Dear Chubby fans,

Just a little anecdote before I get you caught up with post-Glacier Bay travels. I was on the bus, making the slow 12-mile bus trip from Juneau back to the Auke Bay Marina. Being quite tired from an overdose of museums and local ice cream, I was dozing in my seat when I thought I heard among the various conversations going on across the bus aisle something about a crazy kid having sailed a 19 foot boat up the entire Inside Passage. "Boy", said one fellow, "sure hope he had a radio for weather reports and a GPS" as the participants in the conversation shook their heads in such a way to say, "Geez, what an idiot". At this point I was fully awake and I had to interject, asking where this boat is now, because I wouldn't mind meeting this crazy kid, since I'm sailing a 19-footer too. The instigator of the conversation said the boats name was Chubby and they had actually seen it down in Tracy Arm.

"How strange, what a bizarre coincidence", I said in an Ionescan moment, "I too have a 19-foot boat named Chubby and I was in Tracy Arm two days ago. Of course it must have been another Chubby because I am not a crazy kid but rather a fat old man". After further discussion and clarifications, we mutually agreed that the boat and the skipper were actually Chubby and me and the crazy kid part had crept into the story as an artifice to provide a more plausible explanation as to why someone would actually pull a stunt like that. After they heard about the Berkeley-Hilo trip they began to get the picture. The family of four who were the principle participants in this conversation, got off at the airport stop, heading back to Walnut Creek for work and school after their sojourn in their friends' motor yacht in Tracy Arm, a classic cruiser which I remember anchoring next to after the long and marvel filled day among the glaciers and icebergs.

Patience was never my strong point but looks like I'm going to get some practice for the next couple of days. I arrived in Kake, a small Tlingit village on the west coast of Kupreanof Island on Wednesday afternoon on a bright sunny warm afternoon while listening to sinister weather reports, the worst I've heard in 45 days. Southeasterlies, 25-40 knots. Not good for a guy sailing south as fast as his chubby little sea legs will carry him. After four magical cloudless days in Glacier Bay and two nights of northern lights I guess I deserve a little weather. I think Naomi distributed a short dictated report from Glacier Bay so I'll pick up from August 8 as I officially started my homeward journey. Had a leisurely departure at 9:30 am from Bartlett Cove at the entrance to the Bay, waiting for the ebb tide to kick in and for the dense fog bank to dissipate that was blanketing the main channel. I could hear the fog horns of the cruise ships passing unseen into the Bay, so motoring out into the same channel and playing Russian roulette with an 800 ft long loaded gun was not an attractive option. But the fog bank evaporated just as the tide was changing, so off we went, out of Glacier Bay and into Icy Strait, heading for North Inian Pass and the open ocean. Making six and sometimes 7 knots on the ebb, we caught up with the retreating fog bank and a bit of head wind as we entered North Inian. The wind opposite tide in a narrow passage was the classic formula for a nasty chop and standing waves and this was no disappointment. The chop was costing us 2-1/2 knots but with only 7 miles to the open waters of the Gulf of Alaska, we pushed on due west. The shallow shelf with only 60-80 feet of depth which extends oceanward from Cross Sound made for a chaotic set of opposing wave sets, with the ocean swell meeting the 2 kt ebb current with an overlay of the chop kicked up by the 15 kt breeze. After 37 days of flatwater sailing, I had lost my sea legs and started to feel a tinge of mal de mer. As we approached the Gulf, the fog pulled back to the northeast and we could look west to the open ocean for the first time since passing Dixon Entrance on July 21 out of Prince Rupert, the day we crossed into Southeast Alaska.

