Our Alaskan Paddle by Cath and Sue

If you want special treatment bring TimTams.”    

    We’d been planning this trip for 18 months. If the man wanted TimTams, that’s what he was going to get — two cartons from Campbell's Cash and Carry. The box was on my shoulder when we walked through the door of Baidarka Boats in Sitka, Alaska.

    “You must be Cath and Sue. Those aren’t all TimTams!”     After months of failing to get our own kayaks reliably freighted over, we were using Eric for boats and a bit of local knowledge.

    Sitka is a major regional centre at the top of the Inland Passage that runs up from Seattle along the Alaskan Panhandle. Like nearly all Alaskan coastal towns, the only way in is by air or sea. It’s not so big — maybe 10,000 permanent residents living off fishing, tourism and infrastructure. There used to be some logging but most of that closed down after the salmon fisheries were effected.

    The main feature of the area is the Tongass National Forest, millions of acres of Yellow and Red Cedar, Sitka Spruce and Western Hemlock which good old Texan George wants to open up to cutting again.

    Our plan was a twelve day trip from Sitka, north to Cross Sound then up to Dixon Harbour for a bit of a sticky at the glaciers. Turned out Eric had never been there. Most Sitka paddlers, both locals and tourist, went south among the islands of the inland Passage.     Not me — I wanted glaciers and isolation. Sue just wanted an easy paddle.     Eric drove us along the waterfront to see the kayaks. Two Eddyline Wind Dancers — 17 ft, broad, beamy and a two person lift even when empty. They would take a lot of gear and be sturdy enough to survive the gravel and rocks. The hatches were big with a good secure locking system. The only drawback, apart from the weight, was the steering. There was a rail along the side of the cockpit with sliding pedals. I’ve used it before and i don’t like. We both much prefer a fixed foot brace. The ability to use your legs aggressively and wedge yourself more tightly into the boat, makes every stroke stronger and more efficient.     But really, who cares! We’re in Alaska! It’s raining — it always does. We’d chosen the end of June, beginning of July because that’s when it rains the least but that doesn’t mean no rain at all. It’s not a Sydney downpour just a steady wet drizzle.

    There’s another shock when we do the shopping. All food in Alaska is freighted up from the south which makes it expensive. Accommodation is pretty much the same as in the Lower Forty Eight and the hire car is cheaper than expected when Frank (Avis at the airport) finds out where we’re going.    Actually, everyone seems pretty amazed when they find out where we’re going. We register our float plan with the Fire Hall and pick up a free VHF radio with extra batteries. The fire guy looks at our destination and says, “Where’s that?” Seems we know more about the place than they do.     That night we sit on the hotel floor and do the checklist again — the stuff for my boat on one side, food in the middle and Sue’s stuff over there. Food is all broken down into days and meals, snacks and emergency rations. My plan is to stow it in the boats chronologically so we’re not constantly packing and unpacking.

    We’ve got all the charts for the area plus topo's for geographical features. Camping sites and distances were all worked out back in Sydney based on what we coverage on and day’s expedition paddle in our own boats. I’ve tacked on three spare days for sitting out bad weather or exploring. Fresh water is abundant and you’re allowed to light fires and camp anywhere in Tongass. When it rains this much bush fires aren’t a worry. The real trick is getting a fire started.     Eric is in a benign and somewhat envious mood when he picks us and the gear up in the morning.

    We had planned to leave from a small gravel beach in Sitka but he drives up to Starrigavan Bay which cuts about 20ks off the distance and alters our route slightly. Instead of going via Hayward Strait and Krestoff Sound to Sukoi Inlet, we will go where the big boats go — Olga Strait to Whitestone Narrows then up Neva Strait to the southern end of Salisbury Sound. This puts us one day ahead of schedule. Great!

    Eric looks at the gear lying on the gravel. We’ve been through the safety list with him a few times. He doesn’t know a thing about us and we’re taking his boats somewhere he’s never been in country that’s as isolated as it gets.

