On my recent trip through southeast Alaska with American Safari Cruises, while kayaking in a remote bay, we came upon a bear happily fishing for salmon…and catching plenty. We gently maneuvered our kayaks in place, paddling quietly against the flow of the river as it hit the bay, spending about half an hour observing this wonderful scene. (Thanks to Trish Feaster, for shooting this video.)
If you can’t see the video below, watch it on YouTube.
On many Alaskan cruises, the first stop out of Juneau is Glacier Bay National Park — for most passengers, an itinerary highlight. Because of the pristine and precious nature of this place, only a relatively few ships are allowed to visit, and they are carefully regulated. On our cruise with American Safari Cruises, we were joined by an enthusiastic ranger from the park lodge at the mouth of the bay. Then we sailed up a strait speckled with tiny icebergs until we came face-to-face with a tongue of the Grand Pacific Glacier.
All photos by Trish Feaster.
Captain George Vancouver sailed by Glacier Bay back in 1794, when it was almost entirely covered by ice. Since then, the busy glacier retreated, leaving a bay that’s currently 60 miles long. Whether they’re retreating because of global warming or just going through their normal life cycle, glaciers are slow-moving rivers of ice, which break off in small bits and crash into the sea when they reach the end of their slow journey. A calving glacier loses six to eight feet of ice each day. Considering that the sloughing face of the glacier is about 250 feet tall and a mile or so wide, that’s a lot of baby icebergs.
Scientists figure that the ice that finally tumbles into the sea is over two hundred years old. That means rain that fell on the day Captain Vancouver dropped his anchor here could actually be the calving ice visitors see from their ships today.
Our small cruise ship has a stern designed for fun. A landing ramp lowers to the transom, providing a convenient and comfortable launch pad for kayaks and paddleboards. With the help of a hardworking crew, you simply put on your life vest, sit in the kayak, and clip on your “skirt.” They push you into the water — like a new ship sliding down its dry dock after the champagne crashes on its maiden voyage.
Whether on a small-boat tour, or even closer to the water in a kayak, when exploring desolate little bays and inlets, sea lions are a constant presence. From a distance, they look at first like floating bowling balls. As you get closer, hearing their snorting as they come up for air and seeing their little doggy-boy faces curiously checking you out, you realize they’re sea lions.
While kayaks get you away from the ship and very close to the sea life, stand-up paddleboards take things one step further. My first time on a paddleboard was over Alaskan waters — and a polar bear I’m not. I was nervous. A paddleboard is an oversized surfboard that you kneel on, paddle a bit to get some momentum, and then gingerly stand up on. While I was filled with anxiety until I actually did it, as long as you don’t overthink it, paddleboarding is not hard. And once up and gliding across the bay, you gain confidence. For me, the reward came when I got into shallow waters. With a higher view of underwater sights (like Dungeness crab, pincers up and ready for action), this beats a kayak.
In Freshwater Bay, we spent a morning exploring. Several guides took small groups out in kayaks or on small skiffs. They were in radio contact, because when nature provides some action, they all want to be there. Word came that a bear was fishing at the waterfall at the head of Pavlof Harbor.
Paddling determinedly yet silently, we approached the waterfall. The scene was like an old-school museum tableau. It felt utopian: waterfall below mighty snow-spotted mountain; salmon leaping up falls, getting enough air for three tail wags; sun glancing off ripe brown seaweed; a family of duck-like mergansers in the foreground; berry bushes and crushed grass on the banks. And there, to the side of the churning waterfall, was a brown bear trolling for salmon. Looking wary, then still, then suddenly jerking into action, he made his catch. While young and not terribly graceful, he was good. He’d stomp on the salmon, pin it to the rock with his paw, bend down, and bite its head. Then, with his meal thrashing in the grip of his mouth, the bear lumbered to a sunny perch where, like a kid savoring the only Fudgsicle, he’d enjoy a fresh salmon picnic.
Our Alaskan cruise itinerary with American Safari Cruises was seven days of pure nature, stopping at no towns. In fact, after leaving Juneau, we barely saw a building. Southeast Alaska — a 500-mile-by-130-mile territory — has only 70,000 people. Other than Juneau, which contains about half of that population, there are only a handful of communities.
Southeast Alaska has three kinds of land: ice and rock, thick forest (a mix of old growth and once-forested younger growth), and ancient peat land (wetlands called muskeg). Its Fairweather Range is the highest coastal mountain range in the world, with mountains climbing 12,000-plus feet directly up from the Pacific Ocean shore. (Take that, Norway.)
All Photos by Trish Feaster.
The cruise industry is very big here. Giant ships inject — like syringes — a huge amount of business into the local economy, and hardball cruise companies extract their profits in an aggressive way. A grocer from Wrangell, a small town of 2,400, told me how tourists would buy bottles of water from his shop, then pour out the water and fill them with booze to sneak onto the ships — which didn’t allow alcohol purchased anywhere but on board. He told me how a big cruise line offered a stop in Wrangell, but only if every business in town paid 30 percent of its annual profit to the company. His neighbors got together and told the cruise line, “We’re third-oldest town in Alaska. We can manage without the cruise industry.” And Wrangell is no longer on most big ship itineraries.
