We are closing in on Juneau. It’s colder here. The mountains are taller, climbing right out of the water’s edge. Before, the sea was black. Now it is clearer; a frigid blue green. A strong crosswind has turned the water’s surface to chop. White caps throw their cold mist into the air.
I miss Brandi. She has been my boon companion for the past six months, and this trip seems almost unreal without her. Practically, handling the dogs without a second set of hands is a chore, but that’s the least of it really. What I truly miss is her company; that bond of shared experience one develops with a genuine partner. It’s nice, the way we complement one another. We make a good team.
Yesterday, we made port in Ketchikan. Heart of Alaska’s great salmon fishery, the town occupies a vertical plane between mountain and sea. Most of the city is waterfront. There are no roads connecting Ketchikan to the rest of the world, still everyone seems to feel the need to drive their car.
Port call was over three hours long. The dogs and I walked the entire length of town in that time, from the ferry dock to the cruise ship berths and back. A constant flow of traffic traveled the single street. Vehicles congregated at the Lutheran church, but the Safeway parking lot was nearly empty.
Ketchikan has two faces; tourist and Alaskan. Eerily, the ordered facades of the curio shops in the tourist quarter stand over silent streets of a ghost town. From the sheer number of stores selling salmon, one can only assume that the district is thronged with people during the summer season. A Sunday in February finds it as quiet as Tombstone.
Downtown Ketchikan sports a clean appearance and a fresh coat of paint. The rest of the city is weathered and worn. Advertisements scattered among shuttered windows downtown speak of another world where real Alaskans seldom venture. I feel like a shade caught in limbo between two realms; not really a part of either. A raven that seems to believe dogs need not be feared taunts Tensaw from a distance less than four feet. It leaps into the air with an odd caw whenever he moves closer, but mostly it appraises me with a single judicious eye. This gaze gives me that same feeling one gets when a word is stuck on the tip of the tongue. Am I’m missing something here, I ask the black bird. Aren’t you, he replies.
Back on the boat, next stop Wrangell. It is dark when we arrive. We go ashore where I am confounded by the dogs. Normally, they do reasonably well on their leashes, but this evening is a jumble of tangled lines and unheeded commands. I want to call Brandi, and they seem to want to tie me up in leaders and leave me stranded. I know they need to run, but I’m afraid to let them free in a dark, unknown location with only thirty minutes. I let Kona off leash while Blue and Tensaw circle me endlessly until the ferry horn calls us back aboard for the push past Petersburg on to Juneau.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Inside the Passage
So far the most amazing thing about the ferry to Alaska has been the fact that I have had cell coverage almost the entire way. Of course we have been skirting alongside Vancouver Island, BC. We’ll see how things change once we get a bit further north.
The boat is pitching hard to the right as we turn portside. I am sitting in the cafeteria, eating a banana while I wait for morning deck call. There is land close on either side of us, comfortably within swimming distance. Could probably make it if the water wasn’t so cold. Later today we will cross a couple sections of open sea, but to this point we have been weaving thru narrows created by the archipelago lying along the northwest Pacific coast. Even without land in sight, the throbbing diesels seem reassurance enough that we will make our destination.
Constantly the entire ship pulses as her power plants push the screw through the water. It is a world continuously in motion; the boat vibrates, wind whistles, waves splash against the hull. Water, sky, and shoreline slip past at a sure steady pace. A white capped arrowhead spreads from the prow, pointing out our course. A foaming footprint follows behind.
Car deck call is coming soon. We’ll see how the puppas are fairing. Wait … they are fine. The girls refuse to do business on the deck yet, but Tensaw voided a very full bladder on a truck’s tire without much provocation. They seem to be doing perfectly well. Owing to the number of dogs on board and tight quarters, they were very excited; otherwise they were in good spirits. One of them used the newspaper inside the truck. Another 24 hrs in there may improve their opinion of deck call.
I am on the SS Malaspina, making way north along the Alaska Marine Highway. We left Bellingham, Washington, at sunset last night; Ketchikan our next port of call. Weather has been superb; clear, calm, and moderate when we cast off lines and got underway beneath red skies. Now a blanket of high clouds covers the entire expanse overhead. Water, trees, and rocky shorelines surround us. In the distance, jagged mountaintops climb, breaking up the horizon. To be perfectly honest, it is the most alluring landscape I have ever seen.
We have sailed past several solitary cabins standing silently on steep slopes overlooking the water. Several smaller craft have drifted by; large container barges being led south by tugs, a few fishing boats. I sighted a couple of remote human outposts on the horizon this morning, but now seawater has us almost completely surrounded. Seemingly infinite ripples cover the ceiling of the world’s greatest wilderness.
No cell tower in sight, still several bars of reception show on the cell phone display. Perhaps the ship is its own cell. Maybe the stretch of open water it appears we are about to cross will reveal the answer.
Cell phone coverage aside, sailing is certainly the most amazing part of ferry passage. In deeper water the ship pitches and yaws even more than when she does inside the narrows. A seat in the forward observation lounge rises and falls in constantly changing rhythm as the prow cuts the sea. In rough water it is nearly impossible to stand when we cross here, a steward tells a nearby passenger. Today we sail under fair skies, and the seas are calm.
