Goodbye Alaska, goodbye.

We realize that as a species we “are living on borrowed time” if we don’t urgently adjust our wanton ways. We too are guilty as charged. Instead of being carried on the wings of a butterfly, aka sails unfurled, we are burning diesel by the gallons. As well as the cash that goes with it. The wind sits either on the bow or there’s no wind at all. This is the hefty downside of an otherwise impeccable voyage through the Inside Passage.

In the meantime, extreme weather is whipping up Earth into a frenzy, glaciers are throwing in the towel, and climate “tipping points” are shifting into a higher gear. And now the chinook, aka the king salmon, seems to have deserted his kingdom altogether. They used to run by the millions. 

According to a recent article in The Seattle Times, king salmon has grown so precious that it is now selling for about $50 a pound. “A whole king fetches five times as much as a barrel of crude oil, Alaska’s other chief export.” According to that same article, “Guys are scrambling, trying to find another way to make a living. General anxiety in southeast Alaska is through the roof. People are freaking out.” I’m afraid we were too busy gazing at the amazing views while evading the gill nets to notice. 

And according to the chef at In Bocca al Lupo in Juneau – where we happened to have our sumptuous end-of-holiday dinner with our son – only pink salmon (the variety that is canned) and chum salmon (the variety that feeds the sled dogs) will soon be all that is left. He himself fishes on a gillnet boat in the summertime for salmon for the restaurant. He knows what he’s talking about.

And yet, as we smoothly glide down south, it feels like we still have Mother Nature on our side. And we count our blessings. Like luxuriating in the Hot Springs of Baranof, photogenically arranged along a cascading waterfall, and only faintly spiced up with a whiff of rotten eggs. Or scanning the horizon for humpback spouts.

First you hear the booming snorts as the humpback whales draw their breath. Then you see them flip their tails for the deep dive down. They drive the fish to the surface as a team…..to suddenly emerge again with mouths wide open, filtering out their prey with their baleens. This feeding routine is called “lunging” and it is absolutely thrilling to behold. Without our son’s zoom lens to bring it all within arm’s reach, but with our state-of-the-art binoculars glued to our face.

Or watching bears feast on one of the biggest pink salmon runs of SE Alaska at Anan Creek. The Tlingit used to keep their summer camps at Anan, which means “Sit Down Town” in their language. There’s fish and berries galore, so the Tlingit could sit down and relax for a change. 

Since time was no longer a determining factor, we took O2 to get there, rather than paying for a commercial outfit and be put on a schedule again. As we made our way towards the creek, we were accompanied by numerous salmon practicing their up-creek jumps. It reminded us somewhat of “morituri te salutant” in a wistful way. Our trip turned out to be quite the expedition. There’s hardly a decent spot to drop the anchor: the shoreline is “steep-to”, meaning that one moment there’s 130 feet below your keel and the next moment you touch bottom. That bottom or “holding” is not worth the name. It’s rocks and loose sand and a submarine cable you are absolutely supposed to stay clear off. So, when you deem the anchor to be securely settled, it’s wise to double check that it doesn’t pop up on you the moment you turn your back. The general advice is to take turns at the bear viewing platform so that there is always a boat watch in standby to grab the helm in case of a popping up emergency. The first-come-first-serve mooring float is only fit for no more than 2 vessels under 36 feet. 

But we had a plan. We went scouting the day before and spent the night in Fool’s Inlet -there must be a story behind that name – a cove close to Anan. We rose at the crack of dawn, hurried over, grabbed the anchoring spot of our choice, and dropped our stern anchor to keep O2 from swinging. Mission accomplished.

Next challenge was to get on shore with the dinghy. Again, the general advice is to do it in shifts: you return to the main vessel after you have dropped off your mate and you change places the moment he turns up again, preferably without any flesh wounds. 

Obviously, that’s not much fun. That’s because bears were having too much fun. They developed a routine of using the rubber dinghies as bouncing castles. Anan Creek as a Luna park for bears so to speak: plenty of exhausted fish for grabs and thingies to jump on. Until the thingies deflate. Which doesn’t take long. If the claws don’t pierce it, a big bear butt will flatten that dinghy in a second. Still, we wanted the bear viewing to be a shared experience. We decided to come ashore 1/2 mile from the trailhead, close to the commercial landing and launching zone which displays quite some human activity. Our dinghy survived in one piece and so did we. 

We stayed at the bear viewing platform for 8 hours straight until we got somewhat light in the head. It was strictly forbidden to carry food with you, so hunger combined with excitement made us feel dizzy after a while. To quote an old Indian saying: “When a pine needle drops, the eagle will see it, the deer will hear it, …. and the bear will smell it”. We carried only water and left our “smoske ham & cheese “in the fridge. 

From up above on the platform and from down below in the photographer’s blind, we watched waves upon waves of pink salmon fighting their way up the creek, with their gray dorsal fins protruding above the water like so many mini sails. Black bears stood posted at the several bottlenecks where the salmon hurled themselves into the current, against the rocks and preferably past them. The individual bears had developed different fishing techniques. Some came up with a wriggling fish in their mouth every 2 minutes. They ripped the fish apart to slurp the eggs as if it was Russian caviar and discarded a major part of the carcass for less successful bears to steal and for birds to pick. Others launched themselves midstream with gay abandon. Fish went flying up in the air, but not so much into the bear’s mouth. The prime fishing spots were monopolized by the boss bears. You could tell that a distinct hierarchy was in place and that all bears stuck to the rules. Not once did we witness a fight, but the situation did get tense at times with neck hairs raised and teeth bared. But all in all, it was a peaceful scene. Entire bear families were out on a picnic and having a ball. The salmon less so. 

The abundance of fish also brought about a truce between black and brown bears who normally fiercely compete for food and territory. Still, when a young brown bear with an attitude appeared on the scene, the black bears immediately stopped all activity and went scrambling all over the place. They resumed the fishing the moment the brown bad boy had passed. There’s a “be bear aware” saying that comes to mind here: “When brown, lie down. When black, fight back.”

Now that our quest for bears has successfully been concluded, we have bid SE Alaska a soulful fare-thee-well. Instead of the Stars & Stripes and the state flag of Alaska, we’ve got the red Maple Leaf flying again. The state flag of Alaska is one of our favorites, though. In 1927, 32 years before the territory of Alaska was finally granted statehood, the 14-year old orphan and Alaskan native, Benny Benson, won the flag design contest. His design was chosen out of 700 children’s submissions. He got awarded $1000 prize money and an engraved golden watch. And eternal fame to go with it.
Benny explained his creation as follows:

“The blue field is for the Alaska sky and the forget-me-not, an Alaskan flower.
The North Star is for the future state of Alaska, the most northerly in the Union.
The dipper is for the Great Bear – symbolizing strength.”