Hawaii – Day 3

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Taking our time may be contrary to our natures, but we’ve been to Hawaii before and so we are committed to this visit to go slow. Six years ago, we couldn’t be blamed for thinking our time on the islands might be our first and last, and so we rushed to see as much as we could. We’re certainly older but probably no wiser (besides being Wise), still, we have to try and make the most of our limited resource of time and immerse ourselves as deeply as possible so our memories might form deep roots.

Caroline and I are in some ways like the water lilies in this photo or would like to be. Meaning that while we find beauty on the surface and can explore delight in the watery garden floating on still-glistening water, our connection to even a muddy foundation is held fast. And though our roots are immovable regarding who we are in our essence, we are like the bloom standing tall over the water below, catching a breeze that has us waving in the wind so we may see more of the world we live in and upon.

If we never moved, how could we be here to encounter flowers such as this? The non-sentient plant will send out its seed, and with favorable conditions and a vast enough space across time, it might spread its species to faraway corners. That plant, though, will never know where its descendants ultimately ended up. We humans, on the other hand, are sentient beings that briefly have a near-total awareness of our place, and with our ability to recollect our past, we can choose to live a life full of experiences that define something more than mere existence at the moment. We, too, will never know where our descendants may go, but we can know where we have been and what we’ve learned.

This doesn’t require us to go to Hawaii to gather these lessons, but it does mean we have to look closer at the world around us. Not everyone is as fortunate as Caroline and I or maybe as curious either; this, though, doesn’t inhibit people from at least becoming aware of a lack of curiosity and then cultivating it. Slow down, read about things you know nothing about such as the history of Alexander von Humboldt or the ocean crossings of Thor Heyerdahl. These are only examples of something you may not yet have heard about, but these people and what they found played important roles in our perspectives of how people have come to relate to our Earth. The same goes for others who ventured out on unsure footings either on the surface of our planet or in the depths of their mind. Just because there’s nothing below you but a thin leaf of support doesn’t mean that the view of the world from above is nothing less than spectacular. First, you must take the risk of exploring areas and things you never knew existed.

We are exploring the Waimea Valley Botanical Garden and we’re taking our time to do it. The Waimea Valley here on the North Shore of O’ahu is what is known as an ahupua‘a. That somewhat difficult word to pronounce for non-Hawaiians is a pie-like slice of land that stretches from the interior of the island to shore and was considered to have everything required for a group of Hawaiians to properly live and thrive. In the highlands were medicinal plants and the woods required for dwellings and watercraft. Below that is farmland for bananas, taro, breadfruit, sweet potato, and coconut. At the sea, an abundance of fish was readily available for the early Polynesians who discovered the islands to enjoy their island paradise. Today, the Waimea Valley is 1,875 acres of land, of which the botanical garden occupies 300 acres. Within this corner of the island, there are over 5,000 tropical and subtropical plants. We plan to see each and every one of them.

On our second visit to the biome known as a tropical forest, we became more familiar with one of the major habitats we humans have populated. To date, Caroline and I have visited six of the eight major biomes, and although we were close to a boreal forest while we were in Quebec last year, we have yet to visit one; the same goes for the tundra. The list of habitats is as follows: tundra, taiga (also called boreal forest), temperate deciduous forest (Eastern United States), scrub forest (called chaparral in California), grassland (the Great Plains), desert (we live in one of the major desert types of which there are four), tropical rain forest (right here on Hawaii), and temperate rainforests such as the ones we visit in Oregon and Washington.

Champagne beehive ginger, just the name, makes you want to sample it. Maybe the gift shop has some beehive ginger candy? Nope, other than an infrequent food item and some alleged medicinal use there’s not much the plant offers at this time other than it’s beautiful. Hmmm, when I think about it this way, it’s much like the majority of life, and I guess that’s good enough.

You know you always wanted to go to Heliconia and back. You can’t, though, because Heliconia isn’t a place, and it’s not found in Arizona either. This tropical plant is also known as lobster-claw, toucan peak, wild plantains, or false bird-of-paradise. The white seeds in the claw are not ripe yet; when they are, they will turn a dark blue-purple, which drives the birds wild; well, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but it sure sounds dramatic.

This is a picture of a tropical donkel. Yes, you read that right, part donkey, part camel. You’ll notice the large protruding hump on its back, which is unique to the female of the species. Darwin once speculated that the male of the species is too lazy to carry his own shit and that, somehow, it convinced the female to adapt and evolve this permanent growth on its back where the male could store the things he couldn’t be bothered to carry. The two enjoy a symbiotic relationship where the ass and donkel are able to move through the environment with everything needed for survival carried by the docile female.

I’m not even going to try and tell you what this is because I have no idea, but it looked amazing.

It’s already a lucky day just being on O’ahu, but here we are getting to see the endangered Hawaiian Moorhen, also called `alae `ula in Hawaiian. Not only is it endangered and rare, but the bird is typically quite secretive and will dash for cover at any disturbance. There are an estimated 250 to 450 of the birds left and we had this opportunity to see one with our very own eyes. So, while anybody could have watched the North Shore surfing competition live or on TV at some point, few will ever be witness to this bird’s existence.

Anybody who has talked with me will know that I just have to go where I’m going next. Look at the beauty of this flower and how the contrast of it standing out against the green background makes it all the more striking. Now imagine the people who once populated these islands being priced out of their lands because wealthier folks drive them out. The Hawaiian islanders were like this flower against a green backdrop; they stood out and were free to be wherever they popped up and found themselves on their ancestral lands. Revisionist histories of warlike people with a rich tradition of the warrior are, in my opinion, a bullshit cockamamie romanticized story that is used by conquering douche-bags to justify why the savages had to be contained. It is us white people who wanted control and wealth in addition to purging the earth of species and peoples that were considered inferior. Now, we know that we took their lands by sleight of hand, but even with this knowledge, there is no way in heaven that the 50th state of America will be allowed to return to its sovereign roots. I’d like to say that at least Native Americans were given reservations, but for the most part, we isolated them on lands we felt near worthless with little to harvest, mine, or steal from to build our own wealth; our ancestors kept that for themselves. In some way, this flower and the bird above have more rights and freedoms than the average indigenous Hawaiian. Paradise loses some of its luster should you look too deeply because, under the surface, you’ll often find muck.

The traditional dwellings in Waimea Valley are mostly not accessible by the general public, but a few can be visited such as this one. The valley here is a sacred site to Hawaiians where many high-ranking people would have lived and where religious ceremonies were practiced. At one time, the area was referred to as the Valley of the Priests. Prior to the protection of the area, the valley was owned by a land developer who was also responsible for the Kahala Hilton, which today is known as Kahala Resort and will cost you an arm and a leg to stay at.

This may forever be my favorite canopy photo I’ll have ever taken. The fractal nature of the trees and near-even distribution of leaves with just enough branches to paint the appearance of arteries stretching to the sky to harvest the nutrient of sunshine delights my eyes and brings back fond memories of amazement.

