Route Information -- [see here]
We started at Kelty Cove, also called the Pakenham Point anchorage, on the east shore of the Barry Arm just north of its confluence with Port Wells. Our mode of transport: the trusty touring kayak (two tandems). On Day 1 we traveled a leisurely 6 or 7 km northward along the coast to set up camp beneath Mt. Curtis.

Day 2 we rounded Point Doran and entered Harriman Fjord, heading west along the southern coast to camp at Bugpool, known to Whittier natives as Viewpoint, from which vantage are visible Harriman Glacier at the western end of the fjord, Surprise Glacier at the end of Surprise Inlet across the fjord to the north, Serpentine Glacier at the end of Serpentine Cove across the fjord to the northeast, and Coxe Glacier all the way at the northeastern end of the Barry Arm. This paddle covered about 12 km. Two of our number added a loop of some 9 km with an additional paddle southwest along the southern shore of Harriman for water, then across the fjord on a fruitless search for a campground with superior feng shui.

Day 3 we explored Surprise Inlet and Surprise Glacier, then returned to Bugpool, a round trip of some 13 km, frolics and detours aside.

Day 4 was a day of rest and indolent languor.

Day 5 we paddled to Harriman Glacier, thence to the foot of Cataract Glacier back on the southwest coast of Surprise Inlet, and finally to our evening's campsite under Baker Glacier across the Inlet, a journey covering some 25 km.

Day 6 we paddled to Hobo Bay, traveling back east through Harriman Fjord, rounding Point Doran into the Barry Arm, heading south all the way through the Arm to where it joins Port Wells. This journey covered about 25 km. Some of us also made the round-trip from our campsite at the mouth of Hobo Bay to the end of the Bay at Hobo Creek, after sunset (2.5 additional km).

On Day 7 we paddled back north into the Barry Arm about 3 km to a small lagoon where we beached our kayaks to hike up to the ruins of the granite mines there. Then we returned to our site at Hobo Bay, after which some of us repeated the paddle to Hobo Creek, this time in daylight.

Day 8 was our pick-up day, and although we were not picked up until 15:30, we treated it as a second day of sloth and luxury.

Trip Information
We were four on the trip: Balton, Matt Brown, Matt Elkin, and myself. We all flew to Anchorage, where we spent a night at the home of our impeccably gracious Anchorage connection and hostess Sarah Kalish. The next morning Sarah drove us the hour or so southeast through the newly opened tunnel to Whittier. At Whittier we picked up our kayaks from the good people at Prince William Sound Kayak Center, and caught a (horrifyingly expensive but what can you do) water-taxi ride from Gerry Sanger of Sound Eco Adventures to cover the 50 or so kilometers to Kelty Cove, our real starting point.

Day 1: We Begin. Our water taxi left us off at Kelty Cove, on the east coast of the Barry Arm, at around 15:00. We offloaded our kayaks and gear onto a piece of land that is an island by high tide and a peninsula by low. As we organized our gear, the tidal flat sank away under the rising tide, permitting us, when we launched, to cut between the island and the mainland.

During the hour or less we spent sorting, loading, and drinking in the view at Kelty, the anchorage was alive with leaping salmon (pinks), often with three or more fish simultaneously out of the water. We failed, however, to capture any by positioning our kayaks to receive them.

Due to our late start we didn't cover much ground, but rather set up a leisurely camp just 6 or 7 km north, below Mt. Curtis. The mosquitoes were bad there for the hour or so preceding sunset, but otherwise negligible. Being four men on a seven night trip, we had brought along 11 liters of wine, into which we made good headway that night. When he wasn't looking, I unbuttoned Matt Brown's shirt and rebuttoned it one buttonhole off, and he didn't notice until the next morning.

At around 1:30 a.m., we were amazed by the sound of a whale (or whales) breathing as it (or they) drifted past us. It was hard to tell how many animals there were, since none of us knew how regularly they might be breathing, or how rapidly they might be swimming, but it seemed to me there must have been at least two of them. We knew that orca were the whales most commonly found in the area, and therefore assumed that what we heard were orca. Later, however, when we saw orca, we realized that the whales we heard must have been of a considerably larger species. A humpback was seen in the vicinity a few days later; perhaps what we heard were humpback. In any case, the sound was awesome, unmistakably the exhalations of a titanic and powerful beast, coming to us out of the darkness. Matt Brown and I very nearly paddled a kayak out to try to catch a glimpse of them, but reasoned that the chance would almost certainly present itself again, at a time when we had less of the Spanish red vino aboard -- sa-ha! -- and thus would better be able to judge and deal with any risks that might arise... alas, we were mistaken in this supposition, and a unique opportunity was lost.

