The log of S/V Lacuna, spring and summer 2005

Chapter 8

July 18-26, 2005. Hoonah to Pelican via Glacier Bay.

7/18/05. Yesterday, Ed Moye and I took the 1915 ferry from Juneau and arrived in Hoonah about 2300. Ed had over a hundred pounds of stuff packed tightly into three fabric suitcases and his laptop computer in a Pelican case. I had a minimal amount of clothes and paraphernalia, my laptop computer (also in a Pelican case), and more than 20 pounds of food. Fortunately, we got rides to and from the ferry. The van from the Driftwood Lodge took us to the ferry terminal. In Hoonah, we shared a taxi with a live-aboard yachting couple who recommended that we visit Pelican and White Sulfur Springs.

We didn’t have much time either to upack or sleep. The alarm went off at 0500. We had to get up because Ed’s Glacier Bay permit began today and the tide would be contrary in the afternoon. We needed to enter the bay by noon to avoid adverse currents.

We rousted ourselves out of bed when the alarm rang and set to it. While I shuffled duffle, Ed inflated and rigged Bratwurst. We stowed everything we could, tied Bratwurst alongside, motored to the fish cleaning station on the dock to fill the water tank and jugs, and set off by 0630. Much to my disappointment, the autopilot didn’t work—it was still saturated with water and only shrieked when I plugged it in. Cursing, I put it away and kept on steering.

The passage across Icy Strait was uneventful. We saw no whales, felt no wind, and suffered no sunburn--just a couple of rain storms on our way to Bartlett Cove. After getting the briefing on closed or restricted areas, interacting with bears and whales, and boating regulations and tips, we repaired to the lodge to buy souvenirs and lunch. I had a grilled salmon BLT on foccacia bread. Very tasty!

After we left Glacier Bay Lodge, we motored west and north, passed through more rain storms, and anchored in the north nook of Berg Bay. It’s a tight little harbor with excellent protection and good holding. Along the way we marveled at fish acrobatics—on all sides of us, salmon were jumping out of the water. They looked to be 10-pound fish or thereabouts, their flanks and bellies flashing silver in the sun as they launched themselves into the air, tails flapping. Most emerged from the water at a 45-degree angle or so, and held that position throughout their arc, their tails hitting the water first as they belly-flopped back into the sea. Some turned somersaults in the air; others made five, six, or even seven leaps in quick succession. The most I counted was 10 jumps in quick succession by one fish.

At first I speculated that they were being chased, but we didn’t spot any pursuers. No piscivorous mammals came to the surface for a breath; no gaping fish maw snapped at their tail as they launched into the air. Maybe they are practicing for the upstream run ahead. Perhaps it was hormones, perhaps just plain exuberance. In the prime of life, they are headed toward the breeding grounds for the assignation of their lives. No wonder they’re excited.

In the upper bay, the water is too murky for most attached algae. These have broken loose from the gravelly intertidal zone where they prosper, albeit with weak anchorages. (click here for a larger image)

We saw several sea otters lounging about on the surface then diving sinuously. At least one was quite interested in us and followed us for a while. The others looked at us but didn’t go out of their way to check us out.

As we were motoring slowly through Berg Bay on our way to the anchorage, we saw a couple of alcids (murrelets?) dive near the boat and swim away at high speed. The light was just right to see the trails of bubbles that they left in their wakes. Ed and I looked at each other in astonishment. He asked, “Did you see how fast they went?” I said yes, but I don’t think I would have believed it if he hadn’t seen it as well. The little birds looked as if they were swimming faster than they can fly. I don’t recall seeing any fish swim faster.

Ed spent a couple of hours reorganizing his 200 pounds of luggage, moving it out of the tightly-packed travel bags, re-sorting it, and stowing it around the boat.

I took the ST1000+ autopilot cover off and found water inside. I warmed up the frying pan on the Coleman stove and set the unit on top, minus its top cover. I let it sit there for an hour or so until there was no more sign of water droplets. I plugged it in before I went to bed. It didn’t shriek any more, but it’s not clear that it’s going to work.

