The log of the Midnight Sun, Valdez, Alaska, to Honolulu, Hawaii

Crossing the Gulf of Alaska.

PART 1, THE INSIDE PASSAGE 
This is a tale concerning the voyage of the sailing vessel Midnight Sun, a Nordic 44, departing Valdez, Alaska, bound for Honolulu Hawaii in 1982 with base crew of five. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: There are a number of place names in this and it screams for a map. Unfortunately I am writing this on a sketchy internet connection which limits my creativity for such things. Instead I am offering these two links to maps of Southeastern Alaska and Western British Columbia, where you can follow if you like.

Southeastern Alaska There are others if you use Google.

British Columbia Again more on Google. You can also search individual place names.

Day 1, September 2, 1982: Departing Valdez at 0700 under overcast skies with drizzling rain and a light easterly breeze. Some four hours later approaching Goose Island in southeastern Prince William Sound, at which time the captain let the crew know he wanted to stop and catch a halibut for the voyage across the Gulf of Alaska. (I recall at the time wanting to argue recalling how long at times it had taken to catch a halibut. He asked me where to go and I said the upslope of the bottom entering from the north end of the passage between Goose Island and the mainland.) We slowed to drop a lure to the bottom and 8 minutes later reeled in a 10-pound halibut. (I don't think the boat even came to a complete stop.)

We proceeded southward toward Hinchinbrook Entrance and the open Gulf with a promising forecast of southwest winds to 20 knots, perfect for our course which was to the southeast.

17: 22: Passed Cape Hinchinbrook: Barometer 1038; speed 4.6 knots; distance made good, 57 NM

Day 2, September 3, 0124: Spotted Cape St. Elias light, sailing under a full moon, but with a ring, clear sky and stars, but clouds on the horizons. 4-5-foot swells motoring with the mainsail up with an 11 knot breeze.

Motored all through the day. For a while visited by a large pod of Pacific white-sided dolphins many of whom jumped clear of the water as they swam along with us.

Barometer 1040

Days 3 and 4, September 4 and 5: Smooth water and very little wind crossing the gulf and motored the whole way until we picked up swells at Cape Spencer at nightfall on the 4th and the engine began sputtering as we entered Cross Sound. So, instead of proceeding we raised sail and ran almost to the dock in Elfin Cove, arriving around 7 a.m. (We had breakfast at the inn there and I accidentally walked out without paying. One of the crew said he was buying but it turned out he was only buying for the captain. When I learned this later I mailed a check to the inn.)

Departed around noon and sailed Icy Strait as far as Flynn Cove once we realized we weren't going to make Hoonah in daylight.

Day 5, September 6: Departed Flynn planning for Tenakee Springs but southerly winds up Chatham Strait eventually pushed us toward Funter Bay on the eastern shore.

Then the wind died and we turned south again until 40 knot winds from the south came up and drove us into Funter Bay anyway and we anchored there.

Day 6, September 7: In the morning we set out to cross the strait and make Tenakee. Beating into a 25-30-knot wind with rain driven so hard into our faces it hurt. For some reason we started singing Kingston Trio's "MTA" and "The Tijuana Jail" at the top of our lungs. (After two hours I relinquished the helm and the captain said something about being a fair weather sailor and I reminded him of the storm I had been through the year before.) 

1400: Made Tenakee around 1400, but hung around outside the harbor playing with five humpback whales who were hanging around in the bay. We stayed the night and took a soak in the hot springs. Tenakee a beautiful place, One narrow street lined by houses which on the water side had been built on pilings over the tidal zone. Most houses had gardens. No cars. People use what they call Earth Carts. Peaceful.

Day 7, September 8, Heading south in Chatham Strait after passing the whales outside the harbor again. Motored into the wind most of the day but quiet other than that. Began learning the sextant. All day on smooth water at 5.5 knots and into the night heading for Petersburg. Lying on deck and watched the moon rise over Frederick Sound. Shortly after dark lost in reverie on the smooth water, quiet except for the low hum of the engine when a humpback rose right next to the boat and exhaled explosively. I almost jumped out of my skin. Slept for a while on a sail bag forward then took the helm running toward Petersburg in fog. Did some navigating from Sukoi Island estimated with course and speed we should reach the narrows in 35 minutes. We came abeam of the Wrangell Narrows light at 36:05 minutes. Ran into Petersburg, walked uptown for breakfast, then back to the boat and crashed.