Dinner: Pasta with andouille sausage and fried fresh sage.

Day 2: To Bugpool. We had world enough, we knew, to fulfill any man's desire, but we feared we had insufficient time to linger overlong before setting about fulfilling it. So it was that we elected to head directly for a basecamp from which we could explore the western butt of our cul-de-sac, the extreme edge of our bounded range. Our site, chosen on the map before we started out, was ideally positioned in certain respects: it provided easy access to Harriman and Surprise Glaciers, as well as clear line of sight to Harriman Glacier at the end of the fjord to the west, Surprise Glacier at the end of Surprise Inlet across the fjord to the north, Serpentine Glacier at the end of Serpentine Cove across the fjord to the northeast, and Coxe Glacier at the end of the Barry Arm to the northeast -- but so far as the mosquitoes were concerned, we could not have chosen worse. We dubbed the site Bugpool, for the odd pools of standing water in which the little vampires bred; these pools looked to me somewhat unnatural, sinkholes resulting ultimately perhaps from too many boot impressions left by too many human campers in one concentrated area.

Matt Elkin and I thought we might perhaps do better on the north side of the fjord, some four kilometers west by southwest, where our topographical map showed a broad flattish area and several permanent glacial streams. We first followed our own, southern coastline about 3 kilometers southwest to fill water at a stream there, and then paddled across, but found no superior campsite on the other side. Instead, we followed a maze of freshwater streams inland quite some distance, eventually reaching rills so shallow we could only make progress by standing upright in the boat and propelling it gondola-style. These explorations, while highly diverting, were not merely fruitless; they also provided Matt Brown with the opportunity to take advantage of our absence to fill our drybags with seawater.

Insects and accelerated erosion aside, Bugpool is a nice campsite in respects beyond than the spectacular view it affords: it comes equipped with a sheltered cove and pebble beach; a dramatic little tent-site at the very height of its "point," exposed to wind from all directions; stone-studded trails through the marshy ground to a broad, flat, relatively dry area for tents or lounging; similar trails leading to a much drier "highland" (where we did all our cooking and a good part of our lounging); a lovely fern gully; a hidden and equally lovely second cove, small and private; and other such amenities as a wilderness camper can hardly be expected to do without. Its chief drawback (other than the bugs and pools), is that it has no source of good water.

Dinner: Pasta with puttanesca sauce. This night we ran dangerously low on wine.

Day 3: Investigation of Surprise Glacier. Surprise is by far the most active of the glaciers within earshot of the Bugpool basecamp, although Serpentine, Surprise, and Harriman were all frequent sources of thunderous growls and roars as great chunks calved off them into the icy waters below. This thunder we heard constantly, but the closest of the glaciers, Surprise, was still six kilometers away, so that the calf would already have completed its fall more than three seconds before its first rumblings ever reached us. We thus only rarely actually saw a seemingly solid edifice detach itself and crash among the bergy bits below; only once were we so lucky from the distant vantage of Bugpool. On this day, then, we decided to investigate Surprise from close up.

Surprise Inlet, about 4 km long, lies directly across Harriman Fjord from Bugpool, Harriman being about 2 km wide at that point. The inlet is oriented approximately west by northwest-east by southeast. Surprise Glacier lies at the very end of the inlet. Above the southern (or south by southwestern) coast of the inlet hangs Cataract Glacier, from which flows a fairly powerful stream (complete with cataracts). Above the northern (or north by northeastern) coast of the inlet hang Detached and Baker Glaciers. As one enters the inlet, the northern coastline is basically flat, whereas the southern coast has a narrow beach which rapidly steepens into mountain. As one travels deeper into the inlet, both shores become steep, nearly sheer cliff rising straight out of the water, the north shore taller and steeper than the south. The end of the inlet is about a kilometer wide, with the glacier towering 70 meters above the ice-choked waters, and the rock walls to either side looming far higher.

Our first approach was roughly along the center channel of the inlet, aiming for the northern corner of the glacier. We had penetrated a little more than halfway to the end of the inlet when the going started getting extremely tough, our way being blocked by tight-packed ice. Small chunks of ice were not a problem, but before long we were forcing our way through bergy bits each of whose volume was on the same order of magnitude as our kayaks (or occupying four times the space of two kayaks each an eighth the size of one of ours, if you prefer), nosing them roughly aside to collide and pack tighter against other, still larger bits. We had timed our entry to coincide with the beginning of the falling tide, so we reasoned that the ice would gradually become less tightly packed as time passed. It was quite clear that at the height of the rising tide, with water and ice pouring into the cul-de-sac of the inlet, the ice could become very tightly packed indeed, even in this late-summer month. In case of a freak wave or other emergency, safe maneuvering under such conditions would be impossible, given our fragile fiberglass hulls.