7/19/05. Even though it was lights out last night by 2200, we slept late this morning—I didn’t get up until 0800. I had vivid dreams about boring topics, woke a few times, looked at my watch and checked the sea level (it was a minus tide, emphasizing how tight our anchorage was), and then willed myself back to sleep. We shuffled duffle, ate breakfast, and set off by 1000.

I dug the treacherous port-lunging ST2000 autopilot out of storage and pressed it into service. The new ST1000+ is still too waterlogged to work. The display was blank and the buzzer shrieked incessantly when I plugged it in. I took the cover off again and set it on the starboard settee backrest shelf in hopes that it will dry more completely.

Today was considerably nicer than yesterday. We had good views, no rain, a bit of sun, and a mild headwind. I told Ed that it was good that most of the mountain views were obscured and he could see only limited shots of the ridges and peaks—if it were clear, he’d injure his cervical vertebrae craning his neck around to see everything.

As we motored further northwest in the west arm, views started opening up between the smaller but still impressive 3500’ mountains next to the water. He cried out his amazement, delight, and awe at the vistas. The clouds lifted, peaks appeared behind peaks, larger peaks emerged into view, and glaciers started covering the flanks. But even the biggest, most glacier-clad mountain visible to the west was less than 7,000' high, and we knew there were peaks more than 10,000’ high north of us, so we kept a vigilant watch.

Tarr Inlet vegetation is sparse a century after the glaciers.

Cruise ship off Blue Mouse Cove (click here for larger image)

We anchored in the south side of Blue Mouse Cove, the only boat here. There’s a north breeze that’s keeping the bugs on shore, the sky is mostly clear, the sun’s rays are in the photographer’s magic light, and life’s a bitch.

The evening view from Blue Mouse Cove

7/20/05. As we motored north, bergy bits appeared scattered in the water. Ed wouldn’t rest until he got to touch one, so I throttled down, put OB in neutral, and coasted into one. He leaned over the gunwale and rubbed it, a big grin on his face. He became more and more excited as we got closer to the glaciers at the head of Tarr Inlet.

Ice-picking a bergy bit to fit in his cup

The snow-capped mountains that rise six to eight thousand feet provided a backdrop for the three- to five-thousand foot peaks that line the inlet. Glaciers creep down steep slopes, fractured into thousands of seracs, and fill broad valleys, marked by parallel, sinuous lines of talus on their surfaces.

We motored within a mile of Johns Hopkins Glacier, which is growing and advancing. There was so much ice in the water that it would have been tough to get closer. I turned off OB and we drifted down the inlet, pushed by the katabatic wind that falls down glacial valleys, bumping our way through the bergy bits. Despite the sunny weather, we were both wearing fleece and rain clothes to cut the chill.

Johns Hopkins Glacier (click here for a larger image)

Johns Hopkins Inlet (click here for larger image)

The terrain was overwhelming. To the south, the rock face had just a light sprinkling of green where the colonizing shrubs were catching a foothold. It’s a geologist’s paradise, with miles and miles of rock exposed to view. It’s a complex mélange of minerals, colors, and textures. Hard gray rocks that still show the abrasion marks and polish of the glacier’s passage are laid up next to an iron-red, softer rock that has rivulets of talus. Glacier-polished facets reflect spots of light in a dark red-brown matrix nearby. Patches of snow are dusted with fragments of the rock above. A vein of multiply-fractured rock is colored with a palette from beige to orange to burnt umber.

Near Ibach Point (click here for a larger image)

I heard a waterfall before I saw it emerging from the talus at the bottom of a steep draw holding a landlocked glacier. A waterfall 20 feet high gushed from the talus and splashed into the sea.

In the background, there was nearly constant thunder of falling ice. Gulls cried from the cliffs and were in constant motion above the water. An eagle flew in and faced a hostile crowd of natives. The gulls mobbed him, crying alarm, flying at the back of his head as he hustled away. We could follow his progress up the fjord by the alarm calls of the gulls.

