Alaska 360

Story and photographs by Kerrick James

“This is really not a whale tour!” Ranger Linda Lieberman says, smiling infectiously, as the thrilled passengers on the Baranoff Wind spy playful humpbacks, a cruising pod of orca and a breaching minke whale. Today’s cruise in Glacier Bay, a well-known yet lesser-visited jewel among Alaska’s array of national parks, seems an embarrassment of wildlife riches. Besides the whales, we’ve seen a cinnamon bear foraging the tide line, bright white mountain goats roaming the dolomite high on Gloomy Knob, puffins rising off the calm cold waters, and Steller sea lions cavorting on South Marble Island.

I’ve come north to Alaska to do as many active pursuits as possible in roughly 10 idyllic days in Glacier Bay, Denali and Wrangell-St. Elias National Parks. Granted, a day spent cruising for wildlife and calving glaciers is the easy way out (or in, as it were) but tomorrow I hope to see the whales from sea level, in a kayak.

Glacier Bay

Unless you’re seeing Glacier Bay from a cruise ship, you’ll likely start your visit by flying or ferrying into Gustavus, a village of 400 year-round residents. To stay in the park, plan on booking several nights at the Glacier Bay Lodge, located on the south shore of Bartlett Cove. With just 56 rooms and a fine restaurant, this is a very comfortable base camp from which to sea kayak, hike, fish, whale watch, go flightseeing, or rent a bike to cycle eight miles to sample the growing Gustavus art scene.

After the cruise I decide to take advantage of the endless summer daylight to hike two miles from the lodge to the Bartlett River, where a black bear with cubs has recently been spotted. After a day spent on board, it’s really welcome to stretch out one’s legs in the rain forest. The trail undulates through a quiet world of spongy mosses and primeval ferns, breaking out abruptly into a view of the meandering river. Today the bears are dining elsewhere, but it’s simply lovely to sit for an hour in the tall grass, clouds streaming by, the sound and smell of the breeze teasing your senses. It’s amazing to me that all this lush plant life is a mere 200 years old, as hundreds of feet of ice covered this very spot just that recently.

The next morning is becalmed, and Bartlett Cove is glassy, a dreamy surface on which to kayak in search of humpback whales. Our kayak briefer, Lexa, warns us not to chase the whales, as we could receive a ticket from a backcountry ranger. Once in the water I realize how futile a chase would be, as the whales we see play and dive and surface at wide intervals. With only paddle power, the best strategy is to kayak along the pebbly shoreline, in search of bears or eagles, and let the whales come to you. Eventually one does just that, its tail rising high over the rich blue water and diving deep 50 yards off our bow.

But the best whale moment of the morning was totally unexpected. Out to the west a pure white cruise ship had just turned north, beginning its sojourn into Glacier Bay, when three humpbacks dived in succession. Their blue-black tails were silhouetted against the bright hull background, diving one, two, three, bow to stern, in quiet majesty.

Later that afternoon, I jump a real whale-watching tour on the good ship Taz. Leaving the dock at Gustavus in a drenching rain squall, we motor across Icy Strait to Point Adolphus, a prime fishing ground for the humpbacks. Happily, the squall blows through, leaving a fairly calm sea. Captain Brad dips his hydrophone into the deep cold waters and soon we’re regaled by a variety of whalesongs, eerily piercing, punctuated with grunts, squeaks and guttural moans. We can even hear the reverberations from slapping pectoral fins on the surface. The afternoon ends with a stunning series of breaches by a large adult humpback, clearly happy to be alive, as are we after marveling at his athletic jumps and thundering splashes.

Denali

© Kerrick James.

That visual still thrills me as I board Alaska Airlines’ evening flight from Gustavus back to Anchorage, to catch a morning train. Early the next day I’m bound for Denali, riding the new panoramic McKinley Explorer Railcars on the Alaska Railroad. The hours slide by easily, as do whole forests, a multitude of trout streams, quiet towns, and conversations with new friends.

By mid-afternoon the long train pulls into the station, close by the entrance to Denali NP, in a drenching rainstorm. I don’t mind, as my destination tonight is the McKinley Chalet, a lovely and well-situated haven. That evening the clouds clear away, and I dine at the Nenana Grill, overlooking the noisy Nenana River. My waitress advises, “Turn in early if you’re riding the Tundra Explorer Bus, and don’t be late, cuz they’ll leave without you.”

I’m glad to have heeded her advice, as at 5:30 the next morning I’m on the #7, with every seat full on this modified school bus. Our driver, naturalist and narrator, hailing from far-off Bisbee, Ariz., is named Hoven. Less than a mile inside the park he spots a moose and three calves grazing in the early light.

For many visitors, Denali is about two things: wildlife and the mountain. Many visitors never see the 20,320-foot summit, but just about everyone comes home with memories of its wildlife. This is their home, and it’s a spacious one, six million acres, roughly the size of Vermont. Established in 1917, it’s the oldest of Alaska’s national parks. Today we’ll ride 53 miles up the solitary park road, and Hoven tells us we will be “high grading,” forsaking distant views of animals in hopes of close-up cameos.

“Moose live in the spruce,” quips Hoven, as we move north into the taiga, north towards the tundra. Treeline at this 64-degree north latitude is all the way down to 2,800 feet, and we’re just 220 miles south of the Arctic Circle, the real Far North. Before we can consider just how far from home we truly are, a rider exclaims, “Bear! There’s a bear right over here!” Sure enough, 40 yards off the road a scraggly grizzly is munching soapberries, trying to build the fat layer that will keep him alive in winter. We watch intently, shutters clicking, people crowding the windows. This is a wildlife sanctuary, and as the day rolls on, over Polychrome passes and across braided riverbeds, a remarkable portrait of life emerges.