The demarcation between inside waters and the open ocean was unmistakably marked on the ocean's surface by a color change so dramatic it looked like it had been painted on using masking tape to get a nice sharp edge. The light green opaque glacial milk waters of the Inside Passage had been pushing westward on the ebb in a great plume, displacing the deep clear blue-green waters of the Gulf. As we crossed the line, we lost the ebb and the headwind and went back to our normal 5 kts or so of motoring. I continued straight west, trying to get into deeper water where the crazy tidal race would calm down along with my stomach. Looking to the north above the low fog bank, the ice-draped magnificence of the St. Elias Mountains stretched off into the haze. The giant Brady Glacier, appearing bigger than all the glaciers in Glacier Bay put together, bulged above the fog which was still filling Taylor Bay at its terminus. This huge glacier was the backdrop for John Muir's dramatic tale of a desperate trek through the maze of crevasses accompanied by his faithful little adopted dog, Stikine. When Muir states unreservedly that this was the most difficult, dangerous traverse of his long career of solo mountaineering, you know the guy, and the dog, were in serious trouble. If you have an extra 45 minutes, you should read the story, entitled simply enough: Stikine. I'm curious to see if you laugh through your tears the same way I did as I reread the story in Glacier Bay, drifting along with current, just a short 40 years since my first reading. The story made a lot more sense this time around in these surroundings.

As if on cue, the whole reason for going out to sea came to fruition. A northwesterly came up, slowly at first and then steadily building to 15-18 knots. Finally I could enjoy the blessed relief from the drone of the motor as the sails went up and we turned south, toward home, on broad reach, making 5-1/2 kts. We were headed for Sitka, 90 miles to the southeast. I continued due south as the rugged coast of Chichagof Island faded off to the southeast. I wanted deeper water and fewer fishing boats so I could have quiet night of sailing. As full darkness settled in about 11 pm, I reefed down and hanked on the small jib in order to slow down to a nice sedate 3-1/2 kts. I was hoping that a hard collision with a floating log would not cause serious damage at this speed. As I was straddling the bow, swapping out jibs, Chubby ran right over a sizable log, and seemed to shrug it off without even so much as a shudder, so I wasn't too worried. I lay down in the cabin, set the oven timer for 15 minutes and went to sleep. This was the routine for the next 5 hours, taking a horizon scan every 15 minutes, and falling immediately back to sleep. Seemed to work OK because as first light showed, I felt reasonably rested and went back to full sails and making all haste to Sitka. Through the early morning haze I started to make out the dim outline of Mt. Edgecumbe, a very young volcano sitting astride Cape Edgecumbe, the turning point for the eastward run into Sitka. This smooth-sided, perfectly symmetrical flat-topped cone, I would have to guess, was very young, certainly post glacial, perhaps even historical. It hasn't suffered any glaciation or even any significant gully erosion from the heavy annual rainfall of this region. A quick search on the Web as I write this report revealed that it's last eruption was in fact about 10,000 years ago. You can see a nice photo of Mt. Edgecumbe at: http://geology.about.com/library/bl/peaks/bledgecumbe.htm

After a frustrating battle with a foul tide and easterly headwind, the combination of which cost us a couple of hours, we pulled into Sitka at 3 in the afternoon. It was a sparkling sunny day and that gave Sitka a lovely, friendly atmosphere, even prior to setting foot on the dock to confirm that this was, in fact, the case. Sitka is a truly lovely town, without a doubt, the nicest town I've visited on this trip. After 30 hours of sailing I was a little done in, so I made some phone calls, tidied up the boat and turned in early. I woke up much more clear headed and started to think about how to proceed on the trip southward. The weather reports started to hint at big weather coming in the next 2-3 days. When I heard the mention of 40 kts offshore, my plans for a big 8-day ocean leg down to Washington began to unravel. This left but one prudent option and that would be to jog 20 miles north through the Sergius Narrows and around through Peril Strait to the east side of Baranof Island. The great advantage of this route was that it leads right past Warm Springs Bay and the community of Baranof, a place that I was eager to visit but had written off in favor of a quick trip south.

