Icebergs surround us. They’re as clear as glass and as brilliant as turquoise gemstones. It’s a sunny summer day in Alaska’s Tracy Arm, but the air holds a chill. Suddenly, an explosive blast rips through the South Sawyer tidewater glacier, and a house-size hunk of ice thunders down the face, creating a sizable wave.

My partner, Bill Watson—a ski boat handler who knows a thing or two about waves—watches transfixed alongside me in our 10-foot inflatable as the wave approaches from a mile or so away. The rise and fall of seals relaxing on broken-off bergy bits mark the wave’s progress. The 15-foot wave slips under them, and then us, making its way down the long, narrow fjord to where we left our mothership, a Nordic Tug 37.

It’s a moment as memorable as any on our 10-week trip aboard Osprey, which we chartered through San Juan Sailing and Yachting in Washington state. Modern electronics, excellent cruising guides and close attention to weather make the round-trip itinerary to Alaska far easier and safer than my voyages here in the early 1990s. Back then, when I was professional crew on sail-training boats, passages were often rushed with few opportunities to actually cruise. With Osprey, we could take a leisurely pace.

Osprey departed Bellingham in late May and became home to Brian Cantwell, who served as crew for the entire round-trip voyage to Juneau. Sailmaker Carol Hasse (like the rest of us, retired) was aboard for the initial two weeks.

With its new sights, sounds, scents and occasional adrenaline rush, cruising cements experiences and stretches time—for me, a veritable antidote to aging. I have become acutely aware of the poignancy of the passage of time—while we were cruising, my best friend moved into a senior facility, and another friend entered hospice, reminders to cherish every day.

I had longed to return to Alaska for its mirror-calm anchorages, where the sound of hidden rivers splash into the salt water and the shoreline is encrusted with the white scale of barnacles, the ocean-blue of mussels, the ocher of seaweed and the resinous scent of conifers that grow so close to the shoreline. At high tide, Hasse says of the trees, “It seems like they are lifting their skirts to keep from getting wet.”

Alaska’s whales and waterfalls, boom towns, ghost towns, hot springs and rainforests were all experiences I wanted to share with my shipmates. An additional allure was visiting the villages of the many Northwest Coast native artists I’d come to know through my work at the Arctic Raven Gallery in Friday Harbor on Washington’s San Juan Island.

The Road Less Traveled The beauty of the Inside Passage lies in its infinite variety, which makes it a bit difficult to choose a route. A multitude of spectacular cruising grounds are worthy of weeks or months to explore, including the well-known Gulf Islands, Desolation Sound, the Broughtons and Vancouver Island.

Queen Charlotte Sound is the most exposed and potentially difficult 40-mile stretch along the Inside Passage. It’s not a problem in a powerboat if you are willing to wait for good weather, but even without wind, ebbing currents colliding with incoming Pacific Ocean swells can make for rough water.

During my previous crossings, the norm was calm seas with dolphins or Dall’s porpoises cavorting in the bow wake. On this trip, we anchored and waited for settled weather in Bull Harbour on Hope Island, an alternative to popular spots like Port Hardy or God’s Pocket. The next morning, a lone sea otter patrolled the empty anchorage before we set off for a calm crossing of Queen Charlotte and Fitz Hugh sounds. We anchored in Codville lagoon for the night before heading onward to wait for a weather window at Shearwater Resort in Northern British Columbia.

From there, we navigated the rocky, narrow Reid Passage into Mathieson Channel, exiting into tiny Jackson Pass—places we most likely wouldn’t have chosen without local knowledge. From Jackson, we traversed Finlayson Channel to enter the less-exposed Tolmie Channel.

Then, there’s a seemingly endless maze of mountain-crowned passages: Princess Royal Channel, Graham Reach, Fraser Reach and Grenville Channel. And, just when these channels started to get monotonous, we’d see a waterfall streaking white against a high granite cliff, or watch as a barge passed, loaded with trailers, buses and containers. The rainy, mid-60s weather made the waterfalls all the more spectacular. Where channels meet, the view opens to a multitude of blue-gray islands fading into layer on layer of snow-capped mountains.

Butedale Heading up Graham Reach, we arrived at Butedale. It’s one of the most evocative places along the Inside Passage, and a photographer’s paradise for those who see the beauty in decay.

Once home to thousands of cannery workers, the few remaining buildings are abandoned, save for a caretaker. He wasn’t present when we tied up to the surprisingly sound dock (signs warn: tie up and explore the area at your own risk). Nature had swallowed most of the moss-covered timbers and buildings I recalled from
previous visits.

Several spectacular steep-walled anchorages punctuate Grenville Channel, on the way to Prince Rupert. My favorites are Baker Inlet (only enter at slack water during neap tides to avoid dangerous currents) and Klewnuggit. Getting to safe anchorages at both involves threading the needle for a few miles.