There’s much to learn and an equal amount to see here at Waimea Valley Botanical Garden. Time and hunger are pushing us towards the exit, but visiting has been a treat. We are well aware that being next to a pool, on a beach, or being seen in the coolest watering hole or a trendy restaurant means more to the average visitor to Hawaii, but we are not those kinds of visitors. Sadly it is the image of the buffoon tourist and their conformist ideas of what a vacation is that drives a larger amount of money into an economy. Caroline and I can only hope that places like this continue to draw in enough people to maintain their upkeep and pay staff so wildlands remain available. The places of history should always be cherished shrines where humanity strives to preserve our heritage so future generations can also celebrate those who have come before them.

I shot 132 images here in Waimea Valley and have shared just 15. There were another half dozen I would have liked posting, but already, this is a lot of plants and none of the images one has come to expect from a visit to Hawaii. As we are leaving I look over at this curious-looking bird and wonder what it’s thinking and then realize maybe it’s just listening for the movement of insects so it can grab a meal, like we are about to do.

Fortunately for us, we don’t have to put an ear to the asphalt and try to pull a bug out of crack to satisfy our hunger. Instead, we spot a food truck called Nakai Saimin and decide it has our flavor of gourmet written all over it. Their claim to fame on their sign is “Fresh Homemade Noodles,” and so that’s what Caroline opts for; I went for the Loco Moco. For whose dish was better, I think it was hands down mine. Loco Moco is a relatively simple dish of a hamburger patty on white rice topped with an egg and brown gravy, but like so many “simple” dishes, it is the totality of the parts that create a chemistry that goes far beyond the average ingredients. This was the GREATEST Loco Moco I’ve ever had and the standard for which all that will follow will have to compare to. Caroline is enjoying some fresh coconut next to our Jeep. We’d have preferred something with better gas mileage, but it seems the tourists feel more adventurous driving these foolish things.

Liquid metal glistening in the late day sun. We have no schedule and no other places to visit; we will meander for the rest of the afternoon and see what we find. Oh, is that the call of Poseidon, or is it the voice of shave ice I hear beckoning us? Sure enough, the universe was transmitting signals to Caroline and me that we should revisit the Old Sugar Mill and order a lilikoi shave ice sitting on a scoop of vanilla ice cream with a splash of coconut milk on top. While I’ve never been harpooned by an angry sea god, I can state with some certainty that gluttony accentuated with Hawaiian shave ice is likely preferable.

At a beach, a small crowd had formed, looking like the Hawaiian version of the animal spotting groups in Yellowstone. Sure enough, they were watching a few sea turtles in the surf next to shore delivering a message from Poseidon, who told those present that disrespecting the all-powerful sea god would result in a heavy price to pay. The turtles whispered to us they could intercede on our behalf if we were to throw them some sugary yummies, and so instead of facing the wrath of His Holy Water Monster, we gave up the rest of our shave ice to the turtles. By now, I’m starting to wonder if those Heliconia berries we ate earlier were some kind of psychedelic. Okay, full stop. Do you really think we fed those turtles our shave ice? Hell no, we didn’t care how dire those turtles made it sound.

The sky started turning overcast around the time that daylight was about to give way to sunset, so we headed back to the hotel in a light rain and were offered a rainbow in place of a glorious sunset; it would have to do. Remember my dissing of people who do the tourist gig and lay on the beach in the sun, go to the pool, and hang out at the bar? Well, we went back to our room, changed clothes, and hit the hot tub before heading out for dinner again at the Kahuku Grill for some more Fire in Paradise burgers. A fulfilling John-and-Caroline kind of touristy day was had.

The day ends with me writing the notes that would become this blog entry while Caroline sits on the balcony in a light breeze, reading about Hawaiian history and knitting.

Last Day in Alaska

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Caroline Wise at Oomingmak Shop in Anchorage, Alaska

It’s not always easy to know what’s important when it is so, and so it happened back in 2012 following a monumental experience that took us down the Alsek River out of the Yukon into British Columbia, and finally delivered us to Dry Bay, Alaska that all the important stuff was duly noted and extensively blogged about using near 30,000 words and just under 200 or so photos. Well, that was 11 years ago, and in looking back I realized that I neglected writing of our last, equally important day, of our first visit to this corner of the earth. Now in 2023, I’m going to try and repair that by including what I can about this day in the Anchorage, Alaska, area.

Had we done nothing else, Caroline required that we make a pilgrimage to the Oomingmak Co-Operative. This is possibly the only place on our entire planet where one can walk in and buy a handknit object created from a fiber known as qiviut, which comes from a rare northern creature called musk ox. The “Pack Ice” headband design Caroline is wearing will likely forever remain the most expensive small article of clothing she will ever buy at $130. And, as she reminds me, she chose the “discount option” because the yarn of this headband is 80% qiviut and 20% silk. No matter the expense, I’m certain Caroline will forever cherish this rarest of luxuries and how it will remain a part of her first experience in the wilds of Alaska.

Seward Highway thru the Chugach National Forest in Alaska

I’m barely into the narrative that accompanies these photos, but with the 21 images I’ve included here and then the realization that I only used about an average of a dozen photos per day in the original blog entries, I feel I need to return for further investigation of how I whittled nearly 5,500 photos down to the tiny number I shared. I do know a huge contributing factor to my possible lethargy in tackling more: I had just recently finished writing, editing, and publishing my seminal (and only) book titled Stay In The Magic about the Grand Canyon rafting adventure on which we had marked back at the end of 2010 prior to this Alaska trip and I’d had enough of venting my heart and mind. Looking at this railroad track, I’d like to try the corny, “That train has left the station,” but knowing me, I’ll revisit those directories of old photos and see if I might feel enticed to add a little something here and there.

Seward Highway thru the Chugach National Forest in Alaska

After two weeks in this environment, nothing had grown old. Every vista was spectacular and held an incredible amount of mystery as at best, we could only glimpse the tiniest of surface views regarding what the environment holds beyond the first glance.

Seward Highway thru the Chugach National Forest in Alaska

Our flight doesn’t depart until shortly after midnight, so we are driving somewhat aimlessly southeast until we know that we need to turn around.

Seward Highway thru the Chugach National Forest in Alaska

We are driving along the Knik Arm of the Cook Inlet, where the waters flowing out of Portage Lake head to the open sea.

Seward Highway thru the Chugach National Forest in Alaska

The telltale turquoise watercolor lets us know that a glacier is ahead.

Seward Highway thru the Chugach National Forest in Alaska

Oops, almost forgot to stop and smell the flowers, a lupine in this case.

Seward Highway thru the Chugach National Forest in Alaska

Looking across Portage Lake at a glaciated area. I don’t think this is part of the Portage Glacier.

Seward Highway thru the Chugach National Forest in Alaska

This was as close to Portage Glacier ice as we were going to get, the remnant of some broken-off ice that drifted across the lake.

Seward Highway thru the Chugach National Forest in Alaska

The road turned to the west, taking us past a bunch of lily ponds; if only we were present when the waters were still and reflected the surrounding mountains.

Kenai Peninsula in Alaska

This was the end of our exploration of the Seward Highway today. After reaching the Welcome to the Kenai Peninsula sign, we decided this should be the time to turn around, as reaching Seward or Homer was out of the question due to our limited time remaining in Alaska.

