Happy Weather Gods

I feel like I only blog about sailing when we’ve had a distressing sail- when the weather wins- when it’s dramatic, trying, wet and cold. Perhaps you are starting to think we never have a peaceful sail, the wind is never our ally, we never come home rested, warm, and dry. But you would be wrong (though only a little bit...). Sometimes we do have wonderful sailing trips, and last week proves it. I will now share with you not one, or two, but THREE wonderful sailing adventures. All in one week!

Number One:

We were stowing the boat in preparation for our departure on Tuesday afternoon with rain pelting the cabin top, loud enough to make us raise our voices. A bright flash just south of us was followed by a deep shuddering rumble. More than unusual out here, lightening is a perplexing event to Seattlites.

Sorry, couldn’t resist … I know, I promised- no dramatic sailing stories. (but it really happened!)

But by the time we untied the lines at 3, that storm cell had moved on and there was a small break in the clouds. We could see the next system sliding up the sound, and made a run for it. Our plan was simply to cross the sound, a 7-mile trip, and tie up at Kingston for the night. Graeme and Janna and the kids were sailing next to us on Pegasus, Janna’s parents’ Freedom 37.

For the first time in too many sails, the wind was behind us. It was strong, gale-force even, but we weren’t bashing into it. Just past the breakwaters, we hoisted the sails and cut the engine. The boat powered up and plunged through the water, racing the 5’ crashers across the sound, graceful and compelling. We sat back and drove, watching Halcyon in her element.

In a minute, we were sliding into the marina, sails flaked, and still dry. The first raindrops blemished the deck just as we tied the last line to the dock.

Number Two:

Wednesday’s forecast was for even more wind, and seemed accurate from the dock. We pushed off around noon (when the tide was favorable) and snuck out just before the front of another storm. The destination was Port Townsend, 30 or so miles away.

Sails up, engine off. Once again Halcyon did her job, the wind pulling her powerfully, the waves providing an extra lift. Riding down one wave, we hit 11 knots, 3 knots faster than our hull speed. It was invigorating, but exhausting. The wind was flukey- strong gusts hit us from varying directions, making it hard to predict and even harder to steer.

We must have worn out the wind, because by the afternoon it had diminished, the waves settled and the air relaxed. We fired up the engine and motor-sailed for a while, until we heard that gut-wrenching sound-- ka-CHUNK. The engine off again, John went below to check it out.

We’ve had some issues losing bolts off our shaft coupler for a while now- and apparently the problem was getting worse. All three bolts sheered and two of them jammed themselves deep in the coupler. (that means we have no steerage) I kept the boat controlled and moving slowly under sail while John managed a single replacement bolt. We sailed right up to the breakwater, dropped the sails, turned the engine back on, and held our breath. The bolt held, and we were able to limp up to the dock. (Hey, I promised happy sailing stories, not happy motoring stories...)

Well, that’s why we have a sailboat.

On Friday, John and Graeme took the coupler apart, found the underlying problem, and fixed her right up. 

Number Three:

We left early Sunday morning, this time with the Esareys on board with us, our minds at ease with our newly functioning shaft connection.

But it’s a sailboat, afterall.

So right out of the marina, the main went up. As we waited for the wind to fill in, we munched on French toast and talked about sails. It was time for a serious sail inspection.

After breakfast, we hoisted our asymmetrical spinnaker, first with a pole, then without, then—well, I’ll spare you the nautical details. We spent the whole day hoisting sails, jibing back and forth, trying different lines, dropping them, hoisting them again and doing lots of figurin’. Graeme was a huge help, as always, and it was fun to see all those sails.

The wind was light, but began to build in the afternoon, once again behind us (three in a row? this never happens). Our most recent hoist was our enormous colorful symmetrical spinnaker. It’s a huge compelling kite that pulls the boat along like a toy. It filled, and we took off. We made a dramatic re-entrance into Seattle, flying along Golden Gardens beach going 9 knots under a great big rainbow of a kite. How exhilarating.

 And of course I can’t neglect the days between sails number two and three— four days full of smoked turkeys, wine tasting, beach walks, card games, marathon cooking, football watching, fresh caught crabs, and endless silliness. Thank you, Cawrses, for hosting us with such style! 

Habits, Chapters, and Phones

I am a creature of habit. Many daily tasks in my life I do the same way today than I did when I was 12. My childhood teddy bear still sleeps on my pillow with me. I always take showers in the same order. I put my bag in the same place when I get home, every time. I have always been happy when things stay the same- same Christmas traditions, same dinner seating arrangements, same toothbrush location, same cell phone number.

John is the opposite. It is not that he doesn’t like routine, it’s that he’s diametrically opposed to it. He decided he wanted to start drinking coffee in the morning. On the 4^th morning, he didn’t make coffee—he was sick of the routine. He prefers it when things stay fluid and variable- he moves icons around on his desktop, has 3 different sticks of deodorant in various locations in the boat and truck, and never makes a meal the same way twice.

I do not understand John’s opposition to routine, and he certainly does not understand my infatuation with it. But we respect that characteristc in each other, and it keeps us both balanced. I encourage him to have enough routine to remember important things- like picking up his keys and cell phone before walking out the door, and he helps me break my attachment to absurdly insignificant material things (like my travel shampoo bottle, which I’ve used since high school, that “we” lost)

I used to dread the closing of a chapter – the end of a summer spent doing the same thing almost every day; moving out of a dorm room, apartment, or house; even changing my email address made me nostalgic. This may surprise you, knowing my lifestyle now. I’ve come a long way.

Last week I closed a chapter. To most, the chapter would never have been so long. To many, the event would have gone unnoticed. To a few, it would bring a moment of hesitation, a hint of sadness, an occasion of commemoration. But to persist through that moment- to turn your sights forward, into what is to come, to celebrate the new chapter, the exciting opportunities as yet unrealized. That is what I have learned to do.