    “Got any duct tape?”

    “Yep.”

    "Got tools?”

    “Yep.”

    “See ya then.”

    “Yep.”

    The tide is with us, as planned, and we make good time. The hills are high and green with spruce and hemlock right down to the water. There are islands everywhere and Bald Headed Eagles, endangered down south, flop around like so many buzzards. Not much water traffic — we meet a huge ocean going tug pulling six giant barges laden with shipping containers four layers high. This is Alaska’s Maritime Highway and these barges move nearly everything. They steam from the Panhandle right out to Kodiak Island and the Aleutians.

    Coming out of Olga Strait we pick up a westerly blowing out of Krestoff Sound. Sue, who sets the pace, digs in and starts to grunt against it. There’s only about 1k to cross but it’s the first day and she’s tense. She starts yelling but the wind blows away whatever she’s saying. I don’t pay a lot of attention until she begins to swing across my bow in a big circle.     Where the heck is she going?

    “Rudder” is about all I can hear and she doesn’t look happy. Her circle is bringing her back behind me. After a few rude words back and forth I pull alongside and, yep, her rudder is jammed hard over to starboard. Won’t come up and won’t straighten out. Towing her over to a beach behind Neva Point and out of the chop takes some effort.

    Used to a fixed foot brace, she’s been pushing so hard against her pedals that one of them has come right off the end of the rail. She’s only five foot three — the rails are longer than her legs. Fifteen minutes of fiddling with The Tool, a hot drink and we’re back on the water, the grunter suitably chastened.

    We spend the first night camped beside a clear stream winding through a water meadow, Neva Strait behind us. It’s raining but who cares? We’ve got good gear, we’re warm dry and paddling in Alaska. The last thing we see before calling it a day is a big cruise going south into the strait. Taking tourists to Sitka, it’s the last big boat we see.

    In the morning the tides out and our friendly creek of the day before requires a few white water skills before we get back out onto Salisbury Sound. Bugger me, it’s raining, who would have thought it!     Within half an hour my new super duper waterproof gloves are soaked and my hands are freezing. I’d forgotten all about them the day before, and had not been cold, so I chuck them in the cockpit and that’s where they stay.

    Out on the sound we meet our first Alaskan swell rolling in from the North Pacific. It feels good. This is our first stretch of open water and for me, one of the main reasons to come. Sue just wants and easy paddle.

    The rain eases and we make good time. I keep an eye out for the tidal race out of Kakul Narrows, which we have to pass, but it has no discernible effect and Point Leo looms out of the low cloud sooner than I expected.     Behind it is the shelter of Klokachef Island and Leo Anchorage. There is a beautiful campsite on the isthmus on the northern shore of the bay. We pull the boats up the gravel on one side and launch from a sheltered cove on the other. We’ve only been paddling for three hours but Sue decides we’re staying. Tomorrow we do Khaz Peninsula which is all open water and one of the trickiest parts of the route. I’d prefer to capitalise on our progress and get a bit further along while the good weather holds but sometimes it isn’t worth arguing. It’s a beautiful spot and there’s plenty of firewood.

    The ocean shore of Tongass National Forest are covered in driftwood logs. Giant barrels of cedar and spruce just lying there, thrown up all over the place. Some are natural windfalls and some are escapees from old logging. When times are tough, folks will winch them off with barges and float them to the nearest mill but there aren’t many mills operating these days and times are okay. Trying not to think of what I pay for imported cedar in Sydney I chop a good pile of kindling and get
a decent fire going.

    In the afternoon Sue gets cold. She is wearing a MacPac Alpine shell with an Icebreaker Merino tee and thermals but she has been sitting reading with her mukluks off and wet (supposedly waterproof ) socks. Into the tent for a sleeping bag and a cuddle and she’s fine again in half an hour.     I manage not to say that she’d be warmer if we’d kept paddling.