Caroline Wise at Turnagain Arm Pit on the Seward Highway in Alaska

Having a beer and BBQ at the Turnagain Arm BBQ in Indian, Alaska, on the Seward Highway because even if we had to stop for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Kool-Aid, this would still be one of the greatest stops for dinner ever. Does the sunlight have you thinking I meant lunch? Well, it was 7:00 p.m. when this photo was taken.

Anchorage Coastal Wildlife Refuge in Alaska

We’ve stopped at the Potter Marsh area after spotting birds galore, and everyone knows that this is exactly the right number of birds to arrest our attention and force us from the car to inspect all of them.

Anchorage Coastal Wildlife Refuge in Alaska

Unless you live in Alaska or some other northern clime, I’m guessing it’s not every day one sees a great black-backed gull chick.

Anchorage Coastal Wildlife Refuge in Alaska

I’m calling it “Arctic Tern with Midnight Snack.”

Anchorage Coastal Wildlife Refuge in Alaska

I literally crawled on my belly, as monumental as it is, to approach this tern from a distance I would have never guessed possible.

Anchorage Coastal Wildlife Refuge in Alaska

From this point, until we reach the airport, I’ve not been able to identify the park we visited, but who cares? Just take a moment to enjoy the warm sunset (9:15 p.m.) light illuminating the grasses in the woods.

Anchorage Coastal Wildlife Refuge in Alaska

More flower-smelling time.

Anchorage Coastal Wildlife Refuge in Alaska

Do you know what they call a daisy in Alaska? Daisy.

Anchorage Coastal Wildlife Refuge in Alaska

And with this last late-day photo, we pointed the car towards the airport to catch our flight.

John Wise, Caroline Wise, and Daniel Billotte flying out of Alaska

We were seated and waiting for a couple of late arrivals, and as one of those stragglers was walking down the aisle, I nudged Caroline and told her that the guy approaching looked a lot like a guy we’d not seen in 5 or 10 years, Daniel Billotte. Of course, she said, “NO WAY!” So, as he started to pass us, I kind of blurted out Daniel under my breath, not directing exactly at him, but his head snapped; sure enough, it was Daniel. How on god’s green earth are we running into this guy on a midnight flight out of Alaska? I’d like to say stranger things have happened, and while this is up there in the unbelievable department, we’ve had our fair share of the No Way.

Rafting The Alsek – Canada To Alaska Day 7

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Caroline Wise reading the paper early in the morning while taking care of business in Kluane National Park Yukon, Canada

Reading the Chilkat Valley News out in the wild is a solo experience, the only real negative being that you have to read the same edition every day. This lone paper was our reading material while visiting the facilities; the only delivery in these parts is via helicopter. Your next question might be, so what does the local paper have to tell us we may not already know? Well, for starters, there was a recent explosion of dandelions. Nursery owner Toni Smith of Haines said of the problem, “It’s horrendous.” Vinegar seems to be the all-natural weed killer in these parts. In other big news, the end of a three-year study came to a conclusion with results showing that 7.1 million eulachons, a smelt-like fish, had returned to the Chilkoot River. The study was administered by the Takshanuk Watershed Council for the Chilkoot Indian Association. Apparently, this was great news for the locals as eulachon are known as, “Tlingit penicillin,” and it’s not every fish in the wild that gets that honor. As for the other part of the photo featuring my wife, tell me some of you weren’t curious as to where this was taken care of when on a whitewater rafting trip.

A grizzly bear swimming across the Alsek River in Kluane National Park Yukon, Canada

When the previous photo was taken, we had already been awake for an hour and were the only ones wandering about. After Caroline finished her business we walked over towards the kitchen to start the fire with hopes our camp would start to shake itself awake and we could get our first cup of coffee. As I got the fire going, I thought I heard something on my left. I looked over to see a log floating in the distance. There, I heard it again! This time, I saw that the “something” was not a log; it was a snorting grizzly bear swimming directly toward Caroline and me. Mesmerized and for a moment uncertain about which way to go or how much noise to start making, we hesitated. At that time, I could see that the bear was going to be picked up by the current and would not be able to make it directly to our shore. As the Grizz was jettisoned downstream, some of the others in our group started emerging from their tents. Caroline stealthily went over to tell them to peer into the river. On my right, Bruce and Shaun also were moving about. I got their attention as quietly as I could and gave them the signal that a bear was nearby. No, the signal is not one of turning around and pointing to my backside, suggesting I had done in my pants what Caroline did in the can. The guys asked in hushed tones, “Where did you see it?” It is in the river on the other side of the tents.

Behold the mighty grizzly bear in Kluane National Park Yukon, Canada

We waited for what felt like minutes. And then there he was, about 50 yards from camp and too close for comfort, but we remained quiet. He lumbered up the beach, paying no attention to us until he reached the area adjacent to our toilet, where Caroline had been sitting less than 45 minutes earlier! It is just on the other side of these bushes that today’s first photo was taken. This big old bear then started to shake the water from his coat. Talk about a moment of Wow! And fear. Fear because there were still some campers in their tents between the bear and us who were watching his moves trying to decide if we needed to start making serious noise. He sniffed around, turned, and continued on his way into a side canyon. Okay, now I’m ready for my Wheaties.

The rapids of Lava North in Kluane National Park Yukon, Canada

After breaking camp, we had a relatively short ride down the river to a pullout where the boatmen needed to scout our next dangerous move: Lava North. Named after the mother of gnarly rapids, Lava Falls in the Grand Canyon, this churn of ice water is not for the timid. After much deliberation and finger-pointing, the boatmen apparently have a bead on which track we’ll be traveling as they round us up to head back to the rafts. Once there, it is time to suit up. Packed away in one of the rafts was a bag of dry suits, each one tagged with a passenger’s name. We are warned to be gentle with these fragile life-savers; if they tear, they won’t seal, and that will not be good should we find ourselves in the tumult. The guides are serious about putting these on right, serious that we pay attention to, and serious when they say this rapid can kill, and it has. We struggle to get our limbs through tight fittings, but after some rolling around and grunting, we are finally suited up and ready to conquer Lava North.

A wave kicking up in the rapid known as Lava North in Kluane National Park Yukon, Canada

I would love to share photos with you taken while in the rapid, but that can’t happen because we were holding on for dear life as we skirted the Monster Hole and slid by the Haystack Wave on a path that took us straight down the middle of Lava North. The tension was high as Shaun had the lead position; he made it through without a hitch. Next up was Martha, right on track as she safely guided her raft and passengers to the other side of this beast. We are last with Bruce, the cleanup crew now with nothing to do but pass over Lava as safely as the others before us. The river is pumping, and we are racing full bore ahead. We are going so fast that the markers I spotted while onshore as the boatmen were scouting are not able to be seen. The scale of our environment overwhelms the senses until we are pressed deep into reality. The reality of being so very small on such very large water. What looked almost quaint from above now looks incomprehensible from down here. Bruce hollers, “Did you see that hole?” Har, it wasn’t a hole; it was the pit of doom. When we passed that Monster Hole, it looked as though the river dropped over six feet and nearly disappeared before the water crawled up the other side to lose momentum and crash back onto itself. I’m sure that hole is a great place to get a raft stuck as it violently flips and flops to disgorge itself of passengers and contents before spitting out the shreds of what had been a raft. And then, before we know it, we are on the other side of Lava North, and the water is starting to calm. Phew!