I got a new phone number. Yes, you’ll say- you’ve had 6 numbers in the last 2 years, we can’t keep up! I know, but through all of that, I still had my number. The one I was issued with my first cell phone at age 15, the phone that only stored 20 contacts, had no caller id, and was the size of my face. The number that has been associated with my identity through high school, through college, past Ghana, into the move to Seattle, even in Canada it is the number I used most often.

It’s important, though, to close chapters, to allow room for new ones to open. Yes, I paused. Yes, my heart twinged, just a bit. But I did it. And there were no tears or tantrums or anything. This is how John balances me.

And in the vein of changed contact information, I also have a new last name, email address, mailing address, and physical address. I believe now we’re talking less about chapters and more about whole books…

Who knows what kind of wack-o’s have access to this blog, so I’m not going to post all that private information here, ‘cause I’m not that interested in stalkers these days. But if you want that information, send a comment or email and if I like you enough, I’ll tell ya how to reach me :-) 

And if you're really lucky, I'll give you John's new number too.  

A New Perspective

A guest blog, from my Dad:

       Becca's Mom (Laura Lee) and I had a splendid visit with Becca and John for two weeks where we got to observe the two of them together with Chaco in their natural habitat.
        The back story is that Becca and John finished their summer photojournalism expedition with renowned conservationist, Mike Fay, in late September. In this expedition, they had the incredible opportunity to capture 11 terra-bytes (that is a lot of bytes) of high resolution footage of the fragile salmon spawning ecosystem of the far Pacific Northwest. They filmed bears, carribou, sheep, mosquitos, and other indigenous species doing what they do when no one is looking.

       As they were finishing up their assignment, LL and I were hanging out with friends in Napa, California, which is just around the corner from Ketchikan, Alaska, so we went to join them. We signed on as crew for a portion of Halcyon's 800+ mile southerly transit to Portland, or Seattle, or really anyplace that is not Alaska. Summer has a habit of turning directly into winter in this part of the world and early October is predictably a time of unrelenting storm systems. Most cruisers who are going to leave for the winter had already left when we arrived. We were reminded of this fact when incredulous friends of theirs said: "What? You are still here??".
        So we sailed with them for 370 miles down coast to their old stomping grounds in Bella Bella, BC. Here, we disembarked and departed for Richmond just as a serious series of storms (65 mph winds, whew!) pinned them to the dock for over a week.
        On our journey down the coast, we got a taste of rough weather on the front and the back end, but truly in between the weather could not have been more hospitable. Winds blew from every direction, but rarely at the same time. We had sun, which was a bit disorienting to John, I think. Temperatures were in the 30s at night as we were cozy around the cabin heater, and reached the high 50s a few times. John went barefoot on the boat no matter how raw the conditions; yet he gets pneumonia in Mexico where the temperature never dropped below 70. Go figure.
        It is clear Becca and John's (and Chaco's) natural habitat is unspoiled coastal waters. They are accomplished racing and cruising sailors that have easily taken to the live aboard lifestyle. Couple this with the aptitude and intense interest in wilderness photography and conservation and you have a logical self selection of coastal wilderness for their home for the past 15 months.

        We got a glimpse into this world on our visit.
        The shoreline from Ketchikan south on one of the inside passages or outside in the Pacific is devoid of development, for now. The many salmon streams are largely unaffected by industrial waste or over zealous logging, for now. Accordingly, the wildlife and marine life is abundant, for now.

     
         On our transit, we witnessed 30+ humpbacks, a huge sea lion herd, seals, porpoise, dolphins surfing our bow, at least 100 eagles (I finally just stopped looking up), and proximate evidence of grizzlies. We looked for coastal wolves for two solid weeks and heard them baying a few times, but it was disappointing that we never saw them. Then, five minutes from wheels up to Richmond four of them pranced across the tarmac at the Bella Bella airport. What we did not see was any other people or boats in any of our anchorages and only rarely did we see any boats while underway. That is mostly a tribute to the lateness of the season as these waters would ordinarily be well traveled.
     
We caught, and ate, Dungeness crabs, northwest clams, rockfish, halibut, perch, and a huge lingcod while throwing back three times what we kept. We caught, and did not eat, sea cucumbers, huge red jelly fish with 10 foot tentacles, spiny crabs and 16 leg starfish. We drank a case of wine that we brought with us from Napa, so I may be confusing what we ate and what we didn't eat.
        Becca and John were the co-captains and Laura Lee and I were clearly the crew. They worked so well as a team, even in stressful conditions, and were always respectful of each other's talents and judgment. I can't express how gratifying it feels to teach a daughter to sail at age 5 and 20+ years later see how much she has learned.
        Halcyon is their home and they were gracious hosts.
        We hope they will have us back sometime.

"Free" Power

We have been talking about adding solar panels to our boat since before we owned one. The idea of harnessing the wind for transportation and sun for power is as romantic to us as red roses and long walks on the beach.

The time was right when we moved to Alaska, anticipating leaving Halcyon on anchor by herself for a few months with no power hookup. Having worked with solar power at PacificWILD, we already had an idea what we wanted and a relationship with a distributor. So, using some of our (oh-so-generous) wedding gifts, we made a great big order with Arizona Wind and Sun and then eagerly waited for the enormous boxes to arrive.

Technicalities:

~We purchased two Kyocera 140 watt panels (these should produce more power than we should need for our system…unless we live where the sun always hides…)

~And a Tristar MPPT 45 amp solar controller (MPPT makes it the most efficient solar controller there is. If you’re gonna do it, do it right, right?)

~We also got a small 10 watt panel and solar controller to keep our start battery topped up.

~An apparently endless spool of cable and a handful of fuses, and we were set.