Day 8, September 9: After a good sleep we wandered around Petersburg, buying this and that, replenishing stores for the short hop to Ketchikan.

1700: Depart Petersburg. Motored south through the narrows heading for an Anchorage across Sumner strait in St. John Harbor.

Day 9, September 10: Departed St. John early to make the tide in Snow Passage and possibly Ketchikan in one day. After the passage ran into strong head wind, 32 knots at times and pushing boat sideways. Barely making way and propeller cavitating badly. Decided to run for Kindergarten Bay and headed in, but on the east side of Clarence Strait the wind seemed to be abating so we turned south again. Seas and wind grew and we eventually had to tun again, this time for Coffman Cove in some 40-knot gusts and seas maybe as high as 6 feet. Tough go with all hands out. Two fighting the helm, two more trying to drop the jib. The main sheet got bound up in reef ties. Roared into Coffman Cove and slick water. Dropped the sails and motored to a float at a logging camp. Exhilarating. Says the captain, no more pushing. "If it looks bad tomorrow, we stay."

Day 10, September 11, 0753: In Coffman Cove. Rain, light wind, barometer 1028.5. Ketchikan today maybe. Calm day for a change. A humpback whale and calf visited us for a while. Not much wind, tooling along toward Ketchikan, motoring through calm water all day. Pulled into Knutson Anchorage north of Ketchikan for the night, close enough to boogie down in town that night, until 3 am or so. (An infamous bar there named, as I recall the Shamrock, held many temptations and I am told I was asked to leave around 3.)

Day 11, September 12: Spending a lazy day anchored near Droopy and Rusty, friends of the captain. One crew member left to attend to business in Seattle. 

Day 12, September 13: The boat owner's son, who had acquitted himself well along the way (despite our premonitions) left to return home. About 0630 the depth alarm went off so we hauled anchor and headed for Ketchikan proper. Bought food and orcanized, then left about 1400 for Foggy Bay, in Revilla channel.(avoiding the temptation of another night at the Shamrock.) Entered the bay in the dark. Spooky.

Day 13, September 14, 0700: Departed Foggy Bay in (what else?) fog. Invented a new word here for running in Southeastern Alaska waters — naviguessing. Motored out under the last sliver of the moon and Venus, visible above the fog after Orion (which was to become our friend) disappeared. A flock of geese flew by under Venus. Several times during the day we encountered the cork line of a salmon gillnet fishing boat. Sometimes the fog was so thick we couldn't even tell which end of the cork line was attached to the boat and had to run along it until we encountered either the free end or the boat and could turn back to our original course. 

At one point our position indicated we were near a spot called Bell Island. The captain wanted to get a visual on the island so we turned toward the sound of the bell and approached slowly, watching the fathometer the whole time. We reached the point where we could hear the sound of an electrical generator running. Then we reached a point where we could hear human voices speaking in normal tones. At that point we turned, close enough. We never did see the island.

Later in the day the run rose out of the fog almost like fire coming up from the water. Then we encountered misty rays of light hitting what little land we could see. Interesting day. Made Prince Rupert, British Columbia, around 1800, ate and then once again partied at a club until late. All I recall of that was a dancer sitting on my lap for a while and falling in love.

Day 14, September 15: Left Prince Rupert early and headed south again in fog. Gradually the day turned brighter and we ran with sails before the wind in Grenville Channel. Went into Bishop Cove off McKay Reach for the night, entering in darkness. Warm springs at the head of the bay. Poor anchorage, deep. Tied off to a float at the warm springs.

Day 15, September 16, 0700: Left Bishop Cove and saw humpbacks in Ursula Channel. For the first time in a while the sun shined in a clear sky lighting up the beautiful BC waterways. Actually hot enough to proceed in a t-shirt.

