Experiencing Southeast Alaska

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Outside Magazine April 2004

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Destinations: Alaskan Archipelago
Alaska’s Secret Island Realm (cont.)


	Ursine Among Us: One of Alaska’s great grizzlies (Corel)

WHAT WE WANTED most of all was to see bears. Well, that and to sail from one backwater cove to the next and charge through the old-growth rainforest and up empty alpine peaks. Our wishes were granted immediately. On the first day after leaving Sitka, we stepped ashore on the northern tip of Baranof Island and spotted a grizzly sow and two cubs scavenging on a broad tidal flat. We sailed farther north the next morning, heading for Mount Lydonia, a 3,262-foot oceanfront peak that Andrew concluded from our topo map we could climb "in a long afternoon." Turning Antares into a bay near the mountain's base, we spied a lone griz patrolling a grassy beach. As we drew closer, it stood to get a better look at us, its round ears giving it an odd Mickey Mouse appearance, then snorted and disappeared into the forest. Four hours later, we stood muddy and panting on Lydonia's slick granite shoulders, gaping at the view of the Alaska mainland, where, some 100 miles north, the white slopes of 15,300-foot Mount Fairweather burst from the far side of Glacier Bay.

The next day brought our tiller mishap in Imperial Passage. But an hour after we headed out to sea, Toby had remedied our predicament by MacGyvering a replacement from plumbing parts and rope. We dropped anchor in Mirror Harbor, near White Sulphur Springs, at 8 p.m. and took the next day off to soak in the clear, 110-degree waters at the Forest Service-maintained bathhouse, sharing space with seven other pilgrims and splashing in the huge tide pools nearby.

That evening we rendezvoused with Chris Howard, a rambunctious 37-year-old fisherman turned adventure outfitter who had motored down to meet us from his home in Pelican. Our plan was to hike into Chichagof's inland lakes with Chris's lightweight collapsible canoes. The first mission took us north to Lake Elfendahl, a daylong there-and-back involving a short motorboat ride, a bushwhack along the Porcupine River, a paddle to the far end of the lake, and a frigid swim.

The next day, we headed south to the mouth of the Goulding River, where we launched a backbreaking seven-hour portage up through steep forest to the Goulding Lake Forest Service cabin. At one point, we rounded a blind corner and startled a gigantic grizzly sow and her cub as they crossed a shallow, rocky creek. Stopped dead in our tracks just 30 feet above them, we instinctively burst into the noisemaking routine we had concocted to prevent surprise bear encounters—me blowing a whistle, Toby honking a plastic horn, and Andrew feebly clapping and singing funk tunes. The bears and our guide were equally stunned; mama and cub bolted across the river and up a far bank, while Chris nearly wet himself with laughter. (The three of us would later conclude that taking such an aggressive posture with a big grizzly after you've already surprised it might not be the best move.)

We finally reached the cabin in the late afternoon, just in time to scan the surrounding peaks for hiking routes before a heavy fog settled in. Built on a narrow spit of land dividing Otter Lake from Goulding Lake, the cabin proved to be the perfect base. Out back is the hulking 2,500-foot massif of Big Chief; out front are the lakes and the route downriver, which includes two waterfalls and some prime cutthroat trout fishing. We pulled dinner from below the lower falls and spent another day crossing Otter Lake and exploring the boggy headwaters of the Steelhead River.

We spotted four more grizzlies during our rainy return trip down the Goulding. One smaller bear, about three years old, lingered near the river mouth as if he were hoping to bum a ride back to Peli- can, where Andrew and I would catch a floatplane to Juneau the next day.

"Poor guy," said Toby. "His mom probably ran him off this spring."

Sad as he looked, I found it hard to feel sorry for him. An endless buffet of salmon was heading in his direction and wouldn't slow down for another month. Upstream were falls and lakes, a forest full of ripe berries, and, once we were gone, not a single human.

"I don't know," I said. "I think he's got it pretty good."

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