We mounted the solar controller next to our Magnum charger/inverter, wired and fused the battery connection and the panel connection, and ran the cables into the cockpit as discreetly as possible. We wired the two main panels in series (and the cute little start battery panel on its own), and flipped the switch. No lightbults exploded and there was no smoke, so we considered it a success. Seeing a charge coming in would have been even better, but of course the sun was buried deep in the clouds.

That was the easy part. What we had been struggling over for months was how to attach the panels to the boat. Without a hard dodger or arch over the stern, there are not many stationary places that are both out of the way and in the sun. With them mounted on the lifelines, the new challenge becomes a mechanism that holds them out when it’s sunny/calm and folds them flat when it is rough.

We threw something together for the summer/trip south, knowing it would not be permanent. The edge of the panel bolted onto a piece of PVC, through which we strung the lifeline. That allowed the panels to hang down the side of the boat.

John then resourcefully used an extendable paint brush holder mounted to the rail to prop the panels out. It works, but it’s a bit unstable (solid lifelines would be much better), and the paintbrush holder is already rusting (not to mention that ever-sought-after hillbilly affect).

[So if anybody has any suggestions (short of building a hard dodger or arch)…I’d love to hear what you have done, what has worked, what hasn’t. ]

Finally, almost three months after installation, we got to see the panels at work- powering our batteries while we sat quietly at anchor. It is, indeed, a wonderfully romantic thought. Now if we could just get the wind to blow the right way….

A Rambling Update

Last time you heard from me, we were standing on a dock on the edge of Ealue Lake in the interior of BC witnessing one of the world’s greatest stage productions.

Boy that was a long time ago.

(Sorry)

Since shortly after that event, we’ve been on the move. It’s harder to blog on the move. We’re still on the move, but we appear to be getting closer…to somewhere.

When the project ended, we drove through the night to Prince Rupert, got on the 5am ferry, arrived in Ketchikan that afternoon, drove 30 minutes outside of Ketchikan, rented a skiff, and motored 45 minutes to a tucked away cove where Halcyon had sat, alone and feeling dejected, for the two months we were away. It was the longest 45 minute skiff ride….

There are only two cabins in this tucked away cove, one rarely used and the other belonging to Mike (who was with us). Likely only a handful of boats came into the bay all summer, so we had nobody looking in on the poor girl. We approached the corner, our necks straining to catch a glimpse of our home, the dozens of horrendous scenarios still flashing across my mind. Sunk to the bottom, demasted, run aground, dragged down the bay, charred remains. An electrical fire - the most likely, it seemed- since we had finished wiring our solar panels literally minutes before we left (stay tuned for that much delayed post).

But ah- there she is. She’s floating, has a mast, no billowing smoke, still just where we left her. A quick scan through the boat confirms everything is fine- musty, damp, cold, but fine.

Jump forward a week of boring old boat work- solar panel tweaks, a deep scrub, and then another one, teak work, oil changes, reorganization, line replacements, etc. And our deckhands- I mean guests- arrive! Mom and dad landed on a blustery rainy cold winter day. We untied the next morning and pointed our bow south- finally.

Our  deckhands stayed with us for two weeks, cruising from Ketchikan to Bella Bella. I’ll save the details for another time (perhaps a post by a guest blogger?)

Knot Again under sail

Once we dumped –er- dropped them off, we got stuck for a few days at the dock in bella bella while two 65-knot storms rolled through. With those behind us and new friends on Knot Again next to us, we untied again and kept her bow pointed south. For a week we had a boat to chat with, race against, photograph, raft up to; and companions to eat with, drink with, play games with, laugh with. Eventually though the tug of the states pulled us on, leaving them to enjoy two weeks to cruise the same grounds we covered in the following two days. 

They gave us some great cruising beta on the area, and eased our anxiety about getting through the two sets of narrows on the backside of Quadra Island (where the current can run 8-12 knots between tides, creating some mean looking rapids. Even at slack water the passage can be stressful). They recommended we stop through Octopus Islands and visit the “driftwood museum”. 

In the guest book on the table, I counted over 200 entries in July and even more in August. Flipping to the end of the book, the last two entries read: September 21, October 8. It was October 23^rd. We are well outside cruising season. And yes- it’s cold, and frequently wet. The days are short and sometimes the wind blows really hard. But it’s also beautiful, the wildlife is plentiful, and we have had every single anchorage to ourselves. So there.

 
We also stopped in Knot Again’s hometown, Heriot Bay, which turned out to be one of our favorite spots on the whole coast. Not only did it provide showers (our first in weeks), laundry (you can imagine), groceries (we had been reduced to canned peas and stale tortillas), a cold beer and a warm fire, but we also ended up with some fantastic friends, a jar of homemade jam, and a new deckhand.

His name is Marty, and he’s on board to Deep Bay (north of Victoria). We met him, enjoyed his company, invited him (and most of the rest of the bar) to come with us, and he showed up with his sleeping bag the next morning. Love the spontaneity. Love new friends.

Our destination is Seattle, where we apparently already have a slip lined up (thanks Sarah Francis...). For the next few months, I will spend most of my time in Portland working with Trip on post production for the expedition we completed this summer. We will get our feet back under us, get haircuts, go for bike rides, relearn how to live in a city, and sort out what happens next in this great adventure of life.

So there, now you’re caught up.

Your regular programming will resume shortly.

An Epochal Performance

We had been grounded all day. The sky was clear but the wind was malicious, obliging our poor float plane to stay tied tightly to the dock. The crew made the most of the day- reviewing footage, filming interviews, organizing data. In the evening, in celebration of Trip’s birthday, we had a camp fire, drank some whiskey, and I made brownies. We were still lounged around the fire at 10 pm, warm and content, when John noticed a strange streak coming from the hilltop and creeping across the sky.

Hypotheses proliferated: it’s the moon’s reflection on water vapor, a very milky milky way,  it’s just a funny shaped cloud, or maybe a UFO! But within moments, a second more defined green streak peered over the hill and all other theories fell away. We were witnessing the legendary Northern Lights.