Caroline R., Carol and Harris, and Bruce Keller in dry suits after running Lava North in Kluane National Park Yukon, Canada

Drysuits get hot in the sun, and when they do, they inflate. Every so often, we had to break the neck seal to allow the hot air to escape. By the time we get far enough downriver to pull over for lunch and get out of the rubber gear, we are close to overheating. The boatmen encourage us to enjoy the protection the dry suits offer and to immerse ourselves in the river. We all do. Then, the adventurous are shown a place on the tributary we have paddled up to where they can easily enter the river and float downstream through some fast-moving water. I pass, certain I’d miss the pullout, and enter the Alsek, never to be seen again.

At the confluence of a side tributary and the Alsek River in Kluane National Park Yukon, Canada

The unobstructed view of our mid-day sojourn off the Alsek River. We’ll spend a couple of hours here just chilling out, enjoying the perfect day, happy that we weren’t eaten by the bear or Lava North.

Glacial ice picked out of the stream off Alsek River in Kluane National Park Yukon, Canada

After lunch, some of the others napped while Caroline and I explored; this is a little something she found. Glacial ice that had been floating downstream. To the best of our map reading ability, it appears that the tributary we have stopped at is a flow coming from Fisher Glacier that is north of us and out of sight. The real beauty found in these sculptures is lost in the photograph. They are difficult to find the perfect angle to show you, they are even more of a problem to hold with already cold hands. Looking like glass art, there is the inclination to want to stroke its sensuous curves and soft features until the freezing ice starts to do the same to your hands, and a dull ache sets in.

A swallowtail butterfly on shore near the Alsek River in Kluane National Park Yukon, Canada

A swallowtail takes a break from pollination duties, landing long enough for me to get one almost reasonable photo. A few minutes earlier a skittish ptarmigan was moving about, but he was having nothing to do with a busy guy trying to snap pictures of everything that moved and didn’t move.

A waterfall in the cliff next to our rest stop in Kluane National Park Yukon, Canada

Our afternoon break is nearly over; the tables that had been brought out for lunch are being put away. We sweep the beach to ensure we are not leaving anything behind. This is especially important where wildlife is concerned as if bears identify locations as being good foraging areas and then equate humans with those food sources, all of a sudden that bear gets a case of the smarts putting two-and-two together and us in danger. Scoured and clean, boats packed, passengers and boatmen ready to get on board, we push off. Our campsite is not too far away, just some miles downriver near the foot of the mountain seen four photos above. Feeling refreshed and energized by our encounters with the cold water earlier, Caroline and I opt not to put on our waterproof layer or the rubber gear for the rest of the river day. Instead, we are in shorts and shirts and ready for whatever water might come our way.

The view from Blue Lagoon campsite in Kluane National Park Yukon, Canada

We were good up until the turn in the river when the shadows bore down on us. Oh, it was easy out in the sun; after being splashed by the small rapids, we warmed quickly. Bruce warned us that we had one more large set of rapids yet to deal with and thought we might want to throw on our rubber gear; he was right. Good thing, too, because that water came right up and over with some mighty splashing action. Also, on the way to camp, we stopped next to a gravel bank and collected firewood. Shaun has rafted this river more than any other in his career and has a pretty good read on what we’ll find as we move downriver. He thought we’d have trouble collecting enough wood at Blue Lagoon, our home for the night. He was right about the lack of driftwood; he was also right in choosing our campsite. If you look at that golden yellow mountainside, you should be able to recognize it as the mountain we were looking at during lunch.

Our rafts tied up for the night at Blue Lagoon camp site in Kluane National Park Yukon, Canada

We were almost tricked into thinking we were having a sunset this early evening. With the sun reflecting off the golden mountains behind us, a warm sunset light was cast down upon us. Caroline learned a new trick today: one of the straps on a dry bag I carry for storing a camera broke. Bruce explained to her how to fix it when on a river – you need floss. Like all good boatmen, these folks travel with emergency supplies to fix just about anything that might break while on a river trip; a needle was found in a quick minute. Now armed, Caroline got to work reattaching the strap of my dry bag and fixing it, to our delight. Dinner was lasagna, the entertainment was a blazing fire, and dreams played second fiddle to the extraordinary view of nature we have been experiencing.

Rafting The Alsek – Canada To Alaska Day 3

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Riverside cascade tumbling into the Alsek River in Yukon, Canada

After two days of traveling to get ourselves into position, we are ready to launch onto this remote river called the Alsek. We are here with the kind permission of the Canadian government, as it is by permit that we are allowed to raft through Kluane National Park. Coming here is a rarity; less than 200 people a year opt for this adventure through such a rugged, pristine, and faraway place. Juneau is now 245 miles (397km) to the south and Anchorage 613 road miles (993km) to the northwest – we are way out there. Between us and the Pacific Ocean, there are no roads, shops, electricity, or flush toilets. We travel as a self-contained mini-armada. After a somewhat windy night, we woke for a quick cold breakfast and were underway as soon as camp could be packed up and stowed on our rafts. Caroline and I joined Bruce on his raft for this “first” day on the river.

Female moose crossing the Alsek River in Kluane National Park / Yukon, Canada

It’s a bit gray out and chilly on the water, so we have all of our toasty rubber gear on that sits over waterproof pants that are on top of quick-dry pants that cover long underwear. The top halves of our bodies are layered in a similar arrangement, except Caroline and I also have hand-knitted hats to keep our heads warm. Over it all is the PFD, a personal flotation device, that we hope will not be tested for efficacy. Not requiring these extra layers or buoyancy protection was this female moose that strode right across the river but apparently was spooked by something on the shore in front of her. We first saw her from a good distance and immediately stopped paddling so as not to spook her.  As we floated slowly downstream, the moose continued to inspect the right shore; whatever she was seeing, we could not. After the moose caught sight of us, she would shift her gaze from the shore to us, back to the shore, and then back at us. Finally, she called it quits and turned around to return to the left shore. Into the thicket, she strode; this would be the only moose we’d see on this journey.

Looking down the Alsek River in Yukon, Canada

About an hour downstream, we start getting our first hints of a blue sky. While sunshine may yet be on the itinerary, this is Alaska, and nearly any type of weather is possible; good thing we are prepared. This day on the river has similarities to our first day on the Colorado River down in the Grand Canyon. The scope and spectacle are too far beyond our sense of the familiar; it is impossible to relate this to anything previously known. I find myself unable to comprehend the magnitude. I may as well be a thousand days away from tomorrow because that might be the time required to give this some sense of understanding. It isn’t that I don’t recognize water, mountains, or sky; it is more the idea that there are no familiar landmarks ahead; there is only the potential for more of the incomprehensible. Oh, I’m sure some will fall right in and see this as just so much more of something similar to other experiences had previously, but this is my first time in the Yukon, and already, I’m aware that there is an infinity of detail surrounding us that I cannot stop to see. There are viewpoints in countless different locations under a billion different weather and light conditions that can offer a trillion different perspectives; the only position I will see this from is right here, right now, from my spot on this little inflatable raft. Insignificance screams out my name in silence.

