Making the Turn
©2020 Garrison C Gibson
There was a
good price on a skiff some distance away. Buying the craft in July seemed like
a good idea though time would need to be taken away from work; maybe a
vacation. Without much persuasion or any at all the deal was made.
The boat
would be picked up in Juneau in September.
The vacation
started later than planned, the seller needed to be out of town until sometime
in October. No problem, the buyer was salty enough to feel comfortable to make
a journey more than 150 miles over the water in the dark, rainy days of fall.
Gear for
making the journey was stolen from a ferry terminal. A g.p.s. and other
technical items were lost. Not much existed in the budget to replace them. No
problem, the buyer was an occasional sourdough spanning about a half century.
Arriving in
Juneau was good. Familiar sights and mountains greeted the traveler. Low
mountains rising a few thousand feet from sea level were picturesque though
shorter than those of the average elevation of mountain where he worked. He
found a taxi driver at the Auk Bay terminal.
The Philippino cabbie was a good fellow. He seemed to know his way around and did fairly well with
the cab. He knew where the hostile in Juneau was. A nice facility for a good
price, the driver dropped me and agreed to return the next morning.
Bad weather
forecasts predominated. Several days of windy weather were ahead, many with
rain. The journey would be interesting; it was time to arrange to see the boat
at the seller’s home.
The taxi
arrived and found the right street up on the side of a mountain. He remembered
taking a passenger nearby on a free New Year’s Eve ride for those with too much
to drink. The snow on the steep road made for a treacherous course. The fellow
was home. The 12’ skiff was upside down on the side of the driveway.
Finding
everything fine a plan was made to take the vessel to the water in a few days
when the weather cleared. A few days waiting in the empty though nice hostile
wasn’t too bad a prospect. Much shopping for items to make the journey work was
unfortunately, in order. Plastic gas can to refuel the two and a half
horsepower motor, a spare spark plug, tarps to get out of the rain and the all
important knee-high rubber boots were on the list, purchased and placed into a
cart. When the goods were got the voyager called the taxi driver who swiftly
appeared and took the goods to the hostile where they stayed a couple of day.
With a fair
enough weather forecast the next day with wind expected to be less than 15 M.P.H.
the trip was on. Next day the taxi took the equipment and journeyman to the
boat. The seller put the equipment in a truck and loaded the boat together with
the fellow who would be taking the boat. In an hour the boat and driver were
dropped off at the boat ramp at Douglas. God byes were said, and good luck. A
dark, overcast sky made the trip seem a little dicey.
Gastineau
channel is a few miles long. Direct S.E. winds often blow north making the trip
south against the prevailing wind and waves. The captain of his craft loaded
the boat and set the 2.5 on the transom, gassed it up, replaced the cap and
kicked off shore. He noticed there wasn’t a drain plug in the boat and went
back to drag the boat stern first back onto a dry spot on the ramp. He called
the seller who promptly delivered a drain plug.
After bailing out a little water the trip once again resumed.
A two and a
half outboard motor powering a fairly heavy aluminum skiff need go rather slow.
Perhaps in calm water and positive currents it would reach 8 miles per hour.
With opposition currents and non-positive waves it averaged about half that or
5 m.p.h. In a couple of hours the vessel neared the end of Gastineau Channel
where a vista of several confluences of waters ahead could be seen.
Taku Inlet
is a turbulent body of water that has interior winds flowing over an eponymous
glacier often stirring up waves over tides and currents from Stephens Passage
to the South and the waters east of Admiralty Island that lead to the sea at
Icy Strait. The confluence of currents and tides makes for occasional complex
wave patterns with winds suddenly driving wave to larger size that are focused
and move toward Land on Admiralty Island just north of Doty Cove.
October days
are rather short; maybe eight hours of light technically, although the height
of the mountains rising from the water and dark cloud cover can make total
darkness appear earlier. The driver was enjoying the trip he had made numerous
times before usually without a motor; sometimes rowing an eight foot inflatable
boat- the last time a killer whale or Orcas had passed very close by outside
Taku Harbor (not Taku Inlet) before he noticed a cap was lose on the inflatable
and the air was gushing out.