After leaving Johns Hopkins Inlet, we stopped at Lamplugh Glacier. There was a good breeze coming off the glacier, so Ed went paddling in Bratwurst and I set sail on Lacuna. I tacked back and forth across the front of the glacier for half an hour while Ed shot lots of pictures. I got many of him paddling among the bergy bits in front of the glacier face.

(Ed Moye photo)

Lacuna at Lamplugh Glacier (click here for a larger image)

Ed kayaking at Lamplugh Glacier (click here for a larger image)

We anchored in Reid Inlet. There were four sailboats in the northwest cove, so we anchored along the east shore near the glacier. A katabatic wind rose, pulling our rode taut. I measured gusts to 17 knots, and it might have been up to 20. Our anchor held well, the riding sail kept Lacuna restrained, and we had a secure but cold night.

Lacuna anchored at Reid Inlet

Reid Inlet (click here for larger image)

7/21/05. We paddled Bratwurst to the shore at the toe of Reid Glacier this morning and walked around the face of the ice. I was awed by the size of the face, struck by the deep blue inside an ice cave, and humbled by the scale.

(Ed Moye photograph)

Reid Glacier. This face collapsed the next day. (Click here for a larger image)

As we paddled back toward Lacuna, little murrelets popped up right beside us and seemed rather curious. We got to look a them closely and marveled at the golden iridescence of their feathers and the intricate pattern of shading on their backs. I realized that they were Killitz’s murrelets, a little-known species that feeds in glacial fjords and nests on the ground (unlike marbled murrelets, which nest in old-growth trees). How they can hunt in the murky glacial outwash with its heavy load of rock flour is beyond me. I read that Glacier Bay National Park may contain 20 percent of the world’s population of this species and that their numbers have declined by 80 or 90 percent in the last few years.

We motored to Margerie Glacier and shut off OB, watching and listening to icefall. When the katabatic wind had pushed us a mile away, Ed started OB and motored to a quarter of a mile from the face to start the process all over again.

Tarr Inlet, Margerie Glacier (click here for larger image)

I stood for a couple of hours on deck with my finger on the button of my 35 mm SLR, waiting for a big face to fall. Finally, we decided to move on, disappointed that we hadn’t seen the big fall we were waiting for. I shot a few more pictures of the ice then went below to change film. Right after I finished loading the camera, but before I could get back up on deck, a 200-foot-high face fell with a big crash and splash. Ed had his camera on the event, his finger on the button—but he cursed as he realized that the camera had turned itself off. Neither of us got the picture we had been waiting for.

Margerie Glacier

As we motored away, with our cameras unready, three more big faces fell within 15 minutes. Had we waited, we might have got the shots we were hoping to get.

We anchored in Russell Island Passage, in virtually the same spot where Jill and I anchored. We had the same problem this time as last—most of the cove is too deep, and the little shoal near the islets is close to shore. We’re on a short rode and will have to shorten it more for the –4.6’ tide at 0900 tomorrow or we’ll be aground. Jill and I had the place to ourselves. Now we’re sharing it with a big Sonship motor yacht.

7/22/05. After a restful night, we weighed anchor and set off to the glaciers again. The first order of business was to replenish our water supplies. We found a vigorous stream cascading down a high, erodible mountainside. Ed paddled Bratwurst to the shore while I kept Lacuna idling offshore. Two trips to the stream provided plenty of fresh, sweet water.

Ed gets water

The sky cleared as we headed north—another beautiful day in paradise! Along the west shore of the bay there is a constant parade of black-legged kittiwakes headed to and from the rookery on the cliff wall south of Margerie Glacier. Sometimes they’re alone, sometimes in a small, orderly squadron, but always flying with determination with none of the nonsense acrobatics that most gulls enjoy. Near the cliff, the glacial outwash is alive with birds diving, splashing, socializing, and paddling. There’s a constant chorus of cries that can be heard more than a mile away, sopranos accompanied by the glacier’s bass and percussion.

Kittiwakes at the outwash of Margerie Glacier (click here for a larger image). They nest on the cliff to the left. The black formation on the right is the dirty flank of the glacier.