I am going north for work. Although I often refer to it as an unnecessary endeavor, I actually like what it is I do to earn money for dog food and truck payments. Wildland fire management sometimes seems extraneous, but it’s extremely addictive. It combines just the right amount of physical and mental challenge to satisfy both. We don’t really do anything, but we don’t really hurt anything either. The money’s not bad. It’s a career that nicely mimics the criteria laid out in Lloyd Dobler’s answer to Diane Court’s father in the film Say Anything. I don’t want to make anything bought or sold, sell anything bought or made, or buy anything made or sold; and in fire, that statement pretty much holds true.
One perk about the dispatch position with the Alaska Division of Forestry at Tok Area Office is the opportunity to do resource work in addition to fire. Jeff Hermanns, area forester for Tok Area, is an ambitious, progressive resource manager, and he has more projects than people. To manage an area larger than Massachusetts, Jeff’s staff at Tok Forestry numbers less than a dozen. I’m guessing there will be plenty to do.
The ship continues to rock its way through Queen Charlotte Strait. Three more hours until next car deck call. Land is back alongside. High hills once again shelter the passage. My cell phone battery is nearly dead; its reserve exhausted from listening to music. It hasn’t seen coverage for awhile.
The boat is pitching hard to the right as we turn portside. I am sitting in the cafeteria, eating a banana while I wait for morning deck call. There is land close on either side of us, comfortably within swimming distance. Could probably make it if the water wasn’t so cold. Later today we will cross a couple sections of open sea, but to this point we have been weaving thru narrows created by the archipelago lying along the northwest Pacific coast. Even without land in sight, the throbbing diesels seem reassurance enough that we will make our destination.
Constantly the entire ship pulses as her power plants push the screw through the water. It is a world continuously in motion; the boat vibrates, wind whistles, waves splash against the hull. Water, sky, and shoreline slip past at a sure steady pace. A white capped arrowhead spreads from the prow, pointing out our course. A foaming footprint follows behind.
Car deck call is coming soon. We’ll see how the puppas are fairing. Wait … they are fine. The girls refuse to do business on the deck yet, but Tensaw voided a very full bladder on a truck’s tire without much provocation. They seem to be doing perfectly well. Owing to the number of dogs on board and tight quarters, they were very excited; otherwise they were in good spirits. One of them used the newspaper inside the truck. Another 24 hrs in there may improve their opinion of deck call.
I am on the SS Malaspina, making way north along the Alaska Marine Highway. We left Bellingham, Washington, at sunset last night; Ketchikan our next port of call. Weather has been superb; clear, calm, and moderate when we cast off lines and got underway beneath red skies. Now a blanket of high clouds covers the entire expanse overhead. Water, trees, and rocky shorelines surround us. In the distance, jagged mountaintops climb, breaking up the horizon. To be perfectly honest, it is the most alluring landscape I have ever seen.
We have sailed past several solitary cabins standing silently on steep slopes overlooking the water. Several smaller craft have drifted by; large container barges being led south by tugs, a few fishing boats. I sighted a couple of remote human outposts on the horizon this morning, but now seawater has us almost completely surrounded. Seemingly infinite ripples cover the ceiling of the world’s greatest wilderness.
No cell tower in sight, still several bars of reception show on the cell phone display. Perhaps the ship is its own cell. Maybe the stretch of open water it appears we are about to cross will reveal the answer.
Cell phone coverage aside, sailing is certainly the most amazing part of ferry passage. In deeper water the ship pitches and yaws even more than when she does inside the narrows. A seat in the forward observation lounge rises and falls in constantly changing rhythm as the prow cuts the sea. In rough water it is nearly impossible to stand when we cross here, a steward tells a nearby passenger. Today we sail under fair skies, and the seas are calm.
I am going north for work. Although I often refer to it as an unnecessary endeavor, I actually like what it is I do to earn money for dog food and truck payments. Wildland fire management sometimes seems extraneous, but it’s extremely addictive. It combines just the right amount of physical and mental challenge to satisfy both. We don’t really do anything, but we don’t really hurt anything either. The money’s not bad. It’s a career that nicely mimics the criteria laid out in Lloyd Dobler’s answer to Diane Court’s father in the film Say Anything. I don’t want to make anything bought or sold, sell anything bought or made, or buy anything made or sold; and in fire, that statement pretty much holds true.
One perk about the dispatch position with the Alaska Division of Forestry at Tok Area Office is the opportunity to do resource work in addition to fire. Jeff Hermanns, area forester for Tok Area, is an ambitious, progressive resource manager, and he has more projects than people. To manage an area larger than Massachusetts, Jeff’s staff at Tok Forestry numbers less than a dozen. I’m guessing there will be plenty to do.
The ship continues to rock its way through Queen Charlotte Strait. Three more hours until next car deck call. Land is back alongside. High hills once again shelter the passage. My cell phone battery is nearly dead; its reserve exhausted from listening to music. It hasn’t seen coverage for awhile.
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