For some people, the northern lights are as common as fireflies in Virginia. For most people, they are a phenomenon to be savored and cherished. And for a few of us they are an aspiration, a goal to attain. There is something inspirational about witnessing the mystical green lights dancing across the sky, as if the earth is allowing us a brief glimpse into the depth, the complexity, the sensitivity of her soul. It is a display I have sought to witness for many years, waiting patiently for opportunity and serendipity to align.

We stand on the dock, huddled against the wind, eyes trained on the hilltop, mouths wide open. In the time it takes me to blink the colors grow stronger, a new streak appears, the sky lightens. Beside me, John exhales “wow”, his mouth forming the word again and again, his brain involuntarily using the pattern to invent some form of familiarity in the spectrum his eyes assemble. I laugh aloud, a pure sound emanating from my heart and pulsing through my body as I understand that I am realizing one of my life long dreams, and in the most profound way possible: a remote lake on a clear night standing next to my groom.

Trip, ever on task, runs for the camera. In record time, he sets up a time lapse (a camera on a tripod set to take a picture every few seconds, later stitched together into a stunning video), and we stand, toes numb and necks strained, completely captivated by the light show above. The performance lasts a full 30 minutes, an infinite story told in streaks and swirls of green and purple, a truly epochal tale of love and heartbreak, of conflict and resolve, of turmoil and tranquility, of moderation and indulgence, of inequity and balance.

Eventually the sky softens to a grey as the last wisps of green retreat behind the hills. The moon appears brighter as it emerges from a cloud, the stars pop from the recently darkened sky. Instead of seeming inferior in contrast, I feel a stronger admiration and understanding for these nightly ornaments, such essential participants in earth’s infinite story. I go to bed elated, but with just a twinge of sadness; while I had just experienced a truly spectacular and anticipated event, I also acknowledge that I will never again feel the elation of witnessing the northern lights for the first time. John reassures me though- there are plenty more first experiences to have.

Ealue Lake

We have spent the last few weeks on a little sliver of paradise called Ealue Lake. From Ketchikan, it was a 7 hour ferry, 8 hour drive, and 2-hour stop for $995 worth of groceries to get here. There are two sets of cabins on the lake- one belongs to Wade Davis, who has spent every summer here for the last 25 years. The other belongs to David Suzuki, which has generously been opened for our use. Unfortunately, last winter, in one of the dozens of hurricane-force storms, a micro burst hit Suzuki’s property and toppled over 300 trees. The mess immediately around the two cabins has been cleared, but the ½ mile driveway is impassable, even on foot. Of course we felt the need to confirm this by attempting the scramble ourselves.

Being able to drive right up to the cabin would be just to simple, though, wouldn’t it… Instead, we park our overladen van at Wade’s cabin, shuttle camera gear, aviation fuel, generators, and humans into a 10’ tippy boat with an underpowered 5 horsepower engine to put-put across the cove and unload. This, in addition to the lack of cell, satellite connection, and electricity has certainly added ‘excitement’ to this leg of the expedition.

Like a pit crew, with more practice has come more efficiency. We have perfected the process of rigging the plane for a flight, and every time Mike flies we are collecting some of the most unbelievable aerial video of this area. Deep canyons carved by millions of years of raging water, snow-capped peaks set on fire by the setting sun, abrupt ridges speckled with remarkable goats, butting and playing without concern. But it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. We also have footage of clear cuts, unhealable wounds strangling powerless mountains, obscenely large trucks loaded with fuel, concrete, and backhoes barreling up narrow switchbacks, huge concrete structures diverting the flow of an ancient river, undoing thousands of years of river progress, like suddenly forcing an 80 year old to walk only with one foot. 

On the ground, we get up close and personal. Trip and John spent a week on a high plateau in the company of stone sheep, grizzlies, tarmagins, and ground squirrels. I spent a day luring trout to an underwater camera trap. In the evenings we paddle down to the end of the lake and watch for moose tromping through the swamp.

Summer has most certainly come to a close here. The leaves are falling, the hillsides are fire-red, I’ve added two layers and a winter hat, and it’s raining/sleeting more often than not. That means it’s almost time for us to move again- we will spend another week on Ealue Lake, then ferry our abundance of gear back across the lake, somehow shove and squeeze it -and ourselves- into the van, and trek further north and east, on a quest to document this amazing area and expose the plans to pillage its every resource.

Blog Detour

We created and named this blog 2 ½ years ago (is that all?!) when we lived in a house in a borough of Seattle with day jobs, a truck, and three seemingly insurmountable goals. In our “free” time, when we weren’t racing, we were inspecting sailboats, engulfed in an eternal search for our first boat- our first home. I meant to wait until we owned a boat to create the blog, but I got impatient. We wanted a name that was vague enough to encompass whatever was to come, but one that held us to our dream of a sailboat. Something clever, easy to remember, and still available.

How did we do? As I look back over the last year of blog posts, a sad minority of them incorporate sailing. That is an accurate portrayal, though; as I look back over the last year of our lives, a sad minority of it includes sailing. But don’t misunderstand me, I am not complaining.

We surmounted our first and second “insurmountable” goals, along with a few we didn’t know we had. We did, finally, find the boat. And we bought her, moved aboard, adjusted to our new aquatic life, and timidly began drilling holes, painting shelves, replacing wires. Number one: check. Then, with a weeks’ notice, we untied the lines and headed north, freshly printed Canadian work visas in hand. Number two: check.

There, we taught ourselves how to replace alternators, dis- and re-assemble head (toilet) pumps, re-bed stanchions (poorly), wire batteries, and work with fiberglass.  All while living remotely, without the knowledgeable sailing community in Seattle on which we had so quickly come to depend. Simultaneously, we taught ourselves all we could about hydrophones, fuel cells, radio transmitters, and remote cameras. Those were the goals we didn’t know we had.