Another rainbow on the Alsek River in Yukon, Canada

I didn’t want to post another expansive mountain and river shot right away, especially one that is not all that great, but this one has a rainbow. Not just any rainbow either; this is the shortest, most ground-hugging rainbow Caroline or I have ever seen. It is also the second rainbow in two days. Caroline and I have likely been witness to well over 100 rainbows during our travels, shooting stars are another familiar theme. You can bet that we see these phenomena as notes from the universe that the proverbial wishes and pots of gold are easily found when one is out in the flow of nature.

Clouds quickly come and go around the mountain tops on the Alsek River in Kluane National Park / Yukon, Canada

The weather works hard here; it is like a chameleon that changes minute by minute. Due to the size of all that surrounds us, it is difficult to grasp distances, and is impossible to guess how far the horizon might stretch out before us. Our place down here on the water doesn’t help establish a good vantage point either; with heavy clouds obscuring what lies beyond the closest mountains, we are left wondering as to what we are missing. There’s this nagging thought that whatever has been missed these first two hours will probably forever remain unknown to Caroline and me. Even if we were to return in a year or two, would the river be able to be run, or might a glacier block our passage? Would the weather be harsh, rainy, or maybe snowy, with the view more limited than what we have experienced so far today? When we go to someplace like Disneyland, we can be nearly certain that we will have seen all there is to be seen, should we dedicate our efforts to do so. That cannot be said when visiting places such as Alaska, or the Grand Canyon for that matter. When trapped by the conveniences of highways, groomed roadsides, and finite city centers, our vision and imaginations stop at the boundary of these man-made environments. Out here the only limits are our ability to look deep, not just outside, but also within ourselves.

Looking back up river at two rafts following our lead on the Alsek River in the Yukon, Canada

And then the sky opens to spill sweet sunlight upon all it reaches. Not even noon yet, and we are a million miles from where we were. The first mishap of the trip was a personal one for me. My brand new GoPro HD Hero2, which had not filmed a second of footage in its brief life, jumped overboard and died. I cannot confirm its death for certain; the body wasn’t able to be retrieved. It was attached to its suction cup device that will hold tight to objects that are traveling as fast as 150 miles per hour and was probably never tested on the rounded rubber front tube of an inflatable raft ripping along at five mph. Turning my back for a split second, the suction cup, the GoPro, a 64GB SD Card, and my brand spanking new LCD BacPac abandoned ship; taking close to $500 out of my pocket at the same time. You see, while the sky can clear and clouds will dissipate, the waters we are traveling are so full of silt that we cannot see a quarter-inch into the murk. There is so much silt that it sounds like the bottom of the raft is being sandpapered. Crispy crackles and pops rise from the raft’s floor. Uh-oh, and so is the water. We haven’t been through a single rapid yet, but I keep on bailing water that is collecting in the front of our raft. Do we have a leak? Might my camera be able to float up into it?

Adventure, glaciers, rapids, wilderness, and wild animals, we are here to see it all. Including the blossoming of wildflowers that spring forth to color a landscape that, for the majority of the year, is cold and hostile. It’s only mid-June, but within 90 days, winter will start showing its face, and the flowers will be long gone. Fortunately for Caroline and me, Bruce has been on this river seven other times and was able to make a pretty good guess when we might be able to see the wildflowers near or at their peak. His crystal ball worked well.

Wildflowers in Kluane National Park / Yukon, Canada

We stopped for lunch. Sandwiches, chips, fruit, and cookies are on the menu, standard river fare for a mid-day meal. After stuffing our gullets, it is announced that we are going to venture out on our first hike. I, instead, decline. I need to know the silence that exists here. I long for a moment of quiet that so far has not been found. If I could just sit here next to the shore, next to these beautiful wildflowers, I am certain I can find the tranquility that I cherish. The group trudges up the hill behind me; their voices fade, and I start to listen for the bear. There will be no bear finding a tasty man-morsel today; I am safe. Then, the quiet begins.

Silent rocks in Kluane National Park / Yukon, Canada

These rocks did not chatter; they did not groan under the weight of the earth that sits atop them, they sat motionless and quiet. I, too, sat still because if I didn’t, the synthetic clothes I require for survival here would create a racket to disturb the dead. The quieter it became, the more that silence demanded respect, I obliged. A slight breeze ruffles the nearby leaves; it must be a bear. Nope, it is just the wind reminding the trees that they know how to sing their own song. It had taken three days of traveling to find ourselves 10 miles downstream, but it felt like mere seconds before the marauding hikers crushed the quiet like an ant underfoot. I left a camera upstream from here; if someone should one day find it, please set it up on river left; really, anywhere will do, and find a method for connecting it to the internet. A webcam from this shore seems like a terrific idea to me.

Snow covered mountains, green forest, silvery river, blue and white sky; Earth's rainbow.

There must be homes on the other side of that hill with a well-hidden road for commuters to get to and from work. How do people resist living in a place this gorgeous? I suppose 24-hour nights for a good part of winter with vast quantities of snow piled on everything, oh yeah, and the 500-mile drive to work all conspire to dissuade urbanization of these wildlands. That, and the insight of those bureaucrats, environmentalists, and left-wing fringe folk who think places like this are worth preserving. Not that its exploitation wasn’t considered, at least in part. As recently as 1993, there was a push to start mining copper further downstream. Studies suggested it would end in total disaster. Not only would it destroy swaths of pristine land, but it also threatened Dall sheep, wolves, wolverines, and the largest concentration of grizzly bears on earth. Author and boatman Michael P. Ghiglieri has written an excellent piece that goes into detail regarding this boondoggle; you can read it at the O.A.R.S. website by clicking here.

Bruce Keller at the oars on the Alsek River in the Yukon, Canada

Meet Bruce Keller, our boatman. Want to know more about this great river guide? Read my book, Stay In The Magic! Shameless plugs belong on one’s own blog; it goes with the territory. As good as he is, he hasn’t stopped the water that is accumulating so fast that I have to bail out the raft every 20 minutes. Now I’m stumped, sitting here the night I’m writing this. I stare at the photo and think about everything I could tell you about Bruce, but there it is just a couple of lines above this one where I’ve said I won’t. Bet I can’t make it to the end of the telling of our Alsek adventure before breaking that devil’s bargain I’ve created. So, where to go with this? Oh yeah, sitting behind Bruce is John Hoffman, and next to him is Caroline Rhodes, the editor of my book titled, “Stay In The Magic – A Voyage Into The Beauty Of The Grand Canyon.” It is the book you are now getting pretty interested in and are considering purchasing!

The miniature flora growing boldly where few men dare to tread. Kluane National Park in the Yukon Territory of Canada

Would you believe these plants have started growing in the silty wet bottom of our raft? I didn’t think so. We are onshore. Camp is set up, and everyone except Bruce, Shaun, Caroline, and myself are about to go on a hike to explore a waterfall in our backyard; about a mile away. But before camp is nearly deserted, a call goes out to help empty, de-rig, and roll Bruce’s raft over. Right away, the culprit is identified: a big split in the rubber underbelly. How we didn’t go Titanic is beyond me, or maybe it was my steadfast bailing? Fixing a hole in a raft next to a swift-moving river turns out to be easy enough, except for the exotic glue concoction that should be bundled with a military-grade gas mask to protect yourself from the fragrant aroma of this toxic mix. Turns out that boatmen have all the tools they need for just such a job: beer. While sparing myself brain damage from the noxious fumes, I went exploring in our local vicinity; the picture above is a hint of what I found.