A third of
the across the water crossing to Slocum Inlet 17 miles S.E. of Juneau the small
rippling waves took on a different tone with darker scuds hanging from nimbus
clouds scurrying wet as if they had someplace to be. An odd fog cloud with
fingers crawled from Admiralty toward the water. In the distance whitecaps
appeared. With just so much daylight remaining there wasn’t really a choice of
turning back. The journey was to the south at any rate; one need be going
somewhere.
One last
photograph was made before attention to the boat need be given. There wasn’t
really a way to know how much the waves ahead would grow or in fact what size
they actually were. The transition into a survival situation was fairly sudden.
Suddenly the boat was at its destination in the midst of large, roiling water
with waves over which the boat need transect to reach the shore.
With so many
current direction there was no way to know if the water was worse astern. Very
quickly the driver needed to move the slow twelve foot boat sideways nearly
perpendicular to the direction of the waves.
The waves
were focused generally on travelling toward Doty cove several miles distant
where they probably crashed on a rocky outcrop of land. The waves were space
too close together and were too large to consider running with them several
miles off course to an uncertain fate. Resolutely with an occasional splash in
the face and rain with a wind apparently more than 20 m.p.h. the driver avoided
the white wash break of the waves and crossed over the top of each just before
they broke and extended the time of travel in the trough and rising swell of
the next of each as long as he could, while watching for the unusual changes of
wave direction that happened periodically. The transom of the vessel was too
low to consider putting into the foam of wave breaks.
In perhaps
two or three hours of survival sailing (I use the term to apply to motoring
here) the vessel drew closer to Slocum Inlet where the boater knew he would
find calm. The south side of Taku Inlet has a few places to get a boat out of
the wind; even from the east, because of large coastal mountains that reach as
high as four or five thousand feet there. Dark green evergreens ashore looked
welcoming, except for the knowledge that the woods were the home of the great
Alaska brown bear that can weigh more than 600 pounds and have a skeleton that
resembles something designed by a futuristic predator laboratory with twenty
knife-like claws, strong legs that look like coiled energy ready to spring in
support of a mouth full of sharp teeth. The boater said a few prayers and knew
his fate was with God.
The journey
passed for the boater as if he were watching a video and was in it himself. It
was an either/or, live or die, capsize or stay upright kind of experience. One
mistake and the boat would capsize; with the speed of the waves and cold water
temperature in the mid-30s it wasn’t likely they surviving turning turtle was
likely.
Surfing a
small motor craft when necessary is always a memorable experience. It is never
a pleasure and better avoided. Suddenly the wind shadow of the mountains
arrived. The crazy wave battle was over for now. The turn around the end of
Taku Inlet eventually appeared and the water remained calm close to shore. The rewarding
site looking far down Stephens Passage to Frederick Sound arrived. Hoping to go
farther before dark as the day was drawing toward a close, the white caps were
visible out in the midst of the passage to the west. The journey took the vessel
beyond Taku Inlet wear a bear had killed a couple of young hunters dressing a
deer some time ago and to the unfamiliar Limestone Inlet wear he expected to
pass the night uneventfully.
Limestone
Inlet is sharp break in the coastal mountain wall. It is narrow and deep and
shallow; very except toward the entrance that makes a bad anchorage for a small
boat in fall in case waves arrive. The other spot deep enough to keep water in
it when the tide goes out is along the north wall. A crabber had left a mess of
pots in that spot making it unsuitable for anchoring. With mountains over a
thousand feet high around it that seemed like not much of a problem; camping
along the south wall was good enough and there was enough water to prevent a
bear from reaching the boat while asleep.
With such a
shallow deep bay when the tide goes out there are hundreds of yards of dry
where a boat unwary of anchoring could find itself on the dry for hours waiting
for the next high tide to refloat in. Asleep in a small boat a hungry brown
bear looking for a late fall topping up snack before the long sleep might look
at a skiff with food and a camper in it as a seafood plate. Without a .44 mag
and a speed holster awakening to a bite on an arm should best be avoided; avoid
it in any case.