Our move to Ketchikan did little to improve our sailing percentage; in the last month we have slept only 3 nights on Halcyon, sneaking in a few hours of boat maintenance when possible. Two days ago, we closed her up and hopped on a ferry to BC. For the next month or so, we will be land- and air-based, driving and flying through British Columbia and Alberta. It is hard to leave Halcyon, completely unattended, between an anchor and a mooring ball, in a secluded bay outside Ketchikan. But as doors open, goals change.

That third one, though, that one hasn’t changed. Halcyon was built to cross oceans, and we’re getting her ready to do just that. We are putting away our pennies, searching for the best deals on wind vanes and life rafts, and day dreaming about a life at sea. There is, in my opinion, no better way to see the world. That’s when this blog will find its true identity, when we are just Strait Sailing. 

In the meantime, I will continue to share our upgrades and preparations, among the bear sightings and cultural experiences, if you’ll forgive the temporarily unsuitable blog name.

Better Quality Video

http://youtu.be/L4nS27_jXjM

Let's see if that works-- should be a slightly higher quality video of my black bear friend. 

Bear Creek

There’s a small creek on the other side of the river. It’s only a six minute canoe paddle from the cabin. Salmon use this creek to spawn (much like just about every creek in this area), and black bears use this creek to chase salmon, eat berries, romp, and wander.

I have spent the last four days sitting at this creek, documenting this activity. I’ve tried a variety of techniques to capture the perfect bear footage- close up video of them catching fish, crossing logs, and playing in the stream. One day consisted of 7 hours, hunched in a tuft of grass, swatting masses of mosquitoes, waiting and watching, and manually recording from afar. Another day included six roundtrips in the canoe, setting and leaving small video cameras, and returning to swap out batteries and memory cards every 2 hours. Some days saw 5 or 6 bears, active and feisty, others saw just one, wandering casually down the stream.

Sitting at this creek demands a remarkable disparity of emotions and responses. It is peaceful and chaotic, boring and exhilarating, tense and tranquil, frustrating and rewarding. One morning I crouched in a patch of thorny raspberry bushes for two hours with not even the sound of a far off branch break to indicate a bear. That afternoon it was 45 minutes before I could access the camera traps to replace batteries; a juvenile was practicing his fishing skills, pouncing and splashing in the stream in front of me, completely unaware of my presence.

I am on high alert from the moment I step out of the canoe until I am rowing away again. It is a heart-thumping experience to watch this elegant predator just 15 feet from you, and it can give you quite a start if you don’t notice the approach. Don’t faint, grandma, these bears are not looking for trouble. They are fat on salmon and leery of humans. This vigilance has roots more often in seeking great footage than in my personal safety. Their eyesight is poor, but if they catch my movement, in an instant they are running for cover. But more often I stay hidden from view and the bear goes about living with no knowledge of my existence, except to sniff, pick up, and play with one of the cameras, curious and intrigued by the appearance of such a strange item in his home.

One moment, particularly, will stay vivid in my memory. I was standing, knee deep in the frigid glacial runoff, partially concealed by a few outstretched branches of an overhanging tree, placing a camera for a beautiful wide angle view upstream. The waterproof housing latch was giving me trouble, and I allowed too much of my attention to consolidate on the problem. When I looked up again, there was a large female black bear on the opposite bank, less than 20 feet away, staring intently into the eddy below her. I froze, holding three dead camera batteries (oh how I wish I had a charged camera in hand!), as she deftly dropped both paws and her snout under water and pulled up a flailing fish. With her flapping feast held proudly in her jaws, she ambled under a large cedar tree to dine. A few bites in, she either heard me or simply decided she was too exposed and, again with her dinner clenched tight in her teeth, she expertly scaled the cedar and settled comfortably in the nook of a branch 40 feet in the air. I watch for a few more minutes, then snuck quietly around the bend and out of sight. While I sincerely wish I had a long lens camera with me and regret that I couldn’t film the great catch, one of the preset cameras did capture her proud jaunt and graceful climb. You can see her silhouette come into the frame on the left side. (sorry for the poor quality, blogspot will not let me upload the original HD video. I will try to post a better one in youtube and link to it later). 

When I’m not busy and/or bored at Bear Creek, I’m maintaining the plane’s camera rigs, dumping and organizing data, charging batteries, talking to the camera, filming salmon, and helping Trip, the primary videographer, set up shots. We are now wrapping up our west-of-the-mountains segment of the expedition, and will be heading east, onto the mainland, over the coastal mountain range, and into BC, for the next set.

Maintaining Routine Amid the Chaos

Before the racecar even pulls off the speedway, the pit crew is already poised- arranged precisely and equipped with exactly the right tools. While the pit stop looks chaotic to the viewer, every movement is closely calculated, practiced, perfected. Being able to efficiently complete the necessary maintenance and get the racecar back on the track is as crucial to success as the driver driving fast.

This is the image in my mind this morning, as the three of us stand on the dock, watching the plane taxi in from its morning flight. Trevor has the video camera rolling, John and I each hold a selection of wrenches and screwdrivers. We guide the plane to a stop, tie down the floats, and immediately begin expertly separating boxes from plane, cameras from boxes. Before Trip can collect his belongings and unfold himself from the backseat, we have the go pros down and turned off, the wing mount camera out of the box and back in its case, and the vertical DSLR box unmounted and inside.

When the pit crew propels the racecar down the runway and back onto the track, the tv cameras follow the vehicle- the star- as it continues its fight for gold. What the spectators never see is the unbroken routine the pit crew maintains off camera.

Back inside, we follow acute protocol on data organization and task distribution. Each camera is stripped of its memory card and battery. The used batteries stack on the desk, behind and to the right of the computer. The labels, taped in a row to the right of the computer, classify each card that is deliberately added to the collection. I attach the depleted batteries to their corresponding chargers, then begin the arduous task of “dumping data”. I connect a single card to the computer and preview the footage, tagging anything spectacular. The data is organized on a series of industrial harddrives, by date, camera, and event. Each folder receives a text document providing an overall description of the shoot. Using a USB 3.0 cardreader doubles the speed of the upload, but each card can still take up to 20 minutes.