Therefore we stopped for lunch at the stream under Cataract Glacier on the south shore. On the way there, we saw a house-sized chunk of Surprise fall with an Olympian roar and a mighty splash. We were not sure what to expect in the way of waves from the avalanche of ice; had the calf produced any kind of breaking wave, we would have been hard-pressed to escape being crushed by boulders of ice. As it was, there was no sense of danger, and the effect was in fact entirely hypnotic, almost psychedelic: as the slow, vast ripple approached, the plane of the water bent and warped toward us, studded with huge crystalline chunks... it was like the breathing of a vast silver-skinned beast.

After lunching and refilling our water bottles, we set out again, heading northward first, to a relatively open channel through the ice, then turning westward to follow it. Just as we headed west, a boatload of tourists arrived in a huge catamaran. Although nettled at this invasion of our private pagus, we were able to follow the boat's wake, which cut us a superhighway through the icy debris to the open water (cleared by the receding tide) radiating out a from the glacier's foot to a distance of about half a kilometer.

The nearer we approached the glacier, the more intense the physical experience became. First, there was the palpable blast of cold radiating fiercely from its face. The ice was a dirty white everywhere on its upper surface, but as an extremely active glacier, Surprise had recently calved along all parts of its face. Where it had calved, the ice was a luminescent blue, and much more fiercely cold than where its skin was unbroken. The cold felt like a relentless force pushing us away from the glacier, although we knew that veridically it was sucking the heat of our bodies toward it. The cold was accompanied by a strong outward wind which really did push us away -- but the impression as we forced our way ever closer to the ice-wall was that in addition to the wind the glacial cold itself was acting as a repulsive force, operative both physically and psychologically.

Then there was the sight of the glacier itself, its daunting bulk looming ever-larger as we approached. 65 or 70 meters does not seem excessively tall as one sits typing at one's Linux box in the safety of one's own home, but when one is sitting low in the water in a kayak, icy waters refrigerating one's nether extremities and the glacial wind providing a similar service above, surrounded by floating boulders which conceivably (perhaps due to a tragic but moronic misunderstanding of the tide charts) could suddenly crowd together to crush one's tiny boat, or (worse), in response to the Biggest Calving Ever (which could happen any time) be thrown directly onto the kayak even as it struggled to crest a high-breaking wave... 70 meters can, under such circumstances, appear very tall indeed. It seemed impossibly vast, and growing impossibly larger as we reached the half-kilometer point. And there was just that vague hint of menace, even malevolence, radiating out of the eerily glowing ice with that savage, penetrating, ever-fiercer blast of cold...

I think it is safe to say that we all felt to some degree the foreboding this engendered; of all of us, Matt Brown felt it the most keenly. He was sitting in the front of the kayak I was in, and that surely acted to increase the effect. The occupant of front seat is not only more vulnerable than the rear to spray, it being a perch way out near the nose of the vessel, but is in addition without any sense of control, since the rudder is controlled from the back. There is a feeling of powerlessness in the front seat of a tandem kayak, which is why I prefer single kayaks where logistics allow them.

In any event, by the time we reached the half-kilometer point, Matt's insistence that we turn back at once was becoming, well, insistent, and I began to fear that I would risk his lasting resentment if I pressed further. Therefore I turned northward, and we approached instead the granite wall of the northern coast, which towered far higher than the glacier to whose face we were now running parallel. Detached Glacier hung about 1000 meters above us, and the expanse of rock underneath was, unexpectedly, far more daunting than the 70 meters of ice glowering at us from our port side. Indeed, the vertiginous, gut-twisting approach to the northern shore was so much more irrationally threatening than the glacier had been that we were able, a few minutes later, to renew our approach to the glacier and reduce our distance from it by about half before Matt's desire to turn back regained its edge. By this time we felt very close indeed, and so we agreed to head back along the north shore to where it flattened out, in the hopes of finding driftwood there for our fire. We crammed our cargo holds with salt-swollen branches, strapped still more to our hulls under webbing, and returned to Bugpool.

Upon our return, Balton tied my bootlaces to Matt Elkin's so that we were constantly tripping over one another and knocking the other one down. We failed to deduce the reason for this until the following morning.