As we anchored, Hasse imparted this wisdom: “Finding a good spot to anchor is similar to a dog circling before it lays down. Do your circles, checking depths, the chart and distance from shore before you lay the hook down.”

Prince Rupert The dynamic port city of Prince Rupert, the largest town in Northern British Columbia, is worth a few days to explore, reprovision and even catch the ferry to Port Hardy on
Vancouver Island.

We moored the boat at the Prince Rupert Rowing and Yacht Club in Cow Bay, where the shower and laundry facilities are top-notch. Cow Bay is convenient to downtown pubs, parks and walking trails. Nearby, Atlin Terminal houses the Visitors Center and engaging Port Interpretive Center.

For me, the highlight was the Museum of Northern British Columbia, with its massive beams and cedar scents. This museum showcases the art and artifacts of the Tsimshian and Haida natives, who have inhabited the area since the end of the last ice age.

From Prince Rupert, it’s necessary to negotiate Dixon Entrance, the last totally exposed 35-mile portion of the Inside Passage. We, like many smaller-boat mariners, spent the night at Dundas Island to break up the passage before heading to Ketchikan, Alaska.

Ketchikan I love the quirkiness of this rustic, bustling tourist town sandwiched between high mountains and a finger of the sea. A big part of its character comes from the pen of longtime artist Ray Troll, whose tongue-in-cheek artwork can be found at his Soho Coho gallery on Creek Street, and on murals, mugs and T-shirts all over town.

We moored at Thomas Basin, within steps of the downtown historic district, including the infamous Potlatch Bar that one author described as having “all the noise, violence and energy of America trapped in a single room.” We found the locals welcoming as we enjoyed Alaskan Brewing Co. beers and a tame night of karaoke.

Ketchikan’s excellent bus service provides access to what I consider the most intriguing collections of totem poles in Alaska:
Saxman Village to the north, and Totem Bight State Historical Park to the south. The William Seward shame pole and Abraham Lincoln peace pole at Saxman are some of the best examples of native Tlingit creativity in wood. And, if the timing is right, you can see salmon leaping up the fish ladder at nearby Ketchikan Creek as you walk the trail toward the hatchery. The Totem Heritage Center, where contemporary and ancient poles are interpreted and on display, is also nearby.

The city is also the gateway to Misty Fjords National Monument, a vast wilderness of glaciers, bears, deer, wolves and mountain goats that we hoped to visit on our way south. A stop in tiny Meyer’s Chuck broke up our passage to Petersburg. The population swells with visitors in the summer, but in the winter, there are only three full-time residents including my old friend Lee Greeley, who lives off the bounty of the land and sea. She bestowed us with fresh flowers, rhubarb, smoked salmon and spruce tip syrup.

Tracy Arm After a rainy stop in Petersburg, we motored about 75 miles north to the magnificent, iceberg-filled Tracy Arm and anchored in Tracy Arm Cove. Early the next morning, we headed up
the 22-mile fjord to arrive at the glaciers before the cruise ships.

The infinite variety of cool-spectrum colors and glacier-polished granite peaks speaks to one’s spirit. It was sobering to realize, however, how much the glacier had retreated since my last visit 30 years ago.

Tenakee Springs Dall’s porpoises, with swift black and white streaks, rode our bow as we headed into Tenakee Inlet on Chichagof Island. There, we took the dirt road to the rustic downtown and heard a rustling in the salmonberry bushes. We clapped, and a few yards from us, a startled bear took off across the road, into the woods. Locals later told us it’s safe to hike in the adjacent forest because the bears are all in town eating salmonberries.

Tenakee, like many of the small towns we visited, has a marina mostly filled with fishing boats. There’s a true communal spirit, including a hot spring, free-to-use commercial kitchen and greenhouse. The hot spring has separate hours for men and women (no swimsuits allowed). It’s a relaxing and a fun way to meet a local or two.

As we exited Tenakee Inlet, 10 or so humpback whales emerged with mouths gaping and baleen plates ballooning underneath, bubble-net feeding by stunning the fish and herding them to the surface. We heard a loud, foghorn-type sound, and all the whales disappeared, only to emerge a few minutes later when the whale coordinating the effort made the sound again. We watched this mesmerizing behavior for more than an hour. There has been what folks call a “humpback comeback” throughout the Inside Passage, with more humpbacks ranging over a much wider area than in the past decades. Another wildlife rebound is that of sea otters. Once hunted almost to extinction for their thick, valuable fur, federal protection has allowed them to strongly repopulate southeast Alaska and northern British Columbia; we see rafts of them casually floating on their backs near Pybus Bay on Admiralty Island.

Sitka This is one of our favorite moorages for its fascinating Russian and native history, and friendly, small-town vibe. A lucrative Alaska fur-trading operation with China let the Russians establish a prosperous community here in the early 19th century, until America purchased Alaska in 1867. We moored at Eliason Harbor with a stunning view of snow-capped Arrowhead peak and the Three Sisters.