Purple wildflowers that Caroline will look up shortly and share with readers what they are

I have come to form a hypothesis regarding us ‘city’ people finding ourselves in the bigger world of immense nature. We do not truly know how to embrace a world without boundaries. It is as though we have been hit with a cudgel – relentlessly. With our wits bashed clean out of our heads, we lean towards the familiar; we wallow in the mundane. How have I come to this cynical conclusion, you might ask? Observation of our behaviors when transported into these vast, mind-expanding locations. For some people, this is manifested in the talk on the boats, where they are quick to drag their “interesting” lives onto the river for all of us to share in. For others, they are able to contain themselves until reaching the shore and the campfire before hell breaks loose; I do not want to know the smallest detail of what TV show these people find interesting – I AM SURROUNDED BY THE ASTONISHING SPECTACLE OF NATURE, and am very happy to be in the moment! Though I should admit, I, too, suffer from Mother Nature’s ability to overdose the senses. For me, I turn in. I look for silence; I try to find something to focus on that doesn’t bludgeon me with trying to comprehend the infinite. Already, just one day on the river, I’m losing my sense of place. So instead of joining the banality of regurgitating stories that can in no way compete with where we are, I try to slow down, to settle in. I laid down on the ground like a kid about to inspect the microscopic fauna and flora below his feet; I wanted to find intimacy with something more easily comprehensible.

A little yellow wildflower that Caroline would love to share with you what it is

What I found was that the universe of the tiny can be more immense than that, which is obviously easier to see when looking at the sky and mountains. Down here on the ground, another universe exists. The soil is not flat and compressed; it is damp, dark, and teaming with life. Delicate crevices descend into dark shadows where my vision cannot penetrate. From out of those hidden places, nearly transparent insects unfamiliar to me crawl out and just as quickly dip into another hidden cranny. I look closer and find plants smaller than the head of a pin growing between grains of soil and sand. A spider scrambles over debris that has collected over the seasons; there is no telling how long the elements in this microcosm have played host to that and those who live here. Looking for something simpler, I am finding yet more big questions. What is the purpose of all of this spectacle? How does the life that exists here survive through the brutality of a long, dark winter where snow and ice are the rulers? What could that process of reawakening feel like if it were us waking from a long hibernation where our lives were suspended until conditions were once again fit for our springing forth?

Your guess is as good as mine as to what this insect is, but it lives in Kluane National Park in the Yukon Territory of Canada if your were interested in trying find out

I am certainly the one and only human being this bug will ever see in its lifetime. Its plain of existence does not require my presence; it is more likely that I am detrimental to its short life. Less than an inch long, there was something beautiful about this creature’s life and its place here about 500 feet from shore and the rest of the people I was traveling with. This bug has no limits on where it may roam; it doesn’t pay rent to be allowed to have a place on the surface of the earth to call home. It has learned to find food in its environment without needing to exchange labor for access to a meal. This turquoise-suited explorer is able to scale blades of grass a dozen times taller than its length, where it can observe the alien-human who has barged into its universe. Both of us sit still, not flinching, me imperceptibly breathing, it practicing simple diffusion. So, who or what is freer? I’ll have to go home; I couldn’t survive here a winter on my own, while the grasshopper is home. It and its kind will survive – if “we” let it.

Something is about to bloom, but what it is, awaits identification by my beautiful wife whose skills of identification are unmatched in the household of Wise

There is too much to see here. Instead of finding the familiar or at least the comprehensible, I am no more certain of my surroundings than I was when I came over to this small patch of tranquility. I will remain lost in the fog of vastitude here at Lava Creek Camp and remember how this first day on the river is only but a smaller part of a tiny part. We are but a small element in the larger world that resides in a universe where many of us can seemingly only survive by focusing our attention on those things we already know, lest we become lost in the magnitude of possibility where our minds may not have the elasticity to grasp the totality that bombards our senses. At least I will contemplate these things and continue to try to find meaning when stripped of the familiar and my everyday routine.

Rafting The Alsek – Canada To Alaska Day 2

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Passing a lighthouse on the Inside Passage after leaving Juneau, Alaska on the way to Haines

This trip to Alaska is more than just a vacation; we are getting started on another big adventure. While today is a part of the journey, it is really about getting into place for the action to get underway. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment, “Let’s get out and do something” kind of trip either, and NO, we are not here for a cruise! Planning for our introduction to Alaska started last summer with us weighing options between two different rivers and available dates. We ended up opting for the Alsek River over the Tatshenshini River, which is just a mountain range from where we are heading today. We start early and take a shuttle to the dock, where we will board a fast catamaran operated by the Alaska Marine Highway for our two-and-a-half-hour ride up the Inside Passage. Fog obscures the view that we are certain is nothing short of spectacular, but those sights are not to be seen by us today and will require another visit to delight in its certain beauty.

John and Caroline Wise on the Alaska / Canadian border

We dock in Haines Junction and are greeted by Andy from Chilkat Guides. Andy is the company rep I’ve been talking to for the past year about this grand outing. A few minutes later, with our gear loaded on the van, we were on our way to the company warehouse. Some of the other passengers we’ll be traveling with are already here; some are yet to arrive. A few minutes later, a big truck pulls up and out steps Bruce Keller, one of our boatmen. This is not just any old boatman either; Bruce was with us on our 18-day dory trip down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon a year and a half ago. He is here at our request; after all, it was Bruce on Day 1 of that Grand Canyon adventure who told us a story about a Tatshenshini/Alsek trip he had been on in years past. The flames of our curiosity were stoked. There’s another reason we wished for Bruce to join us here, but I’ll get to that later.

On the Haines Highway going north

Once all of us guests are assembled, the briefing begins. We are introduced to our other two boatmen; our trip leader is Shaun Cornish, who also goes by the nickname “Corn,” and next is Martha Stewart – no, not that one. Dry bags are handed out for packing our gear into, along with a sleep kit, and fisherman’s rubber overalls and jackets. Packed up, it’s time to hit the road in our school bus. Not so fast; we still need heavy rubber boots and felt liners to keep our feet dry and comfy once we get to the river, that, and some alcohol. Once that’s done, we are ready to get underway and drive north up the Haines Highway. A peculiar situation occurs on this type of river trip; we do not start our river journey in Alaska but in the Yukon Territory of Canada. The river will take us out of the Yukon and into British Columbia before shoving us across the U.S. border in the middle of nowhere some days further downstream. But we still have to check in with customs, so at the U.S. / Canadian border, we first file into the U.S. crossing station and surrender our passports for checking into the U.S., although we haven’t even left yet. Then it’s time to check in with Canada; once more, the passports are handed over, and we wait a few minutes. We are clear and, again are heading up the highway.