The only Alaskan town I saw was Juneau, where our cruise started and ended. In spite of what must be the ugliest state capitol building in the USA, Juneau has a certain Alaskan charm. The industrial-strength harborside feels way too big… until a giant cruise ship drops in. The hundred-year-old facades of Main Street give a Gold Rush spirit to the main drag, which is lined by shops with tiny signs bragging “Alaskan-owned.” While most of the town’s 32,000 people were gathered for the first high school football game of the season, I had dinner at Tracy’s King Crab Shack (and almost bought the T-shirt: “Tracy gave me crabs”).
The tiny wooden Russian church, a century old, was a reminder of the colonial forces that converged on native communities here from both East and West. While all white settlers were eager to get the natives to embrace their religion, only the Russians allowed Christianity to be preached in the indigenous Tlingit language. That’s why their missionary work was much more effective — and to this day, there’s a big Russian Orthodox community of native Alaskans.
A small ship like ours (the Safari Endeavour, with just 43 staterooms) offers a different experience from the gigantic ships I can see lumbering up Puget Sound from my house. It’s quite a bit more expensive. But they’ve made their money up front, so everything (from on-board expenses to excursions and activities) is included. I stowed my wallet upon boarding, and I’ll have no bill of extra expenses when I leave.
My stateroom was in the bow, near the waterline — and that means next to the anchor. After rising with our anchor for several mornings, I know exactly how many links are on that 150-foot chain. On the plus side, a small ship doesn’t need to stick to a schedule. If a whale is jumping, we stop. Big ships march on through regardless, aiming for that next port of call.
The Safari Endeavour is just big enough to have a hot tub. On our first night, we were in the tub marveling at the snowcapped peaks and glassy waters arcing 180 degrees around our stern. I thought, “How could this be any nicer?” Then a crew member appeared and asked, “Can I bring you a drink?”
This video (taken by Trish Feaster) captures the fun of our recent cruise with American Safari Cruises through Southeast Alaska. On the first morning of our cruise, we were excitedly awakened by our crew for the best display of breaching whales any cruiser could hope for. This is tough to capture on video, because you just can’t know exactly when and where the whale will pop out of the sea, but these clips offer a taste of the experience.
If you can’t see the video below, watch it on YouTube.
I capped my 2012 travels by finally enjoying a cruise in Alaska. It was a beautiful experience. This eight-part series is my report to you. (All Photos by Trish Feaster)
When I carved out a week for an Alaskan cruise, I just assumed that I’d be on one of those lumbering ships. But as I struggled with the various one-week itineraries, it occurred to me that, sailing north from the Lower 48, I’d spend too much time getting there and back. And, once in Alaska, the big cruise ships — with 3,000-plus passengers — spend more time in cities (letting shoppers shop) and less time with the glaciers and whales. I wanted to experience nature, both intense and intimate. My search quickly shifted to smaller ships, and eventually I booked a week with American Safari Cruises, sailing from Juneau on their good ship Safari Endeavor — 43 staterooms, 60 passengers, and a crew of 30.
Within a few hours of flying from Seattle to Juneau, my travel partner Trish Feaster and I found ourselves on the bridge of the ship with Captain Jill and several of the crew, scanning the sea for wildlife through our binoculars. The Safari Endeavour has a proud “open bridge” tradition — just knock first, and you’re generally welcome to hang out with the captain. As I marveled at the view, the expedition leader told me, “Here, take the captain’s seat.” I said, “It’s not every day you get to sit in the captain’s seat.” One of the crew replied, “Actually, yes it is.”
While it’s on every cruiser’s wish list, an Alaska cruise can’t promise whales breaching. But when those majestic marine mammals do burst out of the sea and happily skyward, you can bet the call goes out…and everyone’s on deck. I went to sleep with visions of breaching whales dancing in my head.
Just after our first sunrise at sea, a voice on our stateroom intercom wakes us up with a cheery, “Good morning. Humpback whales are breaching on the port and starboard.” I pull open the curtain and there they blow, right out my window!
Within minutes, we’re on the bow deck, coffee mugs and cameras in hand, ready for the action. We’re at Point Adolphus in Icy Strait, over a deep trench where two bodies of water converge — bringing together lots of plankton, which attracts tiny bait fish, which attract whales. (While we’re here on vacation, the whales are here to fatten up for their long migration to Hawaii.)
It’s a classic Alaska scene: Rays of sun break through the clouds and glint on a single trawler in the distance. Between us and that stately old fishing boat, the glassy sea is alive with leaping whales. It’s breakfast time. The gulls, the fishermen on the trawler, and the whales are all out. With whales showing off, the peek-a-boo porpoise and jumping salmon are ignored.
Before doing their leaps, the whales set the water rumbling with repeated slaps of their pectoral fins. Are they stunning fish, sending out sounds to other whales, or just entertaining us sightseers? They slap and slap repeatedly, like a little kid throwing a fit. Then the whale dives, its T-shaped tail (fluke) slipping up high and gracefully — and then, like a champion diver, out of view.
Three whales spout geysers of water, enlivening the vast Icy Strait like squirting clams enliven a mudflat at low tide. They exhale, like clearing a snorkel in surroundsound. Our guide explains that over countless generations, the nostrils migrated to the top of his head, as that’s where the breathing is easiest — a great example of evolution.
Then, suddenly, as if looking for a partner to chest-bump with, the whale breaches, exploding joyfully out of the water. The motor drives of the fancy cameras all around me seem to clap each time the whale performs.
Marveling at this display of nature provides the same thrill as admiring a room full of Bernini statues — but here, it all happens in a fleeting glimpse. Culture is what man creates. Nature is God’s work. Enjoying and appreciating each is good living.