We drifted off Margerie Glacier for hours, slowly drifting away in the glacier breeze then motoring closer. Each time we approached the face, I drove us closer than the time before. The safety zone is 1500 feet; we were within 900 feet for a while. The 250-foot-high face is very impressive, as are the sounds and sights of rocks falling from the pinnacles of the seracs into the water, bits of ice crashing down then splashing in the water.

We got a great edge-on (and safe distance) view of a 200-foot serac falling into the water. The first part to go was at its foot, when a 30-foot piece cleaved away from the face and fell in. Fifteen minutes later another piece fell from the base. A few minutes later, the undermined serac gave way, fell forward a few degrees, and slumped into the water. A quick estimate indicated that it weighed 6 million pounds. There wasn’t much of a wave, in part because it fell on the pile of slush left over from the earlier collapses, but in a few minutes there was a radiating and expanding mass of bergy bits that rose to the surface and shouldered each other aside. This time, we both got it on camera.

A serac gives way at Margerie Glacier. Ed Moye photographs. (Click here for a larger image.)

(Click here for a larger image)

7/23/05. As we weighed anchor in Reid Inlet, I saw that the face of Reid Glacier had changed dramatically since we kayaked ashore a couple of days earlier. The vertical face on the west side of the face had collapsed into the shallow lagoon at its base. The blue ice cave that we looked into was still intact; the face had fallen around it. Had the collapse happened when we were walking by, we would have been scampering away from scattering ice but probably not in danger of being crushed by it.

I did some orienteering on the peaks and identified Mt. Bertha, at 10,200’, some 17 miles astern. Glaciers line every draw and valley, feeding the ice sheet that flows into Reid and Lamplugh glaciers. It’s no wonder the cold wind whistles down into Reid Inlet—it has a lot of vertical and a lot of ice to chill it down.

Ed and I both noticed the lack of floating wood up bay. Near North Marble Island, we noticed the first driftwood, and didn’t see any quantity of wood on the beach until we got close to Bartlett Cove. The forest is just too young near the glaciers to have accumulated downed wood.

South Marble Island, a seabird rookery

As we entered Beardslee Channel, the deerflies found us. Our voyage has been blissfully bug-free until now. Soon half a dozen fly corpses were lying on the cockpit sole. I joked that I had better throw them over the side before we get to park headquarters or face reprimand for harassing wildlife.

As we cleared the south end of Lester Island, the wind rose enough for us to raise the sails. We made up to 5.8 knots close-hauled in a south wind, sailing almost into the anchorage before dowsing the sails and motoring to the fuel dock. We took on 17.2 gallons of gas, three gallons less than I expected from mileage and motor hour data. After showers, a couple of beers, and dinner at the lodge, we anchored in the cove.

7/24/05. We got up at 0500 and were paddling Bratwurst up the Bartlett River by 0615. Unfortunately, we were too late after high tide to be able to paddle across the shoals—we had to wade and line Bratwurst against the swift current for a couple of hundred yards. We took a wrong turn right away, paddling upstream until we recognized our error. After resuming the correct course, we paddled through a maze of waterways, passages, shoals, and islands almost to Secret Bay. When we got to the bay entrance, we faced a shallow tidal rapid, enough to make us turn around. Immediately we were in contrary current and a headwind.

Tidal currents in the Beardslee Islands

Twice we stopped on shore when we realized how little progress we were making for all our paddling effort. The second time, we pulled the kayak up high on shore and lounged on the rocks at the high intertidal until the rising tide reached halfway up the boat. Then we took off again, this time with a reduced current and gentler headwind, and made our way to the river shoals where again we were paddling in contrary current.

Beardslee Islands (click here for larger image)

Three girls in two plastic kayaks paddled right by us as we were laboring along making less than half a knot, and we decided that it was time to go to shore and line Bratwurst through the worst of the current. We waded as far out into the cove as we could and launched into a 10-knot headwind and 1-foot chop. By the time we got to Lacuna we were beat. We tied the anchor rode to Bratwurst, cast Lacuna free, and motored to the dock for showers, beers, and food.

