Chatham Strait & Pavlof Harbor
Chatham Strait is one of the longest and straightest fjords on Earth and today it served as our grounds for exploration. The peaks of Admiralty Island peeked through eastern grey skies but all eyes were to the west around Chichagof Island. Watchful eyes on the bow spotted the tell-tale hanging spray of distant humpback whales. While watching these Polynesian behemoths we had an impromptu visit from an old friend, Dr. Fred Sharpe of the Alaska Whale Foundation, who was brought over from their research vessel Evolution via RHIB (rigid hull inflatable boat). Dr. Sharpe shared some of his vast knowledge of humpback whale social systems and feeding behavior while we enjoyed the voyage’s first sightings of baleen whales.
After leaving the humpbacks and Dr. Sharpe, we headed to the sheltered waters of Pavlof Harbor. Yet before the anchor dog could be freed, a coastal brown bear was spotted on shore keeping the chains temporarily silent in the hawse. Due to a nearby salmon stream, it is not uncommon to share the shore with one of Alaska’s most iconic residents. During our afternoon hikes, bear prints, scat and sign were constant reminders of who the true landlords are.
The pungent smell of salmon putrefaction may test the limits of our olfactory sense, but this is an integral step in forest fertilization. Partially eaten fish bodies, laden with nutrients harnessed hundreds of miles away, littered the shoreline and forest floor. Even within the strongly flowing river, we watched as pink salmon, battered and tattered from a long journey to their natal streams, swam in zombie-like fashion unable to fight much longer. With each carangiform beat of their tail, energy levels drop closer and closer to zero. Minute by minute we watched fish one step closer to senescence. Spawned-out adults will eventually be converted into trees, bears, baby salmon and even jellies. The heartbeat of Southeast Alaska follows the rhythm of the tide and the pulse of salmon. They are the red blood cells of this complex ecosystem.
To see just how far-reaching the effects of incoming salmon can be, Hotel Manager Michael and I went for a dive not far from our anchorage. Scanning a rock outcrop for signs of movement and a flash of color, we were happy to encounter dozens of quillback rockfish and even the resident juvenile yellow-eye rockfish. After diving this site several times this season, we have been very lucky to recognize individual animals that rarely stray more than a few yards from where we spotted them last. We have even found a large hermit crab, with a uniquely-shaped sponge instead of a shell, that never fails to sit on the same rock, facing the same direction every dive.
Our most celebrated resident must be the rather large and slightly intimidating giant Pacific octopus. With an arm-span longer than I am tall, this cephalopod always makes for a great film subject. Our only problem is finding this denizen each dive because it has several caves to choose from. Today, though, the octopus’ cave of choice was marked with what could only be described as a beacon. Outside of the cave, plain as day, at 65 feet below the surface, lay the cleanly picked skeleton and still fleshy head of a large salmon.