When the crew has completed the pit stop routine, replaced tools, and discarded oil cans, the members seamlessly begin preparing for the next round, restocking tires, organizing spare parts, cleaning workspace. While the racecar is racing, with fresh tires and a full tank of gas, the pit crew is not lounging, but still working away, behind the scenes.

Once the footage from each card is uploaded, categorized, tagged, and noted, the card resides on the left side of the computer, joined by any other “dumped” cards, ready to be redeployed. These cards are distributed to each of the cameras, along with a fresh battery, then cleared and formatted for that camera. We then repack the equipment in pelican cases, padded bags, and waterproof housing, along with lenses, extra batteries, gps attachments, tripod mounts, lens cloths, intervelometers, silica gel.

A pit crew is made up of 6 individuals working feverishly in a space not much larger than a single-car garage, a potentially disastrous formula. Instead, like an intricate ballet routine, these practiced individuals dance around each other with skill and finesse.

Our team of five lives and works full time in a 500 square foot cabin, which mathematically offers us each a 10x10 patch of shelter. Realistically, though we personally retain less than that; the camera equipment alone demands more than its own 10x10.

As we find our routine among the chaos of an expedition, we compose our own clumsy ballet. There is constant chatter, providing the melody over the rhythm of clanging, typing, munching, scraping. “The 5D Mark 3 is reloaded and ready to go”, “I need an extra card for the C300”, “we need to load the 5D into the waterproof casing”, “I pulled the rest of the go pros out of the cockpit”, “oh man check out this footage!” With five people moving, packing, and requiring camera equipment this is the way to ensure we spend more time shooting than searching for misplaced gear.

While this must seem chaotic to an outsider, like a pit crew scrambling around a racecar, our movements are calculated and purposeful; we maintain routine amid the chaos.  

Holly's Haida Trick

Mike’s friend Holly was at the cabin for dinner. Holly is Haida and her family has been here, living on and with the land, for thousands of years. To contribute to our project, Holly is teaching us about her family’s relationship with the earth- how they cultivate their sustenance, which roots are medicinal, where to find the best bark for weaving, and how to cook some fantastic meals.

Holly was doing just that- cooking us a fantastic meal. She wrapped a fresh-caught wild sockeye salmon in young skunk cabbage leaves with lard and salt, and put it in the oven. She made a relish to go with the salmon from canned octopus (which she harvested and canned last year), onions, tomatoes, and spices. She boiled a pot of pickled sea asparagus (some of this year’s harvest), and opened a can of jalapeno-pickled bull kelp for us to munch while she cooked.

At 9:00pm the 6 of us sit down, hungry and chatty, to this amazing feast. John, never the shy one, cuts himself off a sizable slab of salmon and asks if it’s skunk cabbage wrapping is edible. Holly’s answer is, innocently, “I like it, but you probably won’t”. Of course what John hears is, “I double dog dare you to try it”. So John boldly rips off a chunk of skunk cabbage and starts munching away, masticating the cabbage thoroughly before gulping it down. Holly chuckles, and rips herself off a piece.

Just as John remarks that it isn’t so bad, Trip wonders aloud, “I heard you weren’t supposed to eat that stuff—isn’t it called skunk cabbage for a reason?” John shrugs, Mike grins, and we keep eating.

Three bites later, John calmly sets his fork down, gets up, and pours himself a glass of water. We watch him, curious, as he sits down with his water, until he admits his mouth is burning. Not a spicy food burn, he says, but an actual pain that he likens to what it might feel like to drink a cup of fiberglass dust. Holly takes another bite of her own cabbage, and swears her people have eaten the cooked skunk cabbage leaves forever. Must be a white person ailment, she teases.

We ensure John’s throat is not swelling and that he has no other red-flag symptoms, and John adds baking soda to his water, much to the amusement of the rest of the table. I know he is not exaggerating; only serious pain would keep him from eating the feast on the table. The scene is comical- John, sipping on baking soda water, his untouched salmon in front of him; Holly, perplexed but amused by his reaction; Mike, grinning furtively; the rest of us stifling our laughter only long enough to eat our dinner.

When Mike has taken his last bite, he stands up, wanders over to his bookshelf, and returns with “Food Plants of the Coastal First Peoples,” a comprehensive guide to plants on the northwest coast. He looks up skunk cabbage in the index, and calmly recites its entry.

“From the Arum family. Skunk cabbage was rarely eaten by the coastal First Peoples in British Columbia”

He has to pause there and wait for us- even John- to stop laughing. Then he continues,

“But in western Washington, the Quinault roasted and ate the leaf-stalks, the Cowlitz steamed and ate the flower-stalks sparingly, the Twana ate the young leaves, and the Quileute and Lower Chinook ate the roots. None of these groups prized any part of the skunk cabbage highly.”

Holly, with a look of satisfaction, points out that indeed the plant was eaten, and the Haida must be among those that eat it. Mike skips down the page and comes in, with impeccable comic timing,

“The Haida considered the plants to be poisonous and recalled instances of children dying after eating the leaves”

And we lost control, all of us. I had tears rolling down my cheeks, Trip almost spewed his drink, and even John was laughing so hard I think he forgot about the pain for a moment.

Mike then read aloud what, as an ecologist, he knew all along. “Skunk cabbage, like many members of the Arum family, contains long sharp crystals of calcium oxalate. If any part of the skunk cabbage is put into the mouth, the crystals can become imbedded in the mucous membranes and provoke intense irritation and burning.”

