Hallo Bay, Alaska II Video

Every single day, this place finds a new way to scare the crap out of me.

When the storm rolled in two days ago, it was the simple prospect of sitting out here in the middle of the bay as the winds built, rain poured down and the boat rocked and pitched through the night. I sat up until past midnight, moving the anchorage twice hoping to find better shelter, but the boat still bobbed like a cork. I didn’t feel sick exactly, but I sure wasn’t happy either. I finally curled up in my sleeping back, lodged my knees into a small nook in the cabin wall and slept fitfully. For about ten hours. But with a whole lot of waking up and looking nervously around.

I made the alarming discovery yesterday that with all of my planning and organized packing, I neglected to bring along more than two slim books. I have a library of close to 1000 books in my house, a pile of unread reading material that must weigh close to a ton. But it’s all safely tucked into the shelves at home.

And now I’m looking at the prospect of more than two weeks without reading material. My brain is toast.

Instead, I spent nearly all day watching ripped dvd’s and reading a book on Timothy Treadwell’s obsessive love of Alaskan bears. Good background material if I'm thinking of getting eaten.

When the wind calmed a bit midday, I checked my charts and decided that I’d be better off in Kukak Bay, just to the south. It’s only seven miles as the crow flies, but the crow doesn’t have to go out into Shelikof Strait.

Every time I tried, it wasn’t so very long before I got homesick for my crappy little unprotected anchorage. Outside the sheltered water on the inside of Nigishak Island, the seas were a whole lot less forgiving. The normal swell from two days of northeasterly wind mixed with the shallow water here and set up breaking waves from every direction. It never got truly scary, but I never made it more than three miles out, either. The waves were just too big for my comfort level. I’d rather be at a crappy anchorage than battling for my life in a capsized boat miles from any prayer of rescue.

In the relative shelter of the bay, I got bored and eventually threw my gear into the zodiac and went to shore. In short order, I was thoroughly cold, soaked and bored with the one snuffling bear scrabbling around after clams. In that short period of time, two and three foot breakers had begun crashing into the shore, ugly curling things that looked plenty big enough to flip a small inflatable and dump its contents and proprietor into the 47° ocean.

I stared at the ocean for a good long time, trying to find some pattern to the breakers. I counted more than ten big waves before I got hypnotized by it all. I could picture disaster easily enough. The boat pitching over in a wave, everything dumped into the water, me getting soaked and cold, or worse, filling up my waders and struggling to stay afloat.

I stared at it for a while longer, then packed up the gear and moved it to the water edge and waited. Big waves washed up to me, and I waited, watching one curl after another form. Finally, in a calm patch I pulled the boat into the water and waded out. I pushed through one swell, then a second before swinging up into the boat. I had to get the motor down and started. A big wave hit and I fell the boat start to roll over me. I pitched all my weight forward, barely managing to keep from flipping. Then I started yanking on the outboard and dropped the prop into the water. I was away. And shaking like a bloody leaf.

It was still a long 45 minutes back to the boat, taking the crest of wave after wave in the face and into the boat. When things calmed down I flailed away with my kayak pump to clear out some of the water. But mostly I hung on in desperation, making imperceptible progress toward the small island. It was ages before I could finally make out the pinprick white spot of my boat. It looks comically small in this vast landscape.

I feel like I’m in way over my head here.

Hallo Bay, Alaska I

The midsummer night came and went in about four hours, and the day broke with flawless blue skies and alpenglow already coloring the highest glacial peaks. Even with coffee though, I was moving a little slow.

Sunrise coincided with low tide, and Hallo Bay’s tidal flats extended hundreds of yards offshore. It took more than a hour to load up the zodiac, motor to shore, carry everything across the flats and over a barrier island, across a cold meltwater stream and up another steep cutbank before finally, finally seeing some bears. I walked up the river bank and immediately spotted two large, dark brown bears feeding on the sedge grass.

The meadows are flat and manicured, and aside from the predator population it could all be a Scottish golf course.

I sidled in, doing my best if still unconvincing bear walk. Head off to the side, ambling slowly in, just minding my own business, checking out the grass. A large sow barely gives me a second look. She just kept on eating, stopping time to time to admire the scene or take another enormous dump.

It wasn’t until another, adolescent male ambled up and started taking bluff charges at me that I tried to remember where I put the pepper spray.

Shelikof Strait, Alaska - Video

As soon as I rounded the cape, things turned ugly. The wind built quickly, setting up an ugly, confused sea. Waves from every direction as I left the green cliffs behind, focusing on the distant white mountains.

For two hours I wrestled the boat westward, slamming up curtains of spray. All my carefully stowed containers went flying, dumping books, food and supplies. My zodiac filled with water and worked itself half-loose from the cabin roof, nearly sliding off. Water poured over the windows and gunwhales and left nearly a foot of water in the cockpit before I remembered to flip on the bilge pump.

I tried to ignore the green islands behind me, except to make a mental note when I passed the halfway point. It was now shorter, if not necessarily safer, to keep going than turn and run back.

As the tide started to run, I found myself surfing down breaking waves, the boat pitching hard to the side before slowly climbing up the back of another. The world receded to nothing over the small windshield, the spray, the waves, the mountains. I counted out loud as the GPS counted the miles down.

Finally, the waves grew smaller, the wind less determined, the sea less angry. I passed behind the shadow of Nuksak Island and hooted with joy at the sight of Hallo Bay. Verdant slopes and steep mountain cliffs circled around in an ampitheater of glacial peaks. I dropped anchor, looked out at the green meadows, spotted my first bear and stood there grinning like an idiot at the midnight sun drifted behind the peaks.

Kodiak Island, Alaska

I fill up with 100 gallons of overpriced island gasoline, check the oil and motor north out of Kodiak’s busy fishing harbor under the warm afternoon sun. Hallo Bay shows up as a point on my GPS chart 63 miles distant. What could possibly go wrong?

It’s a long list, and I try not to dwell on the particulars, instead watching for fin whales in the passage around Spruce Island, and dodging the otters floating on their backs, feeding on shellfish.

Running toward the mouth of Kupreanof Strait, the land slips away. Snow and glacier-covered peaks line half of the distant horizon, fading away as the Alaska Peninsula bends westwards toward the Aleutians. The enormity of this place is starting to sink in.

There’s a stiff westerly blowing in off Shelikof Strait. It’s 35 miles across open water to Hallo Bay, and 40 back to Kodiak and the quiet safety of harbor. A lone whale breathes six, seven times before sliding beneath the surface. I’m waiting for a sign, but there’s only the slap of the ocean against the boat’s hull.

Kona Coast, Big Island, Hawaii

We spotted a group of pilot whales and dolphins cutting through the water and headed their way. Dropping down the dive ladder into the cool Pacific, it came as something of a surprise when a group of humpback whales roared past.

A cow and calf swam past, followed by a jostling, aggressive collection of males set on separating the pair and breeding with the female. One of the biggest males circled around, took aim and swam toward me. I kicked back furiously, trying to clear make room. He raced past, rolling his body at the last minute to avoid slamming into me with his dorsal fin.

If it was a warning, it certainly worked. I gave the whales a very wide berth for a very long time.