After putting the new plan together, I set off for town to enjoy the sights including the well-regarded museum and historical park. The museum indeed was fascinating, giving a fine display of the elegance and high level of Tlingit art and technology. They made amazingly crafted waterproof suits from seal stomach and intestine which they wore for butchering whales that they would pull into shallow water. Their boat building skills were outstanding as were their sophisticated house designs and construction methods.

After leaving the museum I took the historic trail through the woods at the south edge of town to see the site where the last Tlingit stronghold was finally conquered by the Russians in 1803. The Tlingits had built a fort on Indian River at the edge of what is now Sitka. The Russian colonial commander, backed by a gun ship anchored just offshore, decided that this band of hostile Tlingits must be subdued to ensure the control of the rich fur trade that was developing around Sitka. The Russians massed an attack on the Tlingit fort, assisted by a large contingent of Aleut allies. The Tlingits, led by the legendary hero, Katlian, fiercely resisted the first attack, killing 12 Russians and wounding Baranof himself, governor of the colony. The Russians and Aleuts retreated under cover of a bombardment from the ship. The next day they mounted a two-pronged attack, one thrust coming through the woods, while the frontal attack came from the beach. They progressed without resistance, only to find that the fort had been abandoned during the night, with all 700 of the resistors effecting a clean escape, crossing the mountains to join Tlingit allies on the other side of the island. On close inspection of the fortress walls, the Russian commander was amazed to find that his cannon bombardment had not made a single penetration through the massive log walls. The interior of the fort was well equipped with trenches and shelters that rendered the bombardment totally ineffective. While walking along the banks of Indian River, I noticed a great commotion down at the mouth of the river. Crows and gulls were squawking and shrieking. Turns out the salmon were running and the river was packed with the horny hordes. They were flashing their reddened sides, hooked jaws and humped backs, all signs of salmon ready to breed and die. I walked up the river a few hundred yards, about as far as the salmon were going before they were overcome with desire and were engaged in their indelicate mating ritual. They appeared to be pairing off with the male trailing the female and giving an occasional fierce bite on the base of the tail, which I assume was a rather unsubtle inducement for her to drop her load. Not exactly the fine wine, candle light dinners and a ride up the Marin Coast in a Mercedes that human females require these days for spawning, but judging from the mass of fish in this little stream, their method seems to work pretty well.

I walked back to the dock and started getting Chubby ready for departure early the next day. On the way out along the dock I chatted with a long-liner who gave me some good pointers about how to negotiate Sergius Narrows which can get quite turbulent both on the flood and ebb. Base on what he explained, it would take two days to negotiate the Narrows. The first day I would anchor in a small cove just at the west end of the Narrows. Then at dawn the next day I would enter the Narrows at slack water after the flood and ride the ebb all the way out to Peril Strait. As I was puttering around in Chubby's cabin, a couple, Barry and Pat, from a 45 foot ketch docked just a few feet up the dock, approached me and announced that they recognized Chubby, having seen her in Hilo Bay last summer. They live in Hilo and just bought their big ketch. They had sailed directly from Hilo to Sitka and were stuck there, waiting on engine parts. I remember talking with the gentleman on the dock at Hilo just after we arrived, as Naomi and I were cleaning up and getting Chubby ready for her month-long layover. Later in the evening, Barry and Pat brought over another cruising couple who were locals. They were very familiar with Sergius Narrows and were able to show me on the charts exactly how to proceed and how to time the tides and currents. This kind of local knowledge is invaluable in making a smooth passage through the narrow turbulent passes.