Cruised down Graham Reach under the sun, our shirts off, being lazy on deck, reading "Under the Volcano" and listening to Grateful Dead. It's interesting how in a tight crew on a long voyage, some words become part of the syntax. In Under the Volcano I encountered the term "perfectamente borracho,"  meaning perfectly or comfortably drunk.

There was this feeling there were a hundred things to do and yet nothing has to be done. We spent the day like that and than ran in the dark for Shearwater, a logging camp across the channel from Bella Bella, standing on the bow watching for logs in the water. Almost hit a small rock island. We made the dock at Shearwater and ate dinner from a turkey I had been roasting for most of the afternoon. I was working on it when suddenly a face appeared in the porthole over the galley. It was a drunk who had decided he wanted to go sailing. Sticky situation. We told him no and that led to him shouting several obscenities at us including the mention of a shotgun. It was enough to worry us. Later two more drunks boarded the Serendipity, a big cruiser out of Portland. Sticky there too. A boarding alarm went off on the Serendipity and I was expecting it to happen to us as well. I dug out a golf club that was on the boat for some reason and sat in the cockpit as sort of a guard. The two left the Serendipity and walked back up the dock, but there were still those on the drum seiner Haida Maid and that shotgun mention. Eventually the lights went out, a quiet settled on the harbor so we slept as well.

Day 16, September 17: Foggy morning. Crew of the Haida Maid had gone humbly away and the Serendipity had followed. Another bright and sunny day after a bit of fog in the morning. Got fuel in Bella Bella. Another hot day, too. I sat in the stern dozing but could help wondering when was the last time I wanted to sit in the shade. We pulled into Namu and I took my first turn at docking. Sailboats, especially this size don't stop as quickly as a power boat and I managed to nudge the boat in front of us. Of course it had to be the Haida Maid. Fortunately nobody responded. We motored on the rest of the day and anchored in a place called Safety Cove.

Day 17, September 18: Left Safety in early morning fog which stayed with us across Queen Charlotte Sound. That led us to Vancouver Island and Johnstone Strait. A huge wildfire had flamed up on the island southwest of Port Hardy. As we entered the strait we saw the strangest critter that at first looked like a stump in the water. But the outline had concentric shapes too regular to be a stump. We couldn't even distinguish it with binoculars but finally decided it was a stump. About then it slipped beneath the surface. Judging wrinkles on its head we finally decided it was an elephant seal and let it go at that. Then we saw a line of splashes coming toward us between Port Hardy and Malcolm Island. Those turned out to be porpoises, 20 to 40 of them chasing fish of some sort. Some came along to ride our wake but most and then all of them moved on, slashing and jumping along their way. Smoke from the fire actually blocked the sun as it settled to the west of us past Vancouver Island. The fire caused eerie looking red and yellow reflections across the water. We pulled into Port McNeil for the Saturday night rock and roll, but that turned out to be a bust.

Day 18, September 19: Left Port McNeil in fog, standing the bow watch, wet until noon. Offered to cook breakfast to get out of it. We were racing to beat the tide at Seymour Narrows. (A rising tide enters Johnstone Strait from both ends one portion moving north the other moving south. They meet at Seymour Narrows and create powerful whirlpools that can sink a boat if not careful. Best to get there on an ebb tide or better yet slack.) On the way we rendezvoused with the Glacier Queen, a Valdez tour boat heading south for the winter. We chatted a bit and they handed us a pot of coffee. Farther on we sailed past another forest fire, this one close enough that we could feel heat on the slight breeze that blew toward us. Then small hot ashes from the fire began landing on the boat and in water around us. We brushed them off as quickly as we could, especially after we discovered they left a tar-like substance difficult to remove if it was allowed to cool on the fiberglass. We didn't make Seymour Narrows in time and anchored in Plumber Bay north of the maelstrom.

Day 19, September 20: First morning in a long time with no fog. We shot through Seymour narrows, sailed through the morning and continued all day reaching Nanaimo after dark. The captain bought dinner and then we had beers in a Kafkaesque or Fellini club. We finally agreed on Fellini and then left early.