Side of the road off the Haines Highway

The trek out of Alaska and the way into the Yukon are well deserving of all the superlatives offered by the many travel writers and poets who have attempted to convey a sense of the beauty that exists within this landscape. Words like “heavy,” “large,” and “expansive” quickly come to mind. “Overwhelming” soon tramples the senses, leaving me to shake my head in disbelief that I am even here. I want to feel cheated that we are not stopping at every pullout to stand in awe of all of this, but I understand that we are on our way to something really big.

A lumbering grizzly bear makes his way across a meadow off the Haines Highway

Not to say we can’t stop, and after spotting a grizzly bear, well, that demands we pull over. Oblivious to our presence and not caring a lick about our need for photos, this famous lumbering creature turns his back on us and wanders away from the meadow it was grooming, to disappear into a thicket of trees. As far as wildlife was concerned this day, the bear would be the only encounter we’d have. Like the bear, we, too need to keep on moving.

Roadside mountain and lake view off Highway 3 in the Yukon Territory of Canada

Photographing this environment is difficult. Clouds change quickly, and the land is so expansive that getting it “all” into frame becomes an exercise in frustration. If I were driving and getting to a destination at any particular time was not a factor, I would pull over every two minutes to insist that this was going to be the photo that would define our trip. Instead, I frantically shoot photos out of the window of the school bus and assure myself that I am coming back someday to linger while we mosey down the road.

Off-roading in a school bus requires a full 90 minutes to travel but 5 miles on this poorly maintained road to the Alsek River

It’s already 5:00 pm by the time we leave the road near Haines Junction for a bumpy ride down a narrow, poorly maintained scratch into the earth. It will take 90 minutes on this rut to travel just 5 miles. The adventure has now begun. Just as quickly, it nearly comes to a standstill. Flowing water goes where it wants to out here, and when it does so in random ways, it can cut banks into the gravel, and that’s just what our bus got stuck on. But we are traveling with pro’s and in an instant, Corn has us off the gravel bar and bumping wildly on our way to our campsite.

On the way to our campsite down a poorly maintained road in the Yukon

Onward we crawl. From this location back in 1850, we would have been submerged below a very large lake. In 1725, Lowell Glacier surged forward, creating a temporary 125-year dam that blocked the flow of the Alsek River. During those formative years, a lake over 30 miles long had collected, until in 1850, the glacier broke. When those waters were released, a massive flood scoured the landscape clean as it made its way to the Pacific about 150 miles downstream. The shoreline of that lake can still be seen in the mountainsides next to our route.

Snow covered mountains in early summer line the primitive road that is delivering us to the Alsek River

We have fallen in love with the terrain. Pinching ourselves will not wake us from this dreamscape. It is now incomprehensible how this can get any better. The idea that we are just at the beginning of a two-week rafting trip down a wild, infrequently traveled river only builds the sense of excitement that tingles the eyes and accelerates the heart with anticipation. As it was with our rafting trip down the Colorado, we cannot fully comprehend that we are so fortunate to be here, but so it is. Shortly, we will exit the bus. Our gear will be thrown onto the sandy soil, and we will from that point on, only move further and further away from civilization and the modern world. We are entering a place where few dare enter, a primitive land lost in time, carved during the epoch known as the Pleistocene. Do not cue Twilight Zone music here.

Setting up camp on the Alsek River in the Yukon, Canada

What happened? Were we afraid that in a space so large, we would feel isolated, distant, and alone? Maybe the others thought I had made a sound judgment when scouting the location to set up the first tent. I had chosen this spot for Caroline and me because we were camping close to some obvious runoff that had poured over this drainage in the last few days, and this particular location looked to be an inch or two above the rivulets that can be seen in the bottom of the photo. Still, I wasn’t so sure about my logic and wondered if we should have searched for higher ground. I was sure the others would after having witnessed my poor judgment. No one else pursued that line of thought, though; they simply huddled around us. I agonized about moving the tent to find some ‘open’ space but was certain that would have been perceived as anti-social. On the other hand, who needed a tent when the plan was to stay up all night? To experience a 24-hour day seemed like a great idea, before a full stomach after dinner changed the equation.

Looking downstream on the Alsek River in the Yukon, Canada

This is the direction we’ll travel in the morning. Three inflatable rafts, three guides, twelve passengers, and 184 miles between us and the ocean. What is it that lies in front of us? What kind of wildlife will we see? Will a rapid spill of one or more of the rafts and its human cargo into these icy waters? Might we witness calving glaciers or rolling icebergs? Standing on this shore, there are no answers, but there is an abundance of curiosity, trepidation, enthusiasm, and outright bewilderment. Today, we have placed ourselves at the precipice of adventure, whose grandeur exceeds our ability to comprehend even a fraction of what’s to come. It will take months, if not years, into the future to fully appreciate where this river will have taken us.

A double rainbow greets us at camp where the Dezdeash River is becoming the Alsek in the Yukon Territory of Canada

The last act of this momentous day occurred under a rainbow. At the beginning of this day’s recounting, I mentioned there was more to the story as to why it was important for us to have Bruce along as one of our guides. It was here on this day next to the Alsek that I presented Bruce with the first copy of my book titled “Stay In The Magic.” One month following the completion of our November 2010 Colorado River rafting trip, I took the opportunity to phone Bruce. Just prior to leaving the Grand Canyon, the boatmen told us that the worst part of these big river trips was about to begin: the phenomenon known as re-entry. Upon returning to “normal” life after an extended stay in the amazing, it happens that what was once normal and routine now seems out of place and peculiar, at best. We were reassured that this would pass after a few days. Well, there it was a month later, and Caroline and I were still deep in the Grand Canyon and were not making a very elegant departure from the experience we had marveled at. It was towards the end of that phone call that Bruce reassured me that we were truly lucky, that we should enjoy our extended stay in those memories, be happy that they didn’t disappear moments after our return, and that we should “stay in the magic.” At the time, I didn’t know yet that I was writing something that was going to go beyond one of my usual blog entries. As my writing continued and I realized that I was indeed on my way to authoring a book, I voiced a rhetorical question to Caroline one day, “I wonder what I’ll call this if I ever finish it?” Her reply: “What about that phone call with Bruce a couple of months ago where he told you to, “Stay In The Magic!?” And that is where we have stayed, in the magic.

Rafting The Alsek – Canada To Alaska Day 1

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

On trail walking to the Mendenhall Glacier on an overcast afternoon in Juneau, Alaska

Today was the grand arrival; we landed in Juneau, Alaska. This is the 50th state for Caroline and me to visit, although there’s a whole lot more to see of this land than the little corner we are exploring on this journey north. Flying in left much to the imagination, as for most of the flight from Seattle, our view was that of a heavy cloud cover. Moments after dropping below the shroud, I couldn’t contain my excitement and infectiously pulled Caroline into my enthusiasm when I pointed out that I could see a glacier. The original plan had been to land, call the hotel for a shuttle, and maybe get a taxi into Juneau proper for some sightseeing. Scratch that; we are renting a car so we can go have our first encounter with a glacier. Mendenhall Glacier was just up the road; soon, we were too.

Mendenhall Glacier

Mendenhall Glacier. Okay, so we’ve now been everywhere in the United States.  We are like children on Christmas day here. Containment of the exhilaration we are feeling would be like trying to contain a cloud burst. A glacier! Not just any old glacier either, one with a name that smacks of English royalty. You don’t need to correct me; I know it’s a medieval English town best known for the Royal Air Force, but today, this glacier is king.