Had a nice smooth passage to Schultze Cove just at the west end of Sergius Narrows. Anchored out and spent a very peaceful night. Precisely at 5:10 am, according to the carefully crafted plan, I upped anchor and moved into the Narrows. The churning waters even at slack tide, and the very narrow fairway, perhaps 200' wide, made me very thankful that there was no additional traffic, especially the ferries which move through the Narrows twice daily. We got a good ride on the ebb all the way to end of Peril Strait with humpback whales showing on all sides, with one putting on a boisterous demonstration of tail and full body slams. We ran out of luck though in the open waters of Chatham Strait. The tide and wind turned foul together about 11 am and we started a sloppy and slow slog southward toward Warm Springs Bay as it started to rain. There was a chill in the air and a light dusting of snow on the higher peaks of Baranof Island and I was wondering if this was the incipient demise of summer and a clear sign that my welcome in this country was being withdrawn. After four hard hours of pounding, I was ecstatic to turn right and move into the calm waters of Warm Springs Bay. The reality of the Bay quickly superceded the reputation as the massive roaring waterfall and vaulting mountain walls came into view. I proceeded to the public dock at the head of the Bay, just 200 feet from the falls, next to the little community of Baranof. The village consists of a scattering of 20 or so cabins, a bathhouse with three hot tubs at the head of the dock ramp and a store with a sparse selection of very basics. The dock was virtually empty which is an anomaly for this popular cruising stop and hideout for tired commercial fishermen. A couple of twentysomethings were fussing over an outboard on a small skiff at the dock. I tied up and approached them to find out what was going on in Baranoff. I quickly determined that Andy was a PhD candidate from the U. of Victoria, studying the social behavior of humpbacks while, Dana, his research assistant and proprietor of the store was originally from the Valley, San Fernando that is. She summers in Baranoff and winters in Sitka. She was strikingly beautiful, the second such phenomenon that I have stumbled across on this voyage. The first being that waitress in Bella Coola. Nothing I've seen in the last 20 years in the Bay Area comes close to comparing. What is it about this north country? After Andy gave me a brief and fascinating synopsis of four years of research, he explained how to get up to the natural hotsprings. Dana then took me up to the store which was equipped with a satellite internet connection. I was able to check my e-mail and the marine weather report on the Web. Couldn't get the radio weather report because of the steep walls of the Bay. I was too beat up, though, to write any trip updates. As dark settled over the little community, I went up to the bath house, for which there is no charge, and soaked in one of the tubs which consist of stock watering tanks. The water was a perfect temperature, so I soaked for a good long time, staring out at the placid bay and pounding waterfall during the last of the two-hour dusk. The weather report was getting more dire as the much-touted storm was rapidly approaching. I expected a small window of opportunity to sneak across Frederick Sound the next morning prior to the arrival of the 30-40 knot southeasterlies. At 5 am the next morning I trotted up the wooden walkway and trail to the hotsprings that sit right at the head of the waterfall. The water in the natural pools was a little too hot for a long soak, and I was racing the weather so I could only stay in for 5 minutes and then I was racing back down the hill to Chubby for a 6 am departure. The waters outside the Bay were placid, much to my relief. A couple of porpoises came up to play for a few moments around Chubby's bow but abandoned us almost immediately when they saw we were heading directly into a massive fog bank and they went off in search of more prudent mariners. We were quickly engulfed in a suffocating cold fog, contracting our world down to a radius of 50 feet. For the next 3-1/2 hours we saw nothing but the shiny gray water and the dull gray fog. Sometimes I would lose any sense of horizon and feel like I was falling forward into an abyss. The small ducks floating on the surface appeared to be floating in space. We had to negotiate the passage between Point Gardner and Yasha Island which we did on straight GPS without seeing anything of either shore. With a great sigh of relief we finally broke out of the fog to find Kake sparkling in the sunlight 7 miles to the east.

It was hot and calm as we pulled up to the fuel dock in Kake. After fueling, I moved over to the City Float (a grand overstatement) where I met a couple of guys on the dock who were fussing over an outboard (sound familiar?). First thing, I asked them about Rocky Pass. The next day I was planning, weather permitting, to negotiate the notorious Rocky Pass, a tortuous, kelp- and rock-filled 20-mile long narrows in which many an optimistic skipper have lost their boats. This pass leads to Pt. Baker, my hoped for hidey hole, where I'll wait for the proper weather window to take a long leap southward. These guys knew the Pass well so we dragged out the charts and went through the whole scenario including the exact timing of tides and currents. Again I was lucky for stumbling into the right people at the right time.

