Another ten days in the field has brought us to Wrangell, Alaska. It is raining outside while I type this update, which is in keeping with this last section of the expedition. We have become familiar with many types of Alaskan precipitation: rain, blowing rain, showers, on-and-off showers, drizzle, mist, light mist, might rain, kinda raining, thinking of raining, maybe rain in a bit, and fog that isn’t precipitation but thick enough to condense on everything. We’ve definitely learned the lesson to set up the tarp for the kitchen even if it doesn’t look like rain anytime soon… that can change quickly!
That may sound dreary, but moving through this ever-changing environment has been a beautiful experience. Watching the weather come in from across these big channels, the visibility changing by the hour, mist swirling around the mountains and islands, bending and flowing around the landscape… it is beautiful in a more intimate way than the clear sunny mountain vista-filled days. It is also very difficult to capture in a photograph, as the greys all blend a bit into a “meh” image. In person you can see the depth in-between many layers of moisture moving around the landscape, a visual exposition of fluid dynamics at work.
We have paddled through a cycle of neap to spring tides and back again. The larger tides were interesting to work around. Back home in Washington we tend to plan all our journeys around the timing of tidal currents and when during the day they will be in our favor. On this last leg, we definitely found ourselves more concerned with the tide height and what the landings or launches will be like. The largest tidal range we’ve seen was over 23 feet. When the really low low-tides come they often reveal large boulders covered with mussels and barnacles, or shallow beaches that extend out a long way. This has largely dictated our daily routine.
In the last section we have ridden the “early train” for several days, waking up at 3am and launching at 6am to catch the ebb tide for a few days, each day getting a bit more help as the tides shift later in the day and landing as the tide is rising again. We then switched to the “late train,” for our last few days to Wrangell, launching at 11am and paddling until 7pm to catch the flood in the next passage. One night we landed at camp at 9pm after milking the last bit of helpful current for the day, arriving just as the high tide finished creeping up the beach. We ate our dinner by headlamp and fell asleep as soon as we laid down in the tent. Both extremes have their ups and downs, and overall we like the early wake-ups better. But we don’t get to choose our schedule: the ocean does that for us. We pay attention to what the natural cycles are doing around us, and we follow their directions.
We also don’t get to choose the weather, and the last section provided headwinds for more than half of our travel days. These have been both a mental and physical challenge. The first couple hours of a headwind day go fairly well, we feel energized and it seems like we make good progress. As the hours go by we start to get tired, bit by bit. Different parts of our bodies feel sore: a wrist for a bit, then leg muscles, maybe a shoulder for a while… usually these sorenesses and pains last for an hour or so before melting away again some other part of us makes itself known.
As we go along against the wind the miles seem to drag on a bit longer as the day progresses, even if we have a similar pace to the beginning of the day. The large scale of the landscape definitely adds to the mental game. Getting on the water in the morning and looking down these long passages, we can often see where we were headed from the beginning of the day. Time seems to stretch out when you are paddling towards the same point for two, three, or four hours… it just seems like we should be there already! But, we are not there yet. It is a humbling lesson in patience again and again.
It is difficult to hold a conversation in the wind, so much of these days are paddled in silence, alone with our thoughts and the details of the shoreline around us. When we have paddled through the lowest lows of the tide, the shore has revealed secrets to us: whole worlds of sea stars, sea cucumbers, chitons, anemones, and so much more. One beach we landed on for lunch had so many tiny hermit crabs crawling around it was difficult to get out of our boats and walk up the beach without stepping on one of them. These tiny details are beautiful, and we feel so fortunate to be able to see them.
We have watched the cruise ships roll by us, thousands of people looking out of their private balconies at the mountains and the glaciers. When grinding out a day against the wind it would be easy to envy them and the easy way they get to see this place, but that ease comes with a cost: they don’t get to see the up-close secrets of the shoreline, or know what it feels like to feel a whale come up and spout 30 yards behind your kayak, or listen to the wind and rain on the tent as small waves lap the beach, lulling you into a night of deep dream-filled sleep. We have been sore and soggy at times during this last stretch, but being this close to such a wild landscape has certainly been worth it.