    Despite the rain, so far it hasn’t been that cold — about 10 -15C and not much wind. I’m okay in bare feet, shorts and a woolly tee, but being a Kiwi, that probably doesn’t count. The water temperature is okay for a very quick wash. Paddling, I’m wearing a Farmer John wet suit over Icebreaker tee, paddling jacket, Kokatat life jacket and mukluks we bought from Eric. Sue has a layer of thermals and two tees but just the thought of that makes me sweat. The mukluks are the best cold place boots ever — knee high neoprene lined with a warm synthetic that keeps your feet dry and a hard rubber sole that is great for walking but not cumbersome in the boat. Sue doesn’t get cold again and we’re toasty for the rest of the trip.

    Next day the weather is not so good.

    The VHF says 15-20 knots from the Nth West and a rising swell. Ninety percent chance of rain. But we get off early and there are plenty of bombies and kelp beds to shelter behind if we have to. The wind is coming in on the port bow but the swell’s not too bad and the chop hasn’t kicked up yet.     We make Point Slocum which is the halfway mark. The chop is now definitely up but the wind is no worse. Another two hours or so and we should make the shelter of Piehle Passage — narrow and far too rocky for big boats but perfect for a couple of kayaks. Paddling in my lee, Sue starts to slow down so we slip behind some rocks and raft up for hot chocolate and sugar. The Wind Dancers are handling the conditions well but they’re slow.

    As we get further along the peninsula the wind gets stronger. I start doing the talking thing to keep Sue focused. When conditions are easy she chats the whole time, flat out, never stops, drives me crazy. But give the girl a bit of weather and she goes dead silent and I start talking, mainly to keep our spirits up and things enjoyable. There’s nothing worse than a long, wet, slog against the wind with only your own anxiety for entertainment.

    By the time we make Piehle Passage we’re both relieved. The winds dies and the rain stops. Now we just have to clear Khaz Head. The wildlife comes out with the sun. Sea otters pop up to take a look at us then duck back down again. The acres of floating kelp are home to otters and seals.

    As we come out of the passage and head for the islands that guard the entrance to Slocum Arm, a squall kicks up. We’ve turned east to clear the head and now the wind is on the stern quarter. I’m watching the surface of the water with my head turned into the wind but I still don’t see it coming. There’s no darkening of the water, no extra spray, nothing. This time Sue is on the seaward side and it hits her first. It’s a wind so sharp and hard that all we can do is brace and make ourselves as small as possible, Eyes glued to Sue and gut screaming shelter, I’m trying to work through the options. Just as I realise that there aren’t any, it’s gone, as suddenly and mysteriously as it hit.

    “Hey! What was that!”

    We argue the options for a few minutes then congratulate ourselves on staying upright. Back in Sitka we ask Eric about it but he has no idea. Anyway, we survived that so it’s on to the islands to choose a campsite. We had agreed to let Eric know when we cleared Khaz Head so Sue lies on the beach with the sat phone and waits for a satellite to pass over while I make camp. It takes her about four chapters of the manual to work out which the codes to use for a local call so she gets the shits and rings Sydney.

    Bob and Clare wake up and agree to ring Sitka and pass the message on. We later discover that it gets a little garbled in the retelling but Eric knows we’re safe. The next few days should be straight forward, however, because we stopped at Leo Anchorage and the boats are slower than expected I'm concerned about the schedule. Yes, we do have extra time up our sleeve but I’d rather keep it there than use it up this early in the trip.

    The camping in Tongass is wonderful. The ground is soft and mossy, there’s plenty of fresh water and firewood, no snakes, and so far, no bears. The local wisdom says to hang all your food up in a tree high enough so a bear can’t reach it. Your average brown bear, or Grizzly, can grow well over six ft tall and is plenty strong enough to pull over a small tree. I’m five six and well past my tree climbing prime so we keep the food in the boats with the hatches sealed and the tent well up the shore. Besides I don’t want to upset my chronological packing system. In the shopping frenzy before we left, we’d included a couple of new Thermarests, the old ones being well past it. It takes a couple of nights for the girl to realise that it’s the moss giving her a great night’s sleep and not modern technology.