The City Float was rather exposed and Chubby was bobbing excessively so I moved her down to boat harbor at Portage Bay. After securing her, I walked up the ramp on my way to the restaurant, which was 1-1/2 miles towards town. As I got to the top of the ramp, I noticed an elderly gentleman getting in his wreck of car. I asked him if he was heading to town and he replied that he was heading for the restaurant. I jumped in the whoopty and quickly found that the exhaust blows directly into the passenger compartment. Glad it was only a mile and a half I joined Jim for lunch and heard a small part of real American story. Jim started fishing out of Los Angeles Harbor when he was 16 back in the early 50's, going after mackerel and albacore. At age 20 he headed for Alaska and went straight up to Fairbanks, where he met an old timer who gave him a string of traps. He got a dog team together at the city pound and headed out into the snows and minus temperature of December. He came to an Aluet village where he met a man who gave him his two daughters, age 15 and 17, to take out with him to help him run traps. He wanted to get them out of the village where they were getting in trouble. So the three of them headed out until the end of February, trapping martin and mink. Right at the outset of their journey, one of the gals shot a moose and they skinned it out in no time and had plenty of meat for the dogs. Jim learned a lot that winter. After that, he started fishing in the Gulf of Alaska and Bering Sea for the next 40 years or so. Now he's retired but his two sons fish out of Kake. As I'm writing this, Jim just wandered back into the café, so I'm going over to harass him a bit more. I told him he should write a book but he isn't interested. Maybe I could get Yael to come up here for a couple of weeks and interview him, then write the book.

Walked back to the harbor, enjoying the fresh air, and went to bed. Woke up to the sound of enthusiastic rain. The much-promised storm had arrived. In between rain squalls, I scrubbed Chubby's waterline, filthy from the fish slime and oil of a dozen fishing ports and then called around to find a room for the day. I needed a desk and light where I could lay out the charts and plot the route through Rocky Pass, then input the turning points into the GPS receiver. This is a bit of an arduous task since each of the 50 or so points has to be measured and input manually. I found a room at the Keex Kwaan Lodge and the manager headed right out to pick me up at the dock. On the way back to the lodge she apologized for having to give me a downstairs room and to make sure that I lock the door because the three-legged bear is having trouble catching salmon and is getting pretty hungry, so he comes into the unlocked downstairs rooms looking for food scraps or uninformed skippers. Later that evening in the dimming light I looked out the window to the mudflats uncovered by the ebb. The salmon are schooling at the mouth of the creek, waiting for the current storm to swell the creek a little so they can get up to their spawning bed. In the meantime, they dash about here and there en mass causing a great commotion, all the time being watched by the gulls and crows standing on the banks patiently waiting for one of the myriads to become exhausted and turn belly up - not in the financial sense but rather in the literal or, even more appropriately, in the littoral sense. Looking out the window I saw a pair of bears, chasing salmon in the creek. They'd stop every so often and stand on their hind legs, snout to snout, sparring with their paws. Then a third bear came into view. It had an awkward gait like it was missing a leg…hmmm. I got up and checked to see if the door was locked.

Woke up this morning to a pretty good blow. The channel was frothing white, blowing away my carefully inputted plot to escape. Now I'm looking at a two or three day delay so I had to move out of the high rent district and took a room in the basement of the restaurant at a third the cost, digging in for the long haul. I've got a bad feeling that these storm systems will start pumping through Southeast Alaska at their normal wintertime 3-day cadence and that getting Chubby back to the World is going to be a real chore. Given the slightest opening tomorrow, I'm going to make a break for Pt. Baker. Wish me luck.

Love...Bill