This night we shared Bugpool with another camper, one John Nickels, out on an extended trip taking photographs and checking out the state of the Sound 11 years after the Valdez disaster. He had not noticed our tents when he landed, and had set himself up on the dramatic site at Bugpool's point. We were happy to share the space with a fellow paddler, but he was, I think, a trifle embarrassed at his unintentional invasion, and kept himself strictly to "his" end of the extended site.

Dinner: Smoked trout sautéed with almonds and pignolas over couscous.

On this night, tragically, we drank the very last of our wine.

Day 4: Slothful Indulgence. We were all on a physiological wavelength which decreed that this should be a day of rest and relaxation. The local divinities were in accord, and provided us with the only day of high wind which we experienced during all the eight days we were out. The effect of the wind was to keep the mosquitoes grounded, so that we were hardly bothered at all during a full day in camp.

When we rose with the dawn -- or perhaps a few short hours after it -- we gathered together and swore a solemn compact to drink no more wine until our return to civilization.

By now we had begun to form an impression of our surroundings. The coastline here is rugged, and the land that thrusts up out of the sea to break the Sound into a maze of fjords and inlets is almost invariably mountainous -- were it not, it would have been ground down by glacier many centuries past and would now lie under the Sound rather than towering above it. The steep rock walls that make up most of the coast are nonetheless broken not infrequently by tidal flats or even a ribbon of relatively flat terrain lying close to the water's edge. In most cases, where flat land lies near the water, a thick foliage, quite difficult and probably destructive to penetrate, grows not far from the water's edge, as close as it can get without being killed by periodic inundation with sea water. In most places, the strip of land between the bosky interior and the sea is comprised either of rocky beach or tall, thick marsh grasses. Some stretches of coast are marked by rows of gray dead trees hard by the water's edge, the source of much of the available driftwood.

This country is astoundingly hydrophilic, a cold wet place to a degree that these words fail to convey. The water table is apparently quite high above sea level, at least in many places; everywhere that the sun is not directly shining condensation forms; the very molecules of the air seem constantly wavering on the brink of deciding whether or not to resolve themselves into rain -- at any moment, either outcome seems equally possible. Neither foliage nor earth is ever entirely dry here; cool fresh water is taken up and stored in every possible place.

After lazing about and playing Settlers of Catan all day, we noticed with a start that we had drunk all of our water, and had failed to send an expeditionary party out to acquire more. Balton and I set out in an unladen kayak on the highest seas we encountered in Alaskan waters; indeed, the hour or less that it took to travel the 2 or 2.5 km southwest to a stream, filter water to fill all our containers, and return, was probably the roughest period of the roughest day we saw. The wind and waves calmed and quieted within minutes of our arrival back at Bugpool with water.

Later that evening, Matt Elkin and I took several photographs of Balton voiding his bowels. These photographs have since been destroyed, as a service to humanity.

Dinner: Pasta with a hybrid sauce: white clam base supplemented with tinned salmon and chicken.

Day 5: Investigation of Harriman Glacier; Our Folly Made Manifest. Harriman Fjord is two kilometers wide the full 10 kilometers of its length from Bugpool to Harriman Glacier at its end. The glacier is therefore almost 2 kilometers wide where it reaches the water's edge at the end of the fjord, about twice as wide as Surprise. Its face is also significantly taller. However, Harriman is a much less active glacier, only showing the luminescent blue characteristic of recent calving along its southern third. The northern two-thirds are the dirty white of older glacier "skin."

So it was that we were able to land our boats right at Harriman's foot, on the thin black strand that its receding bulk has left. We touched the old ice with our hands, and listened to its unceasing crackling and groaning, the trickle of water deep within, and the faint whistling of the wind among its dirty, sculpted spires.

For lunch we paddled south to the broad flat area on the fjord's southern shore just before it ends and the glacier begins, under the Dirty Glacier. There we finalized the plan we had been developing; weather permitting -- meaning only if conditions were quite fair and the mountains' tops not too shrouded in mist and raincloud -- we would rise before dawn and reach the unnamed ~1700 meter triple summit south of Surprise Glacier, between Cataract and Roaring Glaciers. Ideally, we would camp under Cataract Glacier, near where we had lunched two days before, in order to avoid the time it would take to paddle to the mountain's foot in the morning.