    Next day — no rain. We wander around in the islands for a while before finding a way out through the kelp and around the seaward side. Sue digs her paddle in. “No. I don’t want to go that way.”

    “Why not? It’s fine. There’s hardly any swell. No wind.” “I don’t want to. It makes me anxious.” “But it’s nowhere near as bad as yesterday and you got through that fine.”

    No matter what I say she ain’t going back out to sea so we back track for about forty minutes and come out between Slocum Arm and Khaz Bay. There’s smooth water and a gentle tail wind. At the entrance to Smooth Passage (runs parallel to Rough Passage) we look back and see the route she refused. A couple of hundred metres and we would have been clear of the islands. She has the grace to look embarrassed.

    It’s blissful. Sue’s up front and we’re floating along when I hear something behind me. Look around — nothing there. Paddle on. Hear it again. Still nothing there. This time I wait — looking behind you isn’t that easy when you’re over forty five and in the grip of arthritis. A humpback whale comes up to the surface, blows and goes down again about thirty feet from my boat.

    “Honey, honey, a whale, there's a whale!”

    I’m trying to shout and whisper at the same time. For the next half hour the whale swims around us, sometimes close, sometimes not. That day is one of the best. We stay in sheltered waters with whales, sea otters, salmon jumping, eagles, funny looking ducks and minks scampering on the shoreline. No boats, no humans. Best of all, it doesn’t rain until we’ve set up camp. Finally understanding the mysteries of the sat phone codes, Sue gets her messages. Things are fine, no catastrophes at home, stop worrying.

    We stay in sheltered waters for another day before coming out on to the Gulf of Alaska at Dry Pass on the north edge of Hill Island. There’s an onshore wind and some surf and rocks to get through but no dramas. It starts to rain and squall again as we cross Little bay and head for he islands south of Bertha Bay. I want to stay clear of these islands. Visibility is poor with the deteriorating conditions and the only passage behind them is small and tricky. This time it’s grey whales sounding around us. They keep Sue’s mind off the squalls. The water is cutting up and I spend a lot of time checking the chart on my deck. If I get it right we’ll be in the shelter of Bertha Bay reasonably soon. Get it wrong and we’ll have another couple of miles to go in worsening weather.

    I get it right. We slip between two big outcrops with surf crashing on them and slide on to flat water. Another mile and we can see the Forest Service cabin at White Sulphur Springs. There’s a big skiff (Alaskan for tinny) with a bloke in orange wet weather gear coiling up his lines. He and his partner have spent the weekend soaking in the spring, it’s Sunday arvo so they’re off back to Haines, a good 3 - 4 hour trip in a fast boat. The place is ours. Tides out so we schlep up over a good 100 ms of slippery wet boulders with immediate essentials and leave the boats tied. In a couple of hours they should have floated right to the front door.

    White Sulphur Springs is just what it sounds like — a natural hot spring which feeds into the cold waters of Bertha Bay. Yep, that's right — hot water. The bath house is about 15 ft square and the front wall slides back completely so tired paddlers can lie in the steam and which the whales play, while their kayaks float towards them. If that gets too boring you can turn around and read the names and dates carved into the soft cedar walls from top to bottom. There isn’t an inch that’s not covered expect for the sign asking you not to do it. We find one that appears to be by two women so we drink them a toast in Malibu and float some more.

    In the cabin next to the bath house we stoke up the wood stove, roll the bags out on the bunks and hang pretty much everything up to dry. What a place. The shoreline is rugged with giant boulders and piles of driftwood logs pushed up by the storms. There are small lakes beside the cabin covered in bright yellow Alaskan waterlillies and the intense green of musk cabbage.     The moss under the trees is heaven to walk on. The rain stops and the sun comes out.