Day 20, September 21: Left Nanaimo in morning fog and motored all day staying on the inside of the exposed islands in Georgia Strait in order to avoid heavy ship traffic. The fog barely lifted, but enough to provide some visibility. We passed into the U.S. again and raised the Alaska flag. No feeling of exhilaration, more a little depression at the end of the trip. We sighted Bellingham at 18:48 which added to the letdown. Again a long voyage and again no one to meet. So it goes. Great trip. Now facing a week here and then on to Hawaii. All day long we could smell smog and other crap in the air. Tied to the dock in Bellingham at 20:00. Distance made good: 1,373 nautical miles.

INTERMISSION

We spent the next 9 days around Bellingham and Seattle some of us going our separate ways to visit friends and tour fun places. This interlude had one high point. My first book had just been published and I met the publishers for dinner where they handed me the first copy off the press. It is a thrill I can't quite describe. "The Last Great Race" by Tim Jones. So full of myself for a moment. Fantasizing about how I was going to spend my millions.

NEXT: ON TO HAWAII

  Part 2: The Big Ocean

Messing about in boats

East Pole Journal Christmas Day 2019

Snowfall and birds

Snow started just about the time I put the Christmas Eve roast on the grill and it's still snowing 18 hours later, light fluffy stuff maybe 4 or 5 inches. For something to do I ran the snowmachine down to the main trail and back just to pack it down. Upon my return and all dressed up with no place to go I sat in the deck chair for a while and watched the chickadees at the feeder. This winter has been strange as far as birds are concerned. All chickadees except for a couple of magpies who show up every other day or so. No redpolls, no pine grosbeaks, maybe a boreal chickadee now and then, but mostly black-capped. Their flying still amazes me. They can fly full speed into a tangle of tiny branches on the climax birch tree just off the end of the deck. When a merlin came through a couple of years ago, that's where the chickadees headed, into the thick tiny branches where the larger predator couldn't fly. They take their seeds into those tangles too, to peck them open or to hide them somehow. When they fly into a spruce they go right next to the trunk, gaining the same protection from the thick spruce branches that stand guard for them. How they never seem to hit anything flying into those spaces might be something to study.

Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve dinner went off without a hitch using the 48-year-old Weber grill.
Prime rib, mashed potatoes and thick gravy and a Jello no-bake double chocolate cheesecake. (Hoping my doctor isn't reading this or I'll get a lecture next time I go in for a checkup.) Leftovers today, soooo good.

Some new music in a couple of ways

Had a nice addition this year. Around the end of the boom box heyday, I bought a high-end Sony for the cabin. Being toward the extent of the boom-box development it had all of the enhancements made to that date and put out a wonderful sound that fills this little cabin. Good thing there are no close neighbors. Anyway I haven't used it much in the past few years. For one thing it devours batteries, I mean like, play six CDs and that's about it. Between that and the advent of new sources it hasn't been played at all in at least three or four years. So, a few days ago as my gaze bounced around the room it fell on it and, too, on one of the electrical receptacles I put in a couple years ago. One of those "holy crap" moments. I can plug it in. It only took three days of sporadic but intense searching to locate the power cord yesterday hidden among a tangle of other wires in a bottom desk drawer, but now I have a quality source of music again, as long as the genset is running. The Mormon soprano singing "Oh Holy Night" was magnificent.

And speaking of music I have added a new Christmas carol to the collection. I like to find something new every year and this year is no exception. But, bear with me. This one is a little sarcastic or at least tongue-in-cheek. Yesterday the local radio station (which is on in the cabin most of the time) played just about every Christmas song there is. There was an announcer, but I am not sure he listened to the music he was putting on the air. He said, "Here's 'Joy to the World,'" then announced "by Three Dog Night." What? I only had to hear the first four words to figure this one out: "Jeremiah was a bullfrog…" I really did laugh out loud. If you are tired of the usual music by this time, you might enjoy this one. So, anyway, here's my addition to the Christmas playlist for this year:

Don't complain. It's still better than Feliz Navidad. And with that, Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
East Pole Journal

