Wanderer

The sun had gone down but it would never really get dark that night. We were up late enjoying the twilight of the Southeast Alaskan summer night.

My enthusiasm for an evening's fishing trip out towards Pleasant Island was not contagious, even among the ardent fishing friends I was living with my first summer as a park ranger in Glacier Bay. Alone, an hour later, much light in the sky, plenty of bait herring in the boat, I began fishing on my first trip alone out in Icy Strait beyond the mouth of Glacier Bay.

The shrimpy smell of sea birds and humpback whale breath combined with snorting sounds of seals in the deep twilight. Plenty of animals were awake out there "fishing" all night too. Not that I was completely awake. I would check my bait and then fade off to short naps of drifting dreams. My first summer in Alaska left me a partial insomniac: the excitement of a strange new place combined with the nearly endless light kept me up way too late much of the summer of 1978. After about 2 A.M. the summer sky noticeably brightens from deep twilight to a slow prolonged and very early sunrise in Southeast Alaska. No salmon or halibut came to my herring on a hook and I hoped the much brighter light of true dawn would change my luck soon.

As it finally got very very light the disappearance of all landmarks in a thick cloud of fog evaporated that hope. The trees on shore, the distant mud flats and mountains, all disappeared, and for the next three hours I drifted like the rest of the spinning flotsam in the strong currents and tide rips in Icy Strait.

A large white ship appeared at a distance through the fog. The sound of engines and the familiar sight gave me mixed relief. Early summer mornings often bring cruise ships into Glacier Bay. All I needed to do was flag them down and beg a rescue. Certainly they would stop and launch a life boat, and tow me into the Bartlett Cove ranger station. In exchange I would have to face the ridicule of being "rescued" during my first summer as a park ranger, and by a ship I'd no doubt be working on before long. I'd been hired as a park interpreter and would work on all of the ships eventually and didn't relish the idea of being the punch line of "Cheechako," Alaskan newcomer stories. I wasn't willing to pay that price for an easy rescue: I was confident in the skills, tools and luck I had to make the return trip on my own. I let the ship fade back into the fog, wondering if dignity had gotten in the way of my safety.

At times the drifting was fast and out of control. Several times I was spinning around the outside of large whirlpools threatening to capsize the boat and suck me down. Occasionally I had to use the engine and the little gas I had left to avoid the standing waves and deadly whirlpools. The propeller would get fouled by large strands of bull kelp and I'd have to lean way over the stern to clear it before starting. Combined with the loss of orientation (my compass needle was actually spinning at times!) the adventure had become a life threatening challenge.

When land finally appeared it was very unfamiliar and surprisingly steep. The Pleasant Island mud flats were nowhere in sight. Steep mountainous cliffs rose up quickly from shore. I guessed I had drifted for at least several miles and my hope of an easy return home was fading fast. I beached the boat and went ashore for water and orientation. I filled my water bottle at the bottom of a small waterfall and got out my map and compass. No clue where I was: The shore seemed to go around a point: It was hard to figure the trend of the beach to get a good compass bearing.

A Bald Eagle fishing nearby reminded me why I had started out on this adventure. This was a fishing trip and I still had all my fishing gear and plenty of bait. The "Old Man and the Sea" story about eating raw fish as he caught them crossed my mind. Even if I got lost in the fog again I knew I wouldn't starve! This sport fishing trip was threatening to become a survival fishing trip: I had no idea when I'd be eating real food again!

I pushed the boat back off shore and started rowing while trolling along the shore, careful to keep land in sight: I did not want to lose sight of it even though I wasn't at all sure where I was! After a while what might have been a huge king salmon took off on a spool emptying run to the bottom: It may have been a huge halibut , but I'll never know. After working the fish back off the bottom a few times it took one more dizzying spool emptying run for the bottom and broke off my line right at the spool!

Low on gas, out of fishing line, looking at three leftover herring and a box of hooks, I rowed along the cliff's edge, saving gas and looking for a clue. After half a mile my spirit of adventure started coming back. I hoped it would start clearing up enough to see more than a hundred feet away from shore and spot a recognizable landmark, another boat, or a village. If not soon, berries and seaweed could keep me going!

A dark form suddenly dropped like a rock from the cliffs above me. Another followed and connected violently with a small sea bird sitting on the water, and carried it off into the fog. The whirling kaleidoscope of geographic images all around me for the last three hours suddenly focused as the identity of the predators came to mind. These Peregrine Falcons and the cliffs joined as pieces of a jig saw puzzle to make a picture appear. These were the cliffs I had seen closely from another boat just weeks before! I knew then I had spun and drifted over twenty miles in the early morning fog! Peregrines, named for their peregrinations, or "wanderings" had brought my wandering to an end.

Just weeks before, during my early orientation, my supervisor had brought several of us out to to these same cliffs in search of a reported Peregrine Falcon aerie. The reported site was documented because of the endangered status of the falcons. It is still thought that Peregrine egg shell thinning and failure is due to an insecticide, DDT that is still used in part of the birds' enormous home range. Peregrines literally wander around the earth on their annual migrations and spend time in countries where the chemical is still used. Concern for the birds has led to a ban on the chemical in the United States, and to several successful programs to restore them to many parts of their former range. Those concerns had led us out to the same cliffs and my fortunate familiarity with that spot had put me back on the map!

Finally I knew where I was! I still had to get home on about a gallon of gas. I rowed all the way back along the shoreline to a prominent landfall near the entrance of Glacier Bay. At slack tide I took a compass bearing and started my engine. Disappearing like a falcon in the mist, I hoped I would soon see the opposite shore. Traveling slowly to save gas, the water cooperated: At slack tide the whirlpools and standing waves were gone. The only danger was distance now! My compass needle held steady and I followed a course I had penciled on my map. No other clues about where I was or how much progress I made were visible. I hoped I would reach sight of home before I ran out of gas or the strength to row before the tide rips started again. After a surprisingly long run for such a light gas tank, I came to a sputtering-out-of-gas stop just as the tops of the trees above home began to appear!

Pulling on the oars into Bartlett Cove, then into the inner lagoon, and up to the dock gave me time to give thanks to the Great Land, the perhaps "greater" water, the fishing and the falcons. All had combined to bring another wanderer home.

The potluck dinner at the lagoon island cabin that night would have satisfied anyone's hunger: salmon, halibut, Dungeness crab, marinated giant (Catathelasma) mushrooms and two kinds of wild berry pie!

This Peregrine Falcon story often crosses my mind when I go out fishing, especially in a boat! Please always wear your life jacket, take enough gas, be careful in the tide rips and fog, and respect the home of Peregrines and wildlife everywhere!

With many thanks to the National Park Service in Bartlett Cove, Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve, Gustavus, Alaska, for nine great summers.


© Mike Rivers, Waldport, Oregon 1998