His ailment sufficiently diagnosed, John endlessly torments Holly for tricking him. Eventually the pain subsides enough to eat his salmon, now cold on his plate. He stresses that it does not matter, as he has lost the ability to taste. “What a shame”, holly prods, “it was delicious”.

If John had not already cemented his reputation as audacious and good-humored, he has certainly done so now. And we can thank him, both for the tear-inducing comedy hour, and because, at the cost of his sensitive taste buds, we all got to learn something new about local plants and native customs.

An ordinary Moment

My first thought as I awake is, “sunglasses”. I try to open my eyes without them and find I can’t. It’s 7:30, but I’ve been sunbathing in my sleep for at least 2 hours, covers long ago kicked to the floor, face turned instinctively to the window.

It rains here, a lot. But when the sun comes out, it does so -not meekly- but with intention and ferocity.

With my eyes finally adjusted to the light, I stretch, sit up, watch the baby sparrows’ morning rituals. Their world has existed of 4 square inches for too long now, and they are beginning to get antsy. Between nibbles that Mom brings by, one daring sibling hops onto the side of the nest and consciously employs his wing muscles for the first time, flapping clumsily, then stumbles back into the nest before Mom gets home.

I soon realize I’m on the wrong side of the window, how silly to still be inside. I sneak downstairs and out the back door, sunglasses in hand, and breath in the beauty of the morning. And the morning seems to breath with me. Glistening dew drops gracefully crown gently swaying grass stalks, dancing a slow waltz to the rhythm of a distant waterfall, punctuated only by busy birds, seeking breakfast. The confident peaks sit high and proud, maternally guarding the life and breath in their precious valleys.

I launch the canoe and silently row up the lazily wandering river, away from the last outpost on the edge of two million undisturbed acres of wonder. I glide soundlessly along the shore, gradually shedding the artificial barrier held stubbornly between human and nature.

Above the ever present song of surging waterfalls I hear a snap, a tree branch inadvertently destroyed underfoot, and another. I pause, hold my oars still, and wait. Snap, crack. A mother grizzly leads her two yearlings into a grassy patch by the water’s edge to munch on some sedge. Our eyes meet, and hold. I can almost perceive her thought process as she assesses the potential danger, and concludes I am nonthreatening enough for her to continue munching, but with her cubs in tow, she will not break her gaze.

The cubs sniff and snack, pounce and roll. Mama chomps away on sedge, watching me watch her. I dissolve into my surroundings, losing all perception of being separate from this complete scene. I am part of a painting, perfectly peaceful, forever idyllic, where there are no faults, no imbalances, no wrongs.

But of course, there is. And this life-depicted painting is proof. Mama Bear would certainly rather be eating protein-rich salmon roe right now, but the runs have not returned, and there are no fish to eat. This must be concerning to a mother, responsible for providing food to fill three hungry bellies, and finding only grass to do the job.

The minutes drift by. Mama is indifferent to my presence as they munch along, romp and play, sniff the air and observe the world. Finally, with a tired-sounding sigh and a quick grunt that seems to signal, “I’m done here, c’mon kids”, Mama leads her babies through the lightly dancing grass and they depart as gracefully as they appeared.

My sigh is not one of exhaustion but of contentment. I had just been permitted to witness a truly ordinary event in the world. The thought makes me smile, and I close my eyes to breath in the moment deeply before taking up my oars and rowing my way home. 

What do you Do?

If someone asks you, “what do you do?”, they mean what is your job, how do you make money, how do you contribute to society.

If you answer, “I am a an accountant”, that is usually the end of that line of questions.

If you answer, “I am a fireworks engineer”, there are some exclamations of awesomeness, and maybe a question about how they too might become a fireworks engineer.

If you answer, “I am an expedition coordinator for a dude that walks alot”, there are endless more questions. Always in the first four, though, is “and so--- what do you Do?”

This time they are not asking what is your job, how do you make money, how do you contribute to society. They mean – literally- what do you Do?. How do you spend the hours between breakfast and lunch, between lunch and dinner.

This is not an easy question to answer. The tasks that fill my day vary so vastly they rarely fit in the listener’s attention span. And in a few weeks, that list will be done and a new chapter of the project will commence, altering my answers even as I speak them.

And yet here I am. What can I say, I like to appease my readers. Here is “a day in the life”, based (very) loosely on the last week or so out at the remote cabin, as we prepare for the expedition.

It is light enough to read a book at 3:15am. Luckily that doesn’t stop anyone around here from sleeping in. When I wake up, I watch the baby sparrows in the nest just outside the window, cheep and duck and tussle, as Mom Sparrow swiftly darts here and there, pausing only long enough to lovingly feed her chirping babies before dashing off to find more food.

In the morning we answer emails, order airplane parts, camera equipment, tools, and electronics, research and brainstorm solutions to pressing issues like how to keep the camera dry in the rain, which tablet to buy, who manufactures the most dependable camera card, how to increase the battery power in the plane and still be within regulations.

I usually spend some time with the budget and expenditures, organizing receipts, restructuring the ‘to do’ list, providing Mike with spending reports (hey Mike- we’re definitely not spending enough money.)

During and after this, we work on the plane refit. Strategically placing the mounts on the wing struts, measuring, bolting down the aluminum plates, measuring again, constructing waterproof containers for the cameras out of pelican cases, PVC pipe, and 4200, grinding bolts down.

Then we go flying. One person flies with Mike, practicing shooting out of the window, getting accustomed to the experience, sorting out where the equipment will go, enjoying the scenery. The other people film the take off, the fly-by’s, the landing, and swat at mosquitos.

Once the plane is tied up and put away, we hop in the jet boat with crab traps, fishing poles, cameras, and rain coats, and tool around in the river and bay, always hoping to bring home dinner. (If this doesn’t sound like work, you go manully haul in a crab pot 200’ down over the side of a tippy jet boat with your bare hands….No, wait, that doesn’t feel like work either…)

The evenings are for brainstorming- designing the layout of the support van, devising a way to securely attach a gopro to the tail of the plane- and for uploading. In any given day, we take 20-80 GB of images and video. It doesn’t take long for the backlog to become overwhelming, so it’s a daily requirement. We upload all the data to lots of 1 TB harddrives, organized by day, camera, location, event, and file type. Then we sort through each one and pull out the selects from the day.