A lone caribou is skylined below Sable Pass, his massive rack clearly visible from 500 yards. “Caribou are social, moose are solitary,” adds Hoven, but this individual belies that statement. Later we glimpse Dall sheep grazing in groups, two grizzly cubs ambling on wobbly back legs, and stunningly close, a wolf mom and pup laze across a pebbly streambed, unconcerned, unthreatened by 50 humans in a steel cocoon. When we stop to stretch our legs and turn back south we are rewarded by a partial fleeting sight of Denali itself, punctuating a perfect day. Hoven says contentedly, “You’ve seen the Grand Slam, as we drivers call it. Moose, caribou, Dall sheep, grizzly, wolves and the great mountain too.”

We return to the Chalet by early afternoon, and I book a glacier landing by helicopter. This flight crosses the high green taiga of the Alaska Range, over to the Yanert Glacier. En route we startle two grizzlies, surprise feeding moose and roaming caribou, and hover over a hidden waterfall worthy of Hawaii. Landing gently on a glacier ringed by serrated peaks, we enjoy a 20-minute scramble on the ice, drinking pure glacial meltwater from shallow cupped pools. Too soon we lift off into the early evening sky, and our return flight leads through a rain squall. The low-angle sun creates a circular rainbow that lingers and seems to travel around us, an ephemeral miracle of light and color.

Now who in their right mind would choose to leave a most comfortable room and warm bed to go rafting at 7:30 in the morning on a river that in midsummer warms all the way up to 37 degrees? That’s Fahrenheit, folks, and reason enough to struggle into the drysuits provided and demonstrated by our skilled and personable guides. Doug is our guide to this river world, and is as handsome as he is skilled at reading the best line through the rapids. The swirling water is the color of cement slurry, loaded up with finely ground silt, the residue of mountains, and freed once again to become the building blocks of continents.

The Nenana River offers Class II rapids, meaning you will get splashes of icy water now and again, but are highly unlikely to go swimming on the too-short 75-minute sojourn. Under a clean pure sky we paddle and then laze down the river, glassy calm between rapids. A lively breeze perks up across the river, sharpens my skin with a chill, even as the rising sun glints through a break in the canyon wall. Doug points out an eagle nest high above, just as a rogue wave slaps our faces, creating instant smiles and laughs. Another summer morning unfolds in Alaska, and still 11 hours of sunlight beckons to explore.

Wrangell-St. Elias National Park

© Kerrick james.

My final destination on this Alaskan sojourn is Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. Encompassing 20,000 square miles, this is the largest U.S. national park, with an area equaling six Yellowstones! Nine of the 16 highest U.S. peaks are here to climb, fly around, or merely marvel at from afar on a clear day.

A fair day’s drive brings me from Anchorage, along the Glenn and Richardson Highways, to a paved turnoff leading east to the tiny town of Chitina, and then along 61 miles of good gravel road dead-ending near the even tinier town of McCarthy. Though I have a tent for backup, I find a cabin called “Moose in the Spruce,” 75 yards off the dirt road. It rents for $50/night and includes bunk beds that could sleep four, light breakfast fixings, a propane stove, and a strong door to keep out curious bears.

The next morning I wake to bright blue clearing skies and drive the few remaining miles to the end of the road. Here is a permanently parked school bus, and a day parking lot run by a friendly woman who lives here all summer with her family. After chatting and paying a few dollars, I cross on a foot bridge over the boulder-choked Kennicott River. A meandering lane leads from the river into McCarthy, which resembles a stage set for a Western you think you surely saw, but can’t recollect the name. False fronts line the historic structures on either side of a dirt main street lined with horses, ATVs, mountain bikes, dogs and backpacks awaiting their owners’ return.

As I amble from building to building, looking in windows, hearing the history of an old inn with a checkered past, I’m enticed to come closer to the peaks that ripple the skyline north of town, so I buy a roundtrip van ticket for 10 bucks to the “ghost” town of Kennicott.

Here a fortune in copper was wrested from the side of a mountain, overlooking a great glacier complex, far away from a world that needed the red metal. From 1911 to 1938 men mined, raised families, drank, died and when the copper was gone, they left behind massive wooden works to weather through epic winters, monuments to man’s desire for electricity and the life it made possible. The NPS is slowly, painstakingly rebuilding and preserving these striking structures.

Just beyond Kennicott is a trail to the Root Glacier. In late morning I meet with Liz, a gifted mountain climber and acerbic guide who is leading me and one other client on a five-hour exploration of the Root Glacier. A couple of easy miles brings us to the glacier’s margin. Here we strap crampons onto our boots, learn to walk without tripping, and set off up the ice.

I came to see the shocking blue of the meltwater pools, resembling deepest Brazilian aquamarines set in the white platinum of centuries-old ice. Everywhere we glimpse these glacial gems, existing in their ephemeral grandeur. Channels riddle the glacier, mini canyons appearing full of runoff, and while some we can hop over, others we must backtrack from, and find another route. Eventually we’ve gone as far as time will allow, and linger over a nearly 180-degree view of toothy peaks, sinuous glaciers, and 16,390-foot Mt. Blackburn.

Other peaks without name recede into a distance and scale I cannot fathom, so I shoot a few more frames, rub my eyes, and begin to dream of another trip, another journey north, to an Alaska yet unseen.?

About the author

Kerrick James earned his Bachelor of Fine Arts in Photography from Arizona State University in 1982. He has photographed the lands and cities of the American West, Mexico, and the Pacific Rim for more than 25 years, shooting both adventure and destination travel features. His work has appeared on more than 200 book and magazine covers and in major features for Arizona Highways, Alaska Airlines Magazine, National Geographic Adventure, Voyageur, Conde Nast Traveler, Outdoor Photographer, Sky, Sunset and Virtuoso Life.

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