To appreciate the Russian influence, Brian and I toured the Russian Bishop’s House and attended the Divine Liturgy service in St. Michael’s Cathedral. An exact replica of the original church built in the 1840s, its dazzling interior is filled with paintings and priceless icons. The Aleut priest dispensed incense as he looked each of us in the eye and performed the service in English, Tlingit and Orthodox languages.

We also visited the state’s oldest museum, the Sheldon Jackson Museum, whose exhibits have been called a jewel in the crown of Alaska’s ethnographic collections. Jackson, believing that the culture of Alaskan native peoples would disappear, created the museum in 1897 to house his extensive collection. It’s heartening to see that he was wrong, with native culture reasserting itself throughout the Pacific Northwest and Alaska today.

From there, we walked to the nearby totem trail at Sitka National Historical Park. It depicts Tlingit history and culture, and portrays life when this region was a Russian stronghold.

Daytime temperatures were in the high 70s—the best spell of weather Sitka had enjoyed in 10 years, locals told us. We timed our departure to arrive at slack water through Sergius Narrows and Peril Strait between Chichagof and Baranof Islands, stopping briefly to watch a humpback whale spout and slip gracefully under the water, its tail almost vertical. Chatham Strait then took us south to Baranof Warm Springs.

Baranof Warm Springs Our afternoon arrival meant the 250-foot floating dock was already full, so we anchored overnight. In the morning, the forest hike past verdant ferns, skunkweed and salmonberry to the steaming, open-air mineral pools perched on the edge of the raging Baranof River. When the pool got too hot, I submerged myself in the frigid river between rocks, out of the strong current. It was an icy thrill.

The next day, we soaked in the public bathhouse just up from the dock, where hot mineral water is piped into private, big, blue tubs with an open-air view of the waterfall thundering into the bay.

Leaving Baranof, to avoid the fetch in Chatham Strait, we exited into Keku Strait and then shallow, narrow Rocky Pass between Kuiu and Kupreanof islands—an intense navigational challenge through hairpin turns. Flood current enters the strait at both ends and can reach 2.4 knots at Devil’s Elbow. It’s best to navigate at high slack water (keep in mind that several navigation aides are missing or have moved). Knowing that the following day’s forecast was poor, we spent a long day motoring to Coffman Cove on Prince of Wales Island.

Coffman Cove Cruising guides say Coffman Cove is always full of fishing boats, but we were able to tie up on the breakwater at twilight. To our amazement, the friendly harbormaster greeted us on the VHF radio after seeing us from his perch at the bar.

We joined him and the bar owners for an evening of local color. He told us, “Spread the word. We can always make room for visiting boats now that several fishing boats have left the marina.”

From Coffman Cove to Ketchikan was the most uncomfortable passage of the trip as we headed down Clarence Strait with 27-knot winds and 4-foot seas on the nose. An ebb current exacerbated the situation as we crossed the entrance to Behm Canal before entering Tongass Narrows toward Ketchikan.

Homeward We somewhat retraced our steps with reprovisioning stops at Ketchikan and Prince Rupert. Canadian clearance is done online and by phone before stopping in Prince Rupert. Heading south in Grenville Channel, I saw a “witch’s hat” in the distance—what I call the tall dorsal fin of a male orca—and then the mist and dorsal fins of perhaps eight more whales, including one curious juvenile that spy-hopped to checked us out. Later, as we crossed Queen Charlotte Sound in uncomfortable, ocean-
generated swells, we again encountered a pod of foraging orcas.

Now that I’m back home, I miss the gentle roll of the boat at night and the connection to the aliveness that is Alaska. I hope this story conveys the wild-heart energy of Alaska and inspires you on your own journey north.  

Northwest Coast Native Culture

All along the Inside Passage, especially in the larger towns such as Campbell River, Wrangell, Prince Rupert, Ketchikan, Juneau and Sitka, the native presence is acknowledged and honored in totem parks, building facades, plazas, museums and more.

The village of Alert Bay on Cormorant Island is perhaps the best example of an enduring Northwest coastal village. The evocative Namgis Kwakwaka’wakw burial ground’s mortuary poles and big house, and the U’mista Cultural Centre, are imaginatively carved or painted. U’mista houses one of the world’s finest collections of historic potlatch ceremonial masks. These dramatic masks often articulate to transform, perhaps opening and closing to mimic a bird’s beak. Some are menacing, while others display bawdy humor as they mimic throwing snot.

Ceremonies often start with mourning masks, to express sorrow for loved ones who are no longer present.

Recommended Reading: The Waggoner Guide, updated yearly, is an invaluable resource for the Inside Passage as far north as Ketchikan. Other good titles include The Exploring Series by Don Douglass and Réanne Hemingway-Douglass, Dreamspeaker Guides, and Ports and Passes.

This article was originally published in the January/February 2023 issue.