Therefore we paddled back along Harriman Fjord not to Bugpool on its south shore but to the southwestern shore of Surprise Inlet, off Harriman's north shore. Underneath Cataract we found an extremely comfortable but clearly dangerous potential campsite, and no other options. This was an elevated, flat, sandy portion of a dry but sometimes-active branch of the roaring torrent coming out of Cataract. It was obvious to all of us that camping here would violate certain fundamental rules of safe camping -- Matt Brown was, at first, utterly aghast at the mere suggestion of camping there -- but gradually everyone came around to my view (your first clue, Gentle Reader, that disaster was impending) that although we would be at a calculated risk of flooding, we would only be there a bare minimum number of hours before starting out in the morning, and the risk of something going wrong would be minuscule. We investigated upstream and found plants growing in the dry streambed in sufficient numbers to convince us that this channel was rarely active.

During our deliberations we had pulled our kayaks just out of the water's reach; we judged the tides to be at very nearly their highest point, ready to begin receding. Now we set about unloading them, preparatory to moving both kayaks and gear further up toward the sandy area of our chosen campsite (fully loaded tandem kayaks are just too heavy to move far).

(It is worth parenthetically making clear that on a kayaking trip such as this, there is really only one moment in a day when an expedition is vulnerable to rain or sea, and that is the short period between unloading and setting up camp. When the kayaks are loaded, all gear that should be kept dry is so wrapped and stored that neither rain nor wave nor eskimo roll can wet it. Similarly, once camp has been set up, only the rainflies or tarps will be wet by rain; all other gear can be kept dry and warm in even the fiercest of storms, assuming the tents or tarps are well-placed. Clothing, sleeping bags, stoves, lamps -- all of these can be kept dry and useful, so long as one can avoid unloading the kayaks or setting up camp in the rain.)

We unloaded the gear to about ten feet above what we took to be the high tideline. Next we moved the kayaks up about twenty feet further, to just below our chosen campsite. At precisely that moment it began to rain. We quickly reconsidered our options. A dry streambed in the rain seems a much chancier proposition than a dry streambed where it might rain, so we decided we would not stay, after all. However, the rain was light, and we reckoned it would stop soon, and so we decided to wait until it did before we moved on. Therefore we covered our gear with tarps, and rigged up further tarps for ourselves.

Immediately upon completion of our rain shelter above -- already too late to avoid prevent us covering ourselves in wet sand -- the tide abruptly rose and small waves began breaking hard by our gear. We rushed madly to whip the tarps off -- spilling all the collected rainwater instantly thereon -- and toss it all another ten feet up the beach before covering it again with the tarps. Upon completion of this task, the waves increased in size and began breaking just under our gear's new location. We repeated the process, with similar gear-drenching results, this time bringing the gear all the way to the wet sand up top; we were glad we did, too, because immediately after we stopped, panting, to survey the new arrangement, still-stronger waves inundated the area just vacated. Then, as suddenly as they began, the waves calmed and ceased.

The rain did not break. It got harder. We repacked our wet, sandy gear into our wet kayaks, and launched (wetly, sandily) into the chill grey downpour.

We crossed Surprise Inlet to the flat area under Baker Glacier where we had collected wood two days before. There John Nickels was camping, and so we shared a second campsite with him, this time with the abashed intruders' role reversed.

Dinner: Black bean and polenta pie.

Day 6: To Hobo Bay. It rained all night and all morning long. Knowing that our climbing plans were already scotched, and hoping that the sun would break through, we slept in very late, and then dawdled over breaking camp, but to no avail -- we were forced to pack our gear still wet and sandy from the previous day's tomfoolery.

When finally we left camp in the misty grey of early afternoon, we had our sights set on Hobo Bay, all the way back out of Harriman Fjord, through Doran Strait, into and through the Barry Arm (past our starting point at Kelty Cove but hugging the west rather than the east coast of the Arm) and into Port Wells, until we reached the Bay where we would spend the next two nights. Given our late start, by the time we finished the 25 km journey the Alaskan summer sun was setting.

Foolishly, we had failed to collect water and firewood along the way. After setting up camp on the tall grasses covering the level ground at the Bay's mouth, Balton and I set out in the gathering darkness to find Hobo Creek, which our map indicated lay at the end of the Bay.

It was not yet entirely dark as we approached the stream, and by the last dying rays of the sun we saw a large furry animal on the shore nearby. It was difficult at first to get a sense of scale in the dim light, but as we neared the animal we suddenly realized with certainty that this was a black bear. Mere seconds later it reached an unfavorable conclusion as to our identity, and fled at a gallop, its bulk thundering outrageously over a hill and into woods. We heard its paws pounding the ground and its body crashing through brush for quite some time as it made good its escape; even in flight it was an imposing animal.