    I try to get a forecast on the VHF but we’re in a dead spot. The girl is making noises about spending two nights here. I’m not keen. If the weather stays good we need to keep going. We’re slower than I’d like and we’re only on day five. The water sure is warm though. A couple more Malibus and I give in. Okay, one more day here and then on to Yakobi Island which I expect to be one of the highlights of the trip. Except the glaciers, of course, but we don’t see them until day ten.

    The morning is perfect. Blue sky, warm sun and not a breath to disturb it. “It’s a great day for a paddle, honey.” “No. You agreed and I need some rest.”

    So we go for a walk on a Forest Service trail out through the muskeg to Sea Level Slough and Mirror Harbour. The trail is made of thick slippery planks laid haphazardly across the mud in the down bits and rough rocky steps in the up bits. The slough is pretty, the harbour is pretty and we head back to the cabin. It’s not so far — maybe a mile.

        Sue’s feeling good so she’s talking. I’m up front just close enough to hear if she says something important but far enough away to go with my own thoughts. We come down some wooden steps and onto a long plank tilted to one side in the mud. There’s a thump and the talking stops.“You okay, honey?”

    She’s on her butt and quiet. As I help her up she moans a bit. “I fell back on my wrist.” Her right hand is definitely at an odd angle.

    “You’ve broken it, haven’t you?” “Yes.”

    She should know, she’s a doctor.

    “Well, at least you haven’t broken your leg. You can still walk back to the cabin.”

    It’s a slow trip and by the time we get there she’s an odd shade of green. Hasn’t said much either. Sitting her down in the sun, I get the medicine kit out and put the kettle on. While she rummages through her pill collection with one hand, I cut a smooth piece of Yellow Cedar from the fire wood pile for a splint. By the time the water has boiled, the wrist is bandaged and she’s wrapped in a sleeping bag.     She takes a selection of pills with hot chocolate and I get the sat phone and the float plan. The local codes are now written inside the back cover of the manual and the float plan has the numbers I need. After checking she’ll be okay for a bit I run out to the clear point about 1k west of the cabin. Turn the phone on — no signal. Fiddle with the VHF — nothing. Back to the phone. Whoopee, there must be a satellite up there, it’s working. Dialling up Sitka Air, I’m through in seconds.

    “Uumm, hi. My name’s Cath Phillips and my partner and I are here on a kayaking trip. We’re at White Sulphur Springs and she has just slipped and broken her arm.”

    I don’t want to get anybody too excited or anything so, “It’s okay, she’s warm and we’ve got plenty of food but, uumm... She can’t really paddle. It’s not life or death but it would be good if we could get her out of here and ... maybe... a hospital?”

    “Where are you?” I explain where White Sulphur Springs is. “Okay. We’ll come getcha.”

    “Ah.... when should I expect you?” Thinking a few hours, tomorrow maybe. About forty five minutes.” Shit!

    By the time I get back to the cabin I am well and truly puffed. I can paddle as long as you want me to but running is not my thing.

    “We’ve gotta pack. They’re gonna be here in half an hour.” I have no idea what sort of plane is coming and what it will carry but we better be prepared. The kayaks are up on the grass and the damn tide is out again. I drag those damn things down across those boulders so fast I nearly break a leg.

    “Sorry about the gel coat, Eric, sorry about the gel coat.” Bouncing and bumping I get those two heavy boats down there in seconds, a bow in each hand. Back for the gear. Up and down. Up and down again — then again... It’s the fastest and roughest stow in history. Just as I’m jamming the last of the food in there’s the roar of a small plane.

    It circles then disappears behind the trees. “That’s odd. Maybe it’s checking something out.” When I get back to girl and the cabin she’s a tad groggy from the medication but determined to give me the full diagnosis.“I think what I’ve done is displaced my radius and fractured it. It will need surgery. Sitka probably doesn’t have an orthopaedic surgeon so I may have to go to Anchorage but it will need to be operated on soon otherwise the head of the radius will have ischaemia or reduced blood supply. Then the fracture won’t heal properly and we’ll be broke because I won’t be able to practice anymore. Or they could operate and I could die under the anaesthetic.”