A steady
cold rain fell and the sky was dark, the nigh black. An improvised lid on the
boat made with tent poles and tarps was rather useless and even dangerous
making quick exit difficult. In the middle of the night the sleep was disturbed
by the boat slamming hard on the rocks. Clawing out of the cumbersome enclosure
in seconds the fellow used an hour to push off the rocks. He paddled madly with
one ore-the ore locks didn’t actually fit his oars, far enough to put his prop
into the water. Fortunately the stern hadn’t crashed into stone to possibly
break it. The motor started with the first pull.
In the dark
the vessel skidded across shallow with the tail below the prop hitting skipping
mud several times before coming to rest in a spot closer to the north wall. In
the night the anchor was tossed numerous times to gain a hold. Wind still hit
the craft; somehow the wind had come over the north mountains and covered most
of the Inlet, and it was some time before a place was found that worked; enough
out of the wind yet still in water. The boat would be on the dry for just a
half hour of the twelve hour tide cycle, and dawn was just a couple of hours
away. Sleep was impossible; he made a coffee with a propane torch heating a
metal cup under the tarp, and tore down the silly tent. For the remainder of
the trip his new leaky boots and a tarp would be his distance from cold water.
He knew he was luck the boat just took a good dent yet did not break.
Each new day
on the trip brought new and familiar sites. Sea lions, seals and whales, eagles
and bear-coastal bays he had learned of from hard experience surfing an eight
foot boat over Holkam Bay with an oar lashed to the stern for steerage or
standing on a monarch scow trying to get a square sail up to catch a sharp wind
to cross over Port Houghton while the goings good; the way home was one of his
favorite places to be.
The morning
brought a new hope, yet there were white caps visible in the passage ahead.
There was a kind of glow from somewhere under the clouds that joined sky and
water where a line of sunlight broke through. The waters become clearer when
the summer’s algal bloom is gone, the salt water smells fresh with ozone from
the rains, raising anchor the fueled journey started again.
Once one
leaves Limestone Inlet there aren’t too many good anchorages before reaching
beyond Holkam Bay. Maybe the north side of Port Snettisham offers a place to
bring a boat in, yet there are the bear, and the south shore is very stony and
one must portage an inflatable a long way up the beach- a metal boat just
wouldn’t work there.
One may find
a place on the north side of Holkam Bay for an inflatable to be carried out of
the water, and there are a few islands in the bay where one can spend the night
on a boat carefully- the boater did that more than once on short rations and
another with a sailboat without a motor; it was a tough time in the dark. He
saw a humpback whale try to keep an island between itself and a noisy tourist
boat going up the bay to Tracy Arm as he waited for the wind to rise and
instead found a very slow moving current that took him south and out of the
bay.
A cold day’s
journey took the boater not only to Holkam Bay; unbelievably he ended up at
Hobart Bay; inexperienced with a machine powering his boat the vast distance
travelled in one long day was beyond his belief and hope. He set an anchor in
the bay he was familiar with, Sunset Island offshore to the S.W.
With a
couple of coffees the very uncertain morning looked promising enough. It was a
long way from the anchor spot near the deserted whale and eagles feeding ground
when the herring returned in the spring. He didn’t know how the wind would be
on Port Houghton though Hobart Bay itself was calm. Losing the weather radio to
thieves brought more guesswork and dead reckoning to the trip.
He spent an
hour and back going to the Port entrance with the time wasted; the winds drove
up wave too much; another wave intersecting direction to cross Port Houghton to
Cape Fanshaw’s Cannery Island was required and they were too substantial. Wind
and waves change with tides commonly, and fog sometimes arises as well. He
decided to wait a few hours and kicked back in the boat. In an hour he grew
impatient and decided to try it again.
The entrance
to the Port, right along the N.E. shore was barely screened from the waves.
Though the wave height was enough to make crossing at the wide entrance a bad
idea because of the inevitably downwind drift with the wave that would make him
miss Cape Fanshaw bay and likely take him out into the middle of Frederick
Sound where he would in effect be out of control and luck if he could catch the
lighthouse islands or Gambler’s Bay far beyond on the other side toward the
south end of Admiralty. He choose to head upwind into the Port wear it grew
narrower before crossing, then traverse a little bit; not too much, toward the
S.W. where he could make short work of the several miles.
