure at any time and was great fun to have along. We are CGA 09 classmates and have had identical Coast Guard careers. We were roommates for 7 weeks during tactical training in Camp Lejeune, NC so I knew we could get along under high stress and in crappy places.

Jason flew up to Juneau from his current post in Hawaii. We left on the Juneau-Gustavus ferry early the following morning on May 28th. That afternoon we picked up our rental tandem kayak, packed our dry bags, and reviewed our route. 

On the 29th we boarded the MV Baranof Wind, the national park shuttle and tour boat, for a drop off at the base of Mt. Wright and the entrance to the East Arm of Glacier Bay.

After a good paddle with a following wind and tide we set up camp in Goose Cove under fair skies.

Our first meal was likely the best - chicken fajitas with home-dried beans and peppers. For the remainder of the week were were on a diet of instant oatmeal, dried fruit, dehydrated vegetables with couscous, and some leftover MREs. 

With a tasty meal in our belly and not another soul in sight, we were in good spirits to finally be out in the wilderness following the intensive planning and logistics that go into a weeklong kayaking expedition. The good weather helped too. Little did we know that it was all about to change, and that we'd be spending a lot more time in the tent...

After Goose Cove we paddled to the far end of the East Arm, roughly 30 miles in two days. We wanted to put in most of the effort in the front end of the trip while we were fresh and so we could have a leisurely paddle on the backside. Or so went the original plan. This shot of another party in the Muir Inlet sums up the majority of the weather for the next 5 days. Despite the adversity we kept high spirits. Luckily we had a few moments without rain or clouds to cook dinner on a couple nights and attempt to dry out gear. 

The Muir and Riggs Glaciers reside in the far reaches of the East Arm. They are large and have carved cool fjords, but they are both grounded out now and don't reach the water. We were impressed until we entered McBride Inlet and saw our first tidewater glacier. Here Jason celebrates momentarily in front of Riggs Glacier. He stopped celebrating when the 25mph winds kicked up two foot waves that we had to paddle into to get to our next camp. I was in the front of the kayak and got pretty soaked.

McBride Glacier and Inlet was the most interesting feature on the kayaking portion of our trip. It's receding fast and routinely calved icebergs. We watched as a block about the side of a house fell off. It threw up a decent swell in the inlet (that's why we didn't venture much closer than this photo) and sounds exactly like "white thunder" to use the native phraseology. It echoed off the fjord walls and we'd hear calving all night from the tent. So cool. We enjoyed McBride Inlet so much that we camped for two nights.

As a byproduct of all that calving, McBride Inlet was chock full of icebergs. It was surreal to paddle in and around them (watch out for rollers!). During low tide many would get stranded on the beach, making for interesting exploration of all the different shapes and hues of blue.

Thoughout Glacier Bay we saw humpback whales, sea otters, sea lions, harbor seals, mountain goats, lots of seabirds, and a brown bear (safely from the shuttle boat). It was hard to photograph wildlife; many of the encounters were fleeting.

The seals were my favorite. They were very curious and often approached the kayak. This guy nibbled on the bowline and then played with the rudder.

The birds were my least favorite. The arctic terns and black oystercatchers were very territorial. If you stumbled across a nesting site along the beach you were mercilessly dive-bombed and attacked. And the ruckus they made was loud enough to wake the dead. 

After McBride Inlet we decided to "beast mode" just under 20 miles in one day. We wanted to find a great spot on an island next to the pickup point to set up a two night camp and relax away our last day in the wilderness. But another cloud settled in the fjord and we instead spent 24 hours straight in the tent. We slept, read, slept, played cards, and slept.

We were awoken at 0400 by screeching birds, following shortly by a 5.7 earthquake for 30 seconds. It was my first quake. Thankfully no tsunamis filled the bay or we would have been helpless and screwed. Post-quake we had the best weather of the trip, which I was very thankful for. Since we used the sightseeing boat for the shuttle, we actually got the full 6 hour tour of Glacier Bay's scenic West Arm after our pickup. So we gorged on the donuts and coffee, learned some cool stuff from the onboard naturalist, and soaked in the sun and the sights. The "normal" tourists on the boat were impressed with our manly feats of courage and fortitude, but probably less impressed with our smell. Mt. Fairweather, the tallest peak in British Columbia, and taller than anything in the lower 48 at 15,300, is below.

The glaciers of the West Arm were frankly more impressive than anything in the East Arm. However, this comes with a price. I'm very happy that we chose the East Arm for kayaking - it was more intimate and secluded, a true wilderness paddle. Cruise ships, personal yachts, and the park tour boat all ply the waters of the West Arm. And for good reason: check out this glacier - it's taller than the cruise ship! A few good sized bergs and the accompanying "white thunder" broke off during our tour.

The park boat finished its rounds and we returned all our rental gear. After another night in the campground with a raging campfire and some new friends we flew back to Juneau (problem with the ferry schedule) on June 5th. The six-seat Cessna was the smallest plane either of us had ever been on before. But there was no TSA at the airport, so that was a plus!

It was a great trip. It's impossible to capture everything in the blog and part of the point of my travels is to spend less time on the computer. So I hope this will suffice. Jason is a great amateur videographer and is making a video of the trip that I hope to post soon. I'm looking forward to it - we got some good footage and funny clips. After a week of challenging paddling, hit or miss weather, too much tent time, and countless life list sights, we were still good friends. Thanks for coming along buddy. Looking forward to more adventures down the road.