    “Yeah? Well it probably won’t get that bad. Now here’s your wallet and your passport. You’ve got some cash and your cards.” At this point we look up to see a bloke amble casually out of the bush. For a moment I wonder who the hell he is then he says, “I can only take one of you. I had to land on the slough and there isn’t much room to take off.”

    Right. I give him Eric’s number and ask him to call ahead so someone can meet the plane and get the girl to hospital. He agrees and says that they’ll probably send a boat up for me in a few days. Cool. She’s okay to walk and doesn’t think there’s any reason for me to come too so I watch the pair of them disappear back into the trees. Then I sit on the stoop and see that teeny tiny plane fade away to the south.

    It has been less than two hours since she fell.     Now what? May as well empty the boats, I guess. This time I take it easy and about an hour later all the gear is back in the cabin and the boats are back on the grass. Little Alaskan bush squirrels chatter at me and run in and out the open door as I polish off the rest of the Malibu and get a good buzz on. I could stay here for a few days, no worries. Take some more pics, have a few paddles, soak in the spring.

    Could be worse. Hell, it’s not even raining. For one wild moment I even entertain the thought of going on alone.

    Figuring that’s it’s probably time to call Eric and find out how she is, I wander out to the point again and ring the kayak shop. Eric isn’t there. The woman who answers the phone tells me he’s in a plane and on his way to pick me up. He should be there in about twenty minutes.

    Just Great!!

    Back to those damn boats and this time the tide is out 120 metres instead of just 100. Not only that but the Malibu I’ve got on board isn’t helping. So much for chilling out. This time the plane is larger and it lands on the bay in front of the cabin.

    “Hey Eric. You didn’t need to come. I’m okay.”

    It goes like this. As soon as she lands, Sue flops out of the plane and yells at Eric, “Get Cath!” He gets her into the ute and off to the hospital. As soon as she walks in the automatic doors of the Sitka Community Hospital she yells, “Get Cath!” Eric decides to do as he’s told, drives back to airport, grabs another pilot and here he is. (Sue denies the whole thing.)

    This is a bigger plane but it can’t take the boats. Sweating from running up and down like a looney, I’m only wearing shorts and a tee so I stand thigh deep in the water, the barnacles and the weed holding the plane into the wind while Eric and the pilot take all the gear out of the kayaks and shove it behind the back seat. Deciding he wants to hide the boats, Eric asks me to give him a hand to get them back up the shore.

    “No worries, mate.”

    The pilot taxis around on the bay as we drag the boats right up past the cabin and hide them in the brush behind the outhouse. I get the good seat next to the pilot and in forty minutes we fly back over the coastline that took us five days to paddle. In Sitka it starts to rain.

    After we unload, Eric gives the pilot a packet of TimTams and I agree to come back tomorrow and pay the bill.

    At the hospital the first person to see us says, “You must be the other kayaker.” I catch my reflection in the glass doors. Bare feet, legs scratched and bleeding from the rocks, shorts soaked and muddy, hair on end, face red and chapped. Hell, how did she know?

    Sue gets to theatre before gangrene sets in. They put a pin in her arm and give her a high tech bright blue cast. Picking her up from the hospital about nine that night, I drive back to the motel in a new hire car. (Frank again, another discount.) The floor of our room is covered in wet gear and bags of food. She gets into the bed, slow and dozy from the drugs and pain. I snuggle under the blankets beside her.

    “Happy birthday, honey.”

    Today she was fifty.

Cath Phillips and Sue Brumby are enthusiastic paddlers to say the least. When Cath isn't moving earth with her front end loader, creating the most exquisite quilts you have ever seen or cooking up fantastic meals for her friends she can be found paddling or dreaming of places to go paddling all over this wonderful world and writes a great story, to boot. Sue Brumby, her partner, spends her non-paddling days as a doctor making sure women get the health care they need.