Following this encounter with a real, fleeing bear, savage, possibly rabid, imaginary bears lurked everywhere we attempted to land for water or wood. They lay in wait for us everywhere we turned, and, as a consequence, we returned to camp with precious little wood and water to show. Back at camp, neither Balton nor I was able to find any of our dry clothes, although we noticed both Matts had managed to bundle up quite heavily against the growing cold of night.

Dinner: Falafel and risotto surprise.

Day 7: Investigation of the Granite Mines; Proper Hunting Technique Explained. Between Hobo Bay to the south and Harrison Lagoon to the north, about 3 km paddle from our campsite, lie a pair of abandoned granite mines. We had been told in Whittier that the sites would soon be closed off, and so we decided to take advantage of the opportunity to see what was there. In places the trail to reach them was difficult to find through overgrown vegetation to find, but we persevered and made our way up to the two mines. Heavy machinery, rusting pipes, sheet metal. We found where what must have been a bunkhouse had once been, and the latrines. It is hard to imagine the men who lived workaday lives in such an isolated outpost, surrounded by such particularly untamed country.

On our return to camp Balton and I set out again for wood and water, both of which were urgently needed, with Matt Elkin accompanying us alone in the second kayak. Matt Brown, to his later regret, seized the opportunity for a nap.

We returned to the stream we had found the night before, this time void of ursine presence. It was, however, crammed with late-season pink salmon heading wearily upstream. Balton and I pumped water while Matt Elkin delved beneath the veneer of civilization girding his soul in search of the Mighty Hunter within.

Balton and I pumped water for probably a full half hour while Matt attempted to hunt salmon. His problem was that his presence looming over the fish spooked them, so that they immediately vacated whatever pool he was hunting in. Eventually he settled on one rock and remained motionless there.

After Balton and I finished, I joined Matt in the chase. After a minute or two, I looked at him stationed on his high rock, upstream of the pool he was looming over. I wanted to help him understand. "Ye'll have no luck like that; ye must do as I am doing. Get in the pool downstream of the pool you're looking at, hidden by the boulders separating the two pools, so the wee fishies aren't spooked by you towering over them like some great daft eejit," I explained.

Matt's only reply was calmly to invoke the assistance of the One True God by extending a single finger, like a monolith, heavenward.

About thirty seconds later he cast his paddle, and with a satisfying thunk he struck and nearly killed his quarry. With excited shouts we chased the wounded fish downstream, all three of us managing to fill our thigh-high rubber boots with water in the course of the chase. At last we ran her down and brought her out of the water.

I had to admit: I had been somewhat sickened by Matt's unwonted display of piety, but I could not but be impressed by its results. Ask, and ye shall receive.

We cleaned the fish there on the banks of the stream, dedicating its entrails and head to the Bear Gods, and its full belly of roe to the Leaping God of Salmon. We wrapped the body in pine branches and paddled back to camp with it, where we roasted it in its skin over the coals of our driftwood fire. Served with rice and sautéed onions and garlic, it made a toothsome change in our dinner plans that evening. Balton and I put its bones in the Matts' tea. They did not notice.

Dinner: Saumon rose avec du riz -- replacing sambaar lentil stew, the Leaping God be praised.

Day 8: Sad Farewells to Prince William Sound. Although our pick-up was not until 15:30, the glorious sunshine and the opportunity to dry out the rest of our wet gear were a powerful temptation to spend the day baking ourselves and our humid chattels on the sunny beach, drinking tea and pointing out one another's character flaws. Balton and the Matts were by this time indescribably filthy, thus providing considerable grist for our discursive mill.

Finally Gerry picked us up for the hour's ride back to Whittier. Our adventure wasn't quite over -- halfway along we found the sturdy Sound Access surrounded by a pod of orca. Gerry maintained old professional ties with the Fish and Wildlife Service, and wanted to photograph the big male's dorsal fin for identification purposes. We spent a few minutes maintaining position near the whales, and experiencing a joyful frisson each time they surfaced.

...And then we returned to Whittier, where Sarah had gone well beyond the requirements of good hostessing by waiting for us through all our delays -- making good use of the time by hiking to nearby glaciers -- to drive us back to Anchorage, where far too much revelry and roistering awaited us to be entered into this account. One final Alaskan night, and then we all returned to our various lower-48 destinations. Sarah herself was preparing for her move to Pulau, to work as a law clerk for the Supreme Court there... but that's another story.

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