Try as we might, we can’t seem to sit down to dinner before 9:30pm, there’s just too much usable light. At 11:30 there is still blue in the sky, and it’s hard to start thinking about bed. We read, write, drink tea, get sucked into facebook.

I know, it sounds like hard work. And sometimes it is. This is not a 9-5. We’re at work when we wake up, and we’re at work as we’re brainstorming before sleep takes over. But we also find time to wrestle with Chaco, do yoga, take naps in the sun (when it’s out), take long walks through shoulder-high grass, read a novel, hold lengthy debates over the best brand of pocket knife, go for canoe rides. 

So, what do you Do?

An Alaskan Wildlife Weekend

Friday

I am standing on the back of a boat in the rain, poised with a boat hook, as John maneuvers us up to a small orange buoy. Our crab pots have been marinating for 6 hours, and we are hoping for some dinner.

As I am hauling in the 200 feet of line, concentrating on my rhythm- hand over hand, heave- John spots an Eagle flying low, his (I do not know if these animals were male or female, I chose to use male pronouns for simplicity's sake)  skillful gaze focused on the water. In a blink he dives and expertly sinks his talons into an unlucky victim. Proudly grasping his catch, he tries to take off again, but this time his eyes were bigger than his stomach. He struggles a few feet up the shore, dragging a flailing fish,  and pauses to catch his breath.

With the crab pots re-baited and reset, we edge over, curious to know what fish could so challenge an eagle. Knowing he smells of fresh kill, the eagle is understandably skittish and our smallest noise drives him away.

With the eagle watching intently from a nearby tree, we nose up to the shore to take a closer look. The 3-foot long, 15 pound carcass certainly has more heft than an eagle- probably 15 pounds himself - could carry through the air.

This eagle had not caught himself any ordinary fishy treat. There was no mistaking it- the jaw, the teeth, the fins- he had dug his talons into a shark! I had never heard of an eagle killing and eating a shark, and even as a first hand witness I had a hard time believing it. But soon we had further proof- the shark was pregnant and her young, intuiting trouble with mama and preserving a strong desire to live, made their way into this new and frightening world, still burdened by their embryonic sacs.

We learned later the eagle had picked up a Spiny Dogfish, a deceiving name because it is definitely a shark. It’s also called a spurdog, mud shark, or piked dogfish. These sharks can live 100 years, and females don’t reach sexual maturity until they are 36, which means this eagle’s feast was at least a decade older than I am.

We retreat, not wanting to impose on the Eagle’s dinner – he obviously uncovered a delicacy – and we were hungry for our own. In addition to providing a glimpse of this food chain anomaly, our excursion brought us home with 3 sizable male Dungeness crabs. That night we feasted, gracious to the sea for providing such delicious nourishment and in awe of the creatures around us.

Saturday

I am cramped in the vee berth, my left foot asleep, splicing 300’ of rode onto our anchor chain when John calls from the cockpit, “whales!” I consciously place the splice so I can remember where I left off, untangle my legs, crawl out of the vee, and grab the camera. As I emerge into the rain, a humpback surfaces at the mouth of the cove and breaths- letting off an impressive tower of moisture and a gasp that echos around the bay. A second one surfaces and shows off his remarkable tail flukes before diving deep.

There is an added aspect of mystery when observing sea life, because without an oxygen tank and (up here) wetsuit, we only get to see the smallest fraction of their behavior. Humpbacks can hold their breath for up to 30 minutes, and regularly stay down for 3-5 minutes at a time. That’s a long time to train your camera on dark water, with no concept where the whale might surface again.

As we survey the general area where we suspect the whales will arise, we see distinct bubbles bursting to the surface in a perfect spiral just 20 feet from the stern of our boat. These humpbacks have cruised into this cove to feed, and are using a most efficient tool—bubble net feeding. One or several whales start in deep water, blowing bubbles—just like you did (still do?) with your straw and cup of milk—in an upward spiral, trapping small fish and plankton inside this bubble “net”. Then, in a choreographed show of splendor, the participating whales launch themselves through the middle of the net, mouths agape, swallowing a whole meal in one grand gulp.

You can see in the video that after their satisfying mouthful, they surface once more and then swim directly under our keel. A few minutes later we can see them further down the bay, proficiently gulping down their second course.

*please don’t mind the shaky camera work, the generator running 

in the background, or any potential exclaimatories uttered in sheer amazement…

It is a once in a lifetime opportunity to see this feeding performance- we have witnessed it twice in one week, this time just 20 feet from our home.

Sunday

“I’m just so tired of crab, can’t we eat something else for dinner tonight” I recognize the satire in my tongue-in-cheek comment to John, but we had eaten crab for the last four meals. Friday night we steamed them right out of the trap, Saturday lunch we had the leftovers in quesadillas. Saturday night we pulled in 3 more, and Sunday morning John made a crab quiche.

And so I hop in the dinghy and motor over to check our prawn traps. We’ve owned a prawn trap for 7 months now, but it had yet to pull in more than a sea star. It had not proven it’s worth, and we were starting to notice the valuable space it occupied on the deck.

Hand over hand, heave. A curious seal paddles closer to scout what I’m doing as I haul in the trap, but ducks under when Chaco asks to play. 250’ of line later, I haul up a trap crawling with prawns- 42 of them! There are two different varieties of prawn in Alaska, coon stripes and spot prawn (top and bottom, respectively), we caught some of both. And the trap confidently claims its deck space, it earned it's keep today.

dipped in coconut butter and flash fried, ready to be gobbled