A couple of items from the East Pole Journal

Major problem with a 48-year-old solution

48 years old and still cooking

In many ways this year has been the easiest for moving to the East Pole and re-establishing my residence. That was mostly due to my plan to come out for a few days with a light load, put in trails, then go out for the major part of my stuff and perishable foods that I didn't want to freeze. In that way I made it up to the cabin first try with the heavier loads of the second trip and didn't have to bring stuff up one small sled load at a time pulled up by hand,

As a result I've only had one major problem and still haven't solved it. Last year on the day I was leaving I bumped a section of the pipe that feeds propane to my lights and stove and it broke at a soldered joint. This stuff was put in years ago by a professional plumber who happened to have a cabin across the way and offered to do it for nothing. It has held up for more than 30 years so I have no complaint. But now I am faced with a plumbing problem I haven't been able to solve. I've come out four times with pieces and parts and only finally connected at least the stove and one light to the propane tank. But, I only got to use it one night and overnight a leak somewhere in the line (fortunately outdoors) leaked and emptied the tank. I had tested them all with hot soapy water. You coat the joint with that and any leak should create a bubble. I figured out later that the solution froze before a tiny leak could show up. I went through them all again and loosened, then tightened (with brass fittings you can turn them too tight and it will stretch the threads) all the fittings in the line. I turned on the propane and used hotter water but it still froze quickly and I do not trust it. As this is attached to my second tank I am afraid to turn it on and lose that whole tankful also.

Meanwhile I have been cooking on a two-burner Coleman stove which is fine until you need an oven and therein lies the problem. I brought a prime rib roast for Christmas eve dinner and a rack of lamb for New Year's Day and have been fretting about how to cook them without an oven. I have a cast iron dutch oven and cleaned it up today to look it over as a possibility on the wood stove. A pot roast recipe I found on the internet looked like it would work,  but a prime rib deserves better treatment.

So, anyway I am out on the porch watching the hypnotizing chickadees flitting back and forth around the feeder and I leaned back and banged my head on something metal that rattled. Bingo! I do believe I said that out loud. Holy crap. I have a top-of-the-line Weber grill that has all the fittings to handle a roast. I have roasted turkeys in it; and prime rib roasts. I bought it for $72 which was a half price deal my neighbor in Chicago arranged in 1972. It is 26 inches in diameter and has racks you use to separate the fire into two and place a drip pan between them to catch the juices. It has traveled with me from Chicago to Anchorage and finally to the East Pole, though I seldom use it. That's probably why it didn't come to mind right away. The last time I think was four years ago when a friend brought a couple of steaks out. So, woo hoo. Even with a working oven I might have done that roast in the grill if I had thought of it. Christmas Eve dinner is saved.

Things that go "creeaacckk" in the night

Yesterday at twilight I was standing on the deck and heard some thrashing and crashing in the woods at the bottom of the hill. At first it sounded like something heavy walking through breaking underbrush. There's a lot of it sticking up out of the snow. But, it didn't seem to move. I was moving in and out of the house and every time I went out I listened and it was still going on. My imagination started running out of control. A bear out in winter tearing into a fallen tree? A wolverine? This went on for two or three hours and I swear I even heard some movement as I was shutting things down to go to bed around 10 p.m.

Different year, different moose.

I heard a crack down there when I went out around 2 a.m. as well. Here's how spooked I was. I keep a cooler full of frozen meat outdoors buried in the snow. That usually works at least until mid March. I started to think if some unusual critter made those noises, what if it found my cooler. Once again discretion the better part of valor I brought the cooler indoors for the night and put it in the coolest part of the cabin.

In the morning nothing felt the least like any thawing had taken place

     Once daylight made it possible, I took the snowmachine down the hill to look around. Moose. It looked like the critter had chewed its way through several thickets of twigs and then laid down to sleep. The moose-sized sleep hole had melted all the way down to the grass so it must have spent an undisturbed night there. I'm glad that's all it was.

I did feel a little sheepish taking my cooler outdoors to bury it again, but that's life in the big woods.
UPDATE: I drove the snowmachine down there the next day to look around and for sure it was a moose. By the tracks I could tell it moved from thicket to thicket through several of them and chewed them down. Then the big hole in the snow indicated where it slept the night, stayed so long the snow melted down to the grass underneath. Mystery solved.
East Pole Journal

Cancer

I think it would be great if anyone involved with the disease took a look at this video.