Waterfall next to Mendenhall Glacier

Astonished and overwhelmed. That is our normal when visiting a state for the first time, and can’t believe our luck that “WE” should be there. Compounding today’s excitement is the knowledge that we have earned bragging rights of having been to all 50 states. Yes, I know I’m repeating myself, but that is just what we do a hundred times while we are standing there, mouths agape, as we ask each other, “Can you believe it?” We may never understand how others, apparently on their first visits to someplace new, maintain such composure. If it wasn’t for our reverence of nature, you can bet we’d be screaming holy expletives at the idea that we are gawking at this spectacle of beauty.

Closeup of the face of Mendenhall Glacier in Juneau, Alaska

Got a kayak? How do we get out there and touch this? Not exactly an inviting facade, maybe even a very dangerous one, but who can resist the idea of cozying up to the face of a glacier? And what of the chance of a calving chunk of ice the size of a convenience store falling off to crush us and maybe even kill us? Okay, forget the kayak. Short of sharing our mantra of repeating, “OH MY GOD!” I cannot convey where we were mentally. Physically, that’s easy: onshore, still with mouths wide open. Good thing arctic terns nest on surfaces and not in cavity nests, as I’m sure one of our mouths might have looked like an inviting place to call home.

Sudeten Lousewort in bloom - also known as fernweed; Juneau, Alaska. The Latin name is Pedicularis sudetica

The Sudeten lousewort blooming in June is also known as fernweed. The timing of this trip to Alaska has not been left to chance; there was an intention behind making plans for an early summer trip: to maximize our opportunity to see wildflowers. Of course, there were other intentions too, namely a river we’ll be traveling on. That bit of information will be detailed in tomorrow’s blog entry. For now, we are content to explore the area adjacent to the glacier.

An iceberg in front of Mendenhall Glacier - Juneau, Alaska

It’s one thing to see an iceberg in photos, on TV, or in a movie, but to see one in person, well, that’s like being on a savanna and watching a lion catch a meal. Not that I’ve personally been to Africa, but I can imagine the tension mounting as one is about to witness nature in action, and then it happens: the chase is on. It’s just like this moment right now. Though there’s not much chase, not even any perceptible motion, nor will the iceberg be devouring any fish, beaver, or birds that may enter its zone. Nope, it’s just a giant chunk of glacial ice moving at glacial speeds. It is the coolest piece of floating ice I have ever witnessed. Come to think about it, besides an ice cube in a drink or a frozen lake surface, this is the only massive piece of floating ice I have ever seen. Wishes for it to roll over went unheeded.

A seagull over the waters of the Mendenhall Glacier in Juneau, Alaska

Arctic terns were nesting during our visit. Terns are quick flyers and dart in any direction with incredible speed; that’s why I don’t have a photo of one of them. Instead, I offer you this seagull, which was much easier to capture. Couldn’t spot any chicks yet, but for all I knew, they were right there under our noses. If ever there was an argument for augmented reality, for me, it is right here, right now. If Google Glass wants to do me a favor, give me an overlay of information regarding the natural world. I’ve already learned how to navigate the cities I visit, well, except for that tiny problem of finding a public restroom, but I really want to know more about the nature surrounding me here today. What is the lifespan of an Arctic tern? Are they migratory, monogamous swimmers? How big was the Mendenhall Glacier 30, 50, or 100 years ago? Does the waterfall on our right flow year-round? Before I got home at the end of our great north adventure to learn that the flowers above were of the Lousewort family, it would have been great to have a mobile device that already knew where I would be during this trip and that I would want to know everything I could about the local flora and fauna. Let’s go National Geographic; it’s time to get into educational augmented reality-based software!

A fern growing adjacent to the Mendenhall glacier in Juneau, Alaska

Lush, deep green, and dense, just the way I like my women, oops, I mean plant life. Eye candy should seduce you, drag you in to see more, and never quite produce the total state of ecstasy one seeks, thus bringing you back for more. Botanical eye candy is like a drug to me. It allows me to better understand the animal that falls into it, writhing and wriggling in delight. Maybe it gets high when rolling deep in the luscious carpet of greenery, just as I am by merely staring at this abundance of enchantment. Hey buddy, want some green stuff? It’s really potent, man.

Water streaming over rocks in Juneau, Alaska

Leave the camera’s shutter open a few seconds while focused on rushing water, and the ephemeral wisps of its splashing droplets take on a mysterious, otherworldly feel. It never fails for Caroline to stop at these outflows and plead with me to shoot a long exposure. I oblige her when possible, as I, too, love this effect. We have a soft spot for these beautiful little streams and cascades; who doesn’t?

A black bear noshing on some fine greenery in Juneau, Alaska

Nom, nom, nom, murmurs the bear while noshing on the fine roadside greenery. With the abundance of what may be his favorite mid-day snack, this bear paid no attention to us. Of course, I didn’t challenge this safe arrangement by throwing Caroline out of the car to see if she could persuade the bear to perform some antics for us. Had I done that, I am certain I could have captured a picture that would be a hit on Imgur, while the car behind us might have gotten video footage of an idiot pushing his wife into the path of a bear, allowing him the big YouTube score. Now, I wouldn’t have really done any of this, but don’t you ever wonder what the thinking is behind some of these profoundly stupid situations people get into before finding a minor celebrity on the internet? By the way, I cannot verify if the plant the bear is eating is actually as yummy as it appears to him. Maybe next time, I’ll try a mouthful. (Edit: The bear is eating Equisetum, commonly known as Horse Tail. – Caroline)

Driving north from Mendenhall glacier towards the roads end outside of Juneau, Alaska

The weather wasn’t cooperating in offering us stunning panoramas, so we settled on this “drab” view where snow-covered mountains peak out behind low clouds to give us a hint of what exists in the distance. It is as though the full dimension of where we are is only slowly being revealed, and we are perfectly okay with that. Our imaginations fill in the gaps of what we are not allowed to witness yet; our expectations are soaring. The thrill of what is unfolding is electrifying.

A cascade peeks out from under the clouds near Juneau, Alaska

Not all things right in front of our faces are always apparent. On our drive north from Mendenhall, the mountains were mostly cloud-covered, and there was that bear that grabbed our attention. On the way back south, we spot this cascade that had emerged from below the weather. Had it always been there? Of course, it has, though this could also be a seasonal occurrence, only flowing with the spring and summer melt. We have to wonder, how many more cascades and waterfalls are we missing? Those thoughts of still hidden gems will make it easier on the days when we need to convince ourselves that a return to Alaska is required.

Caroline Wise enjoying her first beer in Alaska, which was better than the first bear we saw enjoying her!

Time to call it a day. Not that the day is really over; it stays light around the clock here this time of year, but we were hungry and tired. For a capital city, there weren’t very many choices of where to grab dinner. We tried finding the local dive that might have been owned by a fisherman who only sold his daily catch, but that culinary treasure proved elusive. And so we satisfied ourselves with some nondescript waterside eatery that fulfilled at least two important functions. One, we were able to eat. Two, Caroline was able to enjoy her first beer in Alaska. Tomorrow, we get busy.