Photo by Gary Luhm

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It was towards late evening and we stood at the bow of the ferry LeConte as it approached Salisbury Sound. Within a couple of days my friend, Joe, and I would trade this vessel of steel and diesel engines for kayaks of mere plastic and paddles of wood. The low-hanging clouds painted the sky gray, remnants of a storm that had rolled through Southeast Alaska. Living on the protected waters of Chatham Strait, we had no clue how much the winds had churned up the open ocean. Now, as the ferry left the protected waters of Kakut Narrows and entered the open waters of the sound, we were about to find out.

With the first swell the bow of the ferry rose up and crashed down, sending spray to the heavens. The tourists began to moan. Fifteen-foot rollers at least, maybe twenty. Our trip on the outside was going to be an adventure! We could only hope no other storm would torment us. Now the ferry turned left and chugged toward the protected waters of Neva Strait. Sideways to the swells, the ferry rocked back and forth like a child's toy in a bathtub. And we were going to paddle this in itty, bitty kayaks? The moans of the tourists grew, and they were turning a shade we call tourist green.

The ferry arrived in the middle of the night, so we stretched out in our sleeping bags for a few hours' sleep before beginning our journey.

As we left the ferry terminal the next morning, a maze of islands lay before us. Thankfully, we began this trip in protected waters, giving ourselves a couple of days to get used to padding our heavily-laden boats. I spent a lot of time glancing between the map and the compass mounted on my deck. The compass declination here is 26 degrees east, a significance deviation to say the least. Many have strayed off course in this wilderness called Alaska because they simply forgot or didn't know how to adjust for this declination.

We passed Gavanski Island and set our sights for Guide Island. To the southwest we caught a glimpse of the open ocean. In the distance the ocean blue faded into the horizon. Somewhere out there was Hawaii or Japan, depending how badly one navigated. Out there were the big waves, tossed about unabated by the great storms of the Gulf of Alaska. For now the islands protected us, but in a couple of days we would forsake their guardianship and venture forth to be at the mercy of the wind and waves.

"Today Mt. Edgecumbe slumbers amid the clouds, but those who live in its shadow wonder how long she will sleep."

Beyond Guide Island lay Kruzof Island, shrouded in the fog. Somewhere in the clouds loomed Mt. Edgecumbe volcano. Snowcapped and serene, the 3200 foot cinder cone rests quietly on the ocean's edge. But to the north just a couple of miles reads a story of the power and violence of Mother Nature. Three small hills that stand half height of the volcano tell a frightening story. Just ten thousand years ago, a mere blink in the eyes of time, these mountains were one and as tall as Mt. Edgecumbe itself. Then in a rage of fire and ash it exploded, throwing the mountain into the sky above and the sea below. Now all that remains are the gentle tree-covered slopes of these three hills. Today Mt. Edgecumbe slumbers amid the clouds, but those who live in its shadow wonder how long she will sleep.

We had the choice of two routes heading north, the first through Olga and Neva Strait. However, these were the normal shipping routes, meaning we would have to contend with ferries, barges and fishing boats. What concerned me most was not being run over, but, in the narrow sections, having our camping spot swamped by wake from the boats. More than once I had spotted potential camping spots on these beaches only to watch the wake of the ferry inundate that very spot.

Seeking both solitude and safety, we chose to paddle through the less traveled waters of Krestof Sound and Sukio Inlet. We had to time our paddle with the tides, since part of this section goes dry at mid-tide.

We didn't think we could make the tide the first day out, so we camped just outside of Mud Bay. If the name meant anything, it was that we didn't want to camp inside Mud Bay and get trapped in by the tidal flats.

Shortly after leaving camp the next morning we were treated to a surprise. The open ocean is the domain of sea otters, but here in these small passageways it is the river otter that reigns. As Krestof Sound narrowed we saw what we thought at first was a patch of bull horn kelp, but quickly realized that kelp don't have eyes. Ahead of us was a family of six to seven river otters! They obviously had seen us first and were heading toward the shore. We both stopped paddling so as not to stress these creatures anymore than we already had. The otter family moved close to shore, then turned to look at us. Suddenly one of the otters made a grunt sound. Then they all hit the beach and scurried into the underbrush.

We paddled up as far as we could and spent a pleasant morning waiting for the flood tide to fill our path. This gave us time to explore the sea bottom and get caught up in wonder at all the sea creatures who call the mud and rock beneath the sea their home. We were amazed at the variety of seastars, both in color and number of arms.

We stopped for a snack break just above a small tidal rapid that needed a little more water. When the tide finally covered most of the rocks we set off.