The upwind,
downwind journey takes more time; it cost the better part of the day. He knew
there weren’t good anchor spots easy to find on the south side of Port Houghton
toward the entrance until reaching a little farther south to the entrance
behind Cannery Island where even fishing boats sometimes take shelter from the
wind.
The wind,
waves and approaching darkness were adversaries and it was difficult to tell
where the entrance to the channel was. Most bays on the outer side are exposed
to the waves and fairly useless for boat camping. Dragging anchors and boats
full of water from beach breaking waves can make a terminus of travel. False entrances
abounded when in good water and summer the challenge is quite low. The boater wasn’t
sure of what direction to go; he thought he may have gone too far going along the
shore. Each turn made him think he was approaching the Cape itself. Waves grew
with intensity, yet just before dark he found a turbulent entrance and that
itself was the entrance to the channel at last. Though last dusk he motored
some distance south and camped off Cannery Island in the rain by the rotten
remnants of pilings from the place abandoned nearly a century ago.
The night
was again cold and wet; his feet hadn’t been dry in days. He bailed out the
boat often and found the boat pump the seller had included very efficient. In
the morning he counted his blessings. One never knows what winds will be; the
morning seemed good. Cold with the start and with a coffee in hand he broke
camp and headed for the Cape.
Cape Fanshaw
is itself fairly unremarkable except for its location. It is a spit reaching
into Frederick Sound with a great few of the internal sea. The driver thought
of it as Arnie Saknussen’s lost world. One of the last great wild spots in the
United States unspoiled by development he hoped it would for countless
generations remain so.
Taking the
small craft around the cape on a fair day he knew that crossing Frederick Sound
was a gamble; waves could occur that would terminate the trip, although worry
was useless when necessity arose. Point Highland as he thought of it, looked
over the Sound too as well as Farragut Bay. Using that as a guidepost was his
custom; it was a good crossing point to traverse the Sound to Portage Bay on
Kupreanov Island. That is necessary in order to go into the city of Petersburg
some 50 miles south of the Cape. He needed to cross the sound at some point and
it was the narrowest spot and simultaneously the most scenic.
His crossing
went well and steadily; waves didn’t arise until reaching Portage Bay. He had
plenty of fuel remaining and daylight hours. Motoring upwind against rising
small three foot wave he plunged ahead as there was still light. The day took
him along the west side of Kupreanov until reaching Petersburg harbor an hour
after dark. He found a spot in the grid, tied up, covered up and fell asleep.
He spent
three days around Petersburg waiting for rain and wind to abate. Cold and damp under the tarp sleeping on a narrow metal boat seat under a
downpour the chance to leave was quickly taken up. He left the grid and motored
south down Petersburg narrows between Mitkov and Kupreanov Islands and beyond
Voevoda Island to Sumner Strait. The slow trip made the boat in the waves to
test the difficulty decision block difficult; to go forward was probably to
lose his life, so he turned about and went north to Petersburg. Another night
in the grid. Next morning he travelled around the other side of Mitkov Island
and again south. The wind this far in Frederick Sound is screened by coastal
mountains and Mitkov. At the south end of the island is a very shallow narrow
strait named Dry Strait- the tide goes out completely and it is dry for several
hours each day. In the cold rain he went as far as he could and anchored
watching the day pass and night get closer.
At last the
boat refloated. He trough off the tarp and started the motor heading with the
fast Stikine River current along the south side of Mitkov briefly before
cutting over toward Kadin Island. The water becalmed and there was a starry
night. Darkness arrived and he journey on catching the distant light of
Wrangell. He avoided an Alaska ferry boat with his slow craft and reached the
city harbor in the night. The journey was nearly done.
Next day he
returned to the cabin. That night some sort of cold weather trench foot like injury
appeared. He had damaged his feet decades before walking through snow and
streams with combat boots until his feet later would swell up nearly twice the
size for a time. Apparently his feet that were on fire and felt a couple times
worse than a torn rotator cuff persisting for seven days because weather didn’t
allow him to return to town were brought into that condition by the cold wet
feet for a few days this time. The water portion of the journey was for the
time, forgotten.