After we motored back to the anchorage and tied the rode on, I crawled into my sleeping bag and fell into a deep sleep. I had dreams of giant earthquakes in Lituya Bay and my recently departed, dearly beloved cat Miao-Xi.

7/25/05. A navigation tool failed us today—the favorable currents the current atlas predicted in Icy Strait turned out to be headers, delaying our progress so much that we didn’t make the slack in South Inian Pass. I expected Lacuna to enjoy as much as a three or four-knot boost out of Bartlett Cove and west in Icy Strait, so I set up a route plan that required leaving Bartlett Cove at 0800 and averaging six knots to the Inian Islands. I figured that we’d have to throttle back to avoid getting there too soon.

It wasn’t to be. Ed cranked OB up to almost full throttle, making Lacuna’s stern squat and letting water into the self-bailing (and self-filling) cockpit so that our feet were almost awash (since the knotmeter is broken, the only way we have to tell when we’re approaching hull speed is by how much water is shipped into the aft end of the cockpit). Through the pass, our speed over ground dropped below one knot for way too long, but finally we emerged from the pass and turned south toward Lisianski Inlet.

After only a few hours of exposure to the rain, the new autopilot crapped out again, full of water. What a piece of shit! I’ll open the case and dry it out in front of the electric heater if we can connect to shore power at Pelican—otherwise it’s out of commission until we get several sunny days in a row. I burrowed into the hold and retrieved the old left-hook autopilot (which has been on remarkably good behavior since Ott Jr. arrived) and pressed it into service.

While Ed, dressed in full offshore rain gear, stood watch, I stayed below, setting up the GPS-computer link and navigation software to do real-time navigation on the screen. It’s amazing to see the boat icon moving across the chart as we make progress. On the screen is the full navigation information—speed over ground, heading, distance to next waypoint, cross-track error, and much more. It’s a navigator’s dream.

Inian Pass (click here for larger image)

It rained steadily. Low clouds and thin fog obscured the view, but at aptly named Column Point we could see spires of rock reminiscent of Rooster Rock and Cape Horn near Bonneville Dam on the Columbia River. The view was entrancing, with the clouds and fog parting to reveal some new bit of wave-crashed shore then closing again. Many trollers were working the water near Elfin Cove and the mouth of the inlet.

We landed at the dock in Pelican about 1800. There were many empty slips and no response from the harbormaster to hails on the VHF, so we took a convenient slip, hooked up shore power, and turned on the electric heater to dry out the boat.

We went to the Highliner Lodge at the head of the ramp to the dock. It was only the fourth day they had been open for business. The owner, Steve Daniels, explained the limitations of the menu but offered to prepare something from the lunch or breakfast menu. We were in no hurry so we got to chat with him for a while. He retired from commercial fishing out of Portland, Oregon, apparently very successful, and sank the money into an old building to make it into a very nice lodge. It includes several suites, a floor of lower-priced rooms with a communal bathroom and common area, a sauna, showers, internet access, liquor store, boat and kayak rental, and other amenities. Steve is an ambitious man who said he has a bit of trouble fitting into the local community despite his being an ex-commercial fisherman.

The view from Pelican

7/26/05. We’re enjoying a lay day in Pelican. The town is charming, completely reliant on boats and float planes. There are no cars, just golf carts, ATVs, and bicycles. The roads are wide, well-built boardwalks. The homes, vacation cottages, walkways, offices, fish packing plant, restaurants, bars, library, and medical center are on pilings over the intertidal zone. Only the school and a boatyard are on solid ground. People are friendly, life seems to be slow-paced, and the scenery is fantastic. The view from Lacuna’s stern features 2500-foot-high mountains of glacier-smoothed rock and snowfields above 1500 feet. Waterfalls cascade down steep draws and splash into the sea.

Main Street, Pelican

Garden space is at a premium in Pelican.

Pelican waterfront

--Dennis Todd

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