Cancer takes a dear friend
A most remarkable woman

Is there a GOAT in the sled dog racing world?

For anyone interested in Alaska, the mystique, and the race
from Anchorage to Nome, this is the book.
Makes a great gift. Available at this web site.

     There's a new term that's been floating around the sports world this year — GOAT. It stands for Greatest of All Time and sports announcers and writers seem to love shouting each other down to declare their choice for greatest of all time in whatever sport they happen to be talking about at the time. Does it really matter? We all have our favorites and who gets to say who's greatest and why. Acknowledge the athlete without anointing him or her to a throne of majesty. Even if you tried to name a group, somebody would be left out and somebody would argue about somebody who is included and there really is no measure, so let it go. With that said, the argument rises in Alaska dog mushing too. Who is the greatest? Rick Swenson with his five Iditarod wins? George Attla or Doc Lombard with their numerous sprint racing achievements? Or do you go back to the historic mushers, Leonhard Seppala or Scotty Allen? My choice for that group would be Carl  Huntington. Among all the dog drivers who have run the big modern races Carl is the only one who won the Iditarod, the World Championship sprint race in Anchorage and the North American Championship in Fairbanks. Although he ran the slowest winning Iditarod time, he won by the largest margin of victory, almost a full day ahead of his nearest challenger. As one well-known musher has said, "he could take your dogs and beat you with them." That said, what follows here is an article I wrote about Carl for the book "Iditarod the First Ten Years." Greatest of all time? Maybe. He at least belongs in the discussion.

Excerpted from the book "Iditarod, The first Ten Years."
Carl Huntington only finished the Iditarod trail Sled Dog race once.  But in that one race he set himself apart. He established at least two statistical records that have stood for 40 years and a distinction that has never been equaled and probably never will be. Taken together they form one of the great ironies in sled dog racing.

In a career short by mushing standards and at a relatively young age, he took on the top racers in the biggest races of the day and at 26, beat them all.  Then he challenged the longest sled dog race and won it going away.  After that he went back to the shorter heat races and again won championships.

How does a man in his 20s challenge established competitors day after day and best them? 

Part of the answer is heritage.  He grew up taking care of his father Sidney’s dog lot. His uncle Jimmy Huntington won the World Championship at Fur Rendezvous in Anchorage and the North American in Fairbanks in 1956.  Another uncle, Cue Bifelt, won those races in 1960.

Another, larger part of the answer is something less tangible, something people associated with dog training and sports have tried to articulate over the years without much luck, and that is an innate connection with dogs, the kind of connection that creates a bond between dog and man and makes dogs want to run a thousand miles across Alaska.  Most people who know dogs and were fortunate enough to have met Carl recognized he had that special connection perhaps stronger than anyone.

Carl could read a dog and think like one.  Longtime musher Donna (Gentry) Massey put it this way: “He understood the processes of his dogs’ minds so well, that he could accurately predict how they would respond to certain situations. It was an ability to think like a dog faster than the dog could.”

Another of his competitors said, “He could take your dogs and beat you with them.”

He also had an eye for quality. His wife, Puddings, said, “He took  dogs that were absolutely beaten and turned them into beautiful animals and lead dogs.”

One of those was his leader Tex. In the early days of modern competitive sled dog racing, it was common practice for mushers to fly to villages and look over dogs, borrow, buy or lease the ones they liked. Tex came from his uncle, Cue Bifelt, in Huslia.

“She was a ‘scrap’ dog that was running around in Huslia, when Carl had gone up there to pick up dogs,” Puddings remembers,  “His uncle Jimmy threw her in the airplane and said to ‘take her and see what kind of dog she would make besides getting into trash cans.’”  Later after other mushers showed interest in the dog, Carl paid his uncle for her.

Carl had seen something in that dog beyond the scrap heap and then was able to bring it out of her. Through all of Carl’s unique accomplishments, Tex led his teams.