Petersburg & Le Conte Bay, Alaska
Listen to what the children say, for in their simple, uncomplicated way, they extract the essence from the day.
He is just “knee high to a grasshopper” this youngest member of our crowd, but from his mouth emerged a word that said it all. “Aqua.” Water. It was not a drink he was asking for. Instead his tiny finger pointed out to sea and then with graceful motion the wrist rotated and a seeking palm reached up to test the sensation of a gentle rain as it sprinkled down from silver gray clouds above. Hours later the same word was applied to fragments of ice cast from the face of a glacier. Water in its many forms truly was what this day was all about.
There are legends here that explain the rise and fall of the tides and all living creatures have learned that when the water retreats from the shore a bountiful platter appears. Under pewter skies the surging currents gushed from Wrangell Narrows and swirled between an islet and the shore. With the negative tide of early morning harlequin ducks no longer had to dive to pry blue mussels from the ocean floor. Instead they waded to the shallows to nip the byssal threads and swallow these bivalves whole. On the opposite shore the houses of Petersburg stood silently, their occupants still asleep and oblivious of the eagle wars that were occurring just outside their front doors. A stranded fish or a remnant of one was all that was needed to initiate a feud. When the eagles were done, the gulls moved in, all shrieking and squeaking irritably. At the water’s edge stately great blue herons ignored the commotion and the easy pickings of the intertidal zone, preferring instead to catch their prey live as it swam by. The harbor was quiet as we sidled into the dock between colorful fishing boats. Orange sea stars clung tightly to the pilings waiting for the refreshing waters to immerse their bodies once again. Our visit here seemed tied to the tides, for as the waters reached their zenith, once again we slipped away.
The town provided a base from which we ventured forth in a myriad of directions and modes of transportation. Float planes, helicopters, Zodiacs and pedal power all provided a means to reach out and discover this water-dependent world. Aerial views of glaciers illustrated far better than words how rivers of ice flow and sculpt the land around. Where the ice had released the land, lush green vegetation dripped with epiphytes, evidence of the preponderance of moisture that falls in liquid form. In places the earth is sodden, supersaturated with tea-colored water. Here life is harsh. Water is everywhere, but not a drop to drink can be found except what falls from the sky. Plants must be miserly and not waste a molecule; not let any more than necessary be lost to transpiration. Water steals the nutrients from the soil and life becomes dwarfed or stunted. Here is the world of carnivores. Yes, big-toothed critters might pass through, but their diet is more omnivorous than that of the tiny glistening rosettes that twinkle with fluid tipped hairs. A clever trap they lay inviting unsuspecting insects to sample their wares. The trap is sprung. They are ensnared and the plant has a protein feast. Round-leaved sundew (Drosera rotunifolia) sits on mossy mounds where crawling insects roam while its cousin, the long-lived form (Drosera anglica) waits in shallow water for flying insect forms.
Le Conte Glacier is a busy one, speeding downhill at 30 meters per day, and yet it doesn’t grow. As fast as the falling snow is piled upon itself and compressed to glacial ice, gravity pulls it down toward the sea where it casts its progeny forth in crashing calving roars with such rapidity that, for many years, the fjord has been tightly choked with ice. And yet today luck was with us; the icebergs and bergy-bits parted enough for us to see its cracked and craggy form pouring over a cliff edge and into the tidal flow. We weren’t the only observers of this aqua in solid state. Hundreds of harbor seals rode the waves on icy rafts while bald eagles stood and stared nearby hoping for a feast of afterbirth.
As evening creeps across the sky and the sinking sun inches toward the horizon painting the snow striped mountains crimson, misty exhalations dot the sea of Frederick Sound. Humpback whales feast in the nutrient rich waters, their backs reflecting the pink of the coming night. There will be little darkness as summer is ushered in, but we will sleep satisfied, rocked by the gentle sea.
Listen to what the children say, for in their simple, uncomplicated way, they extract the essence from the day.
He is just “knee high to a grasshopper” this youngest member of our crowd, but from his mouth emerged a word that said it all. “Aqua.” Water. It was not a drink he was asking for. Instead his tiny finger pointed out to sea and then with graceful motion the wrist rotated and a seeking palm reached up to test the sensation of a gentle rain as it sprinkled down from silver gray clouds above. Hours later the same word was applied to fragments of ice cast from the face of a glacier. Water in its many forms truly was what this day was all about.
There are legends here that explain the rise and fall of the tides and all living creatures have learned that when the water retreats from the shore a bountiful platter appears. Under pewter skies the surging currents gushed from Wrangell Narrows and swirled between an islet and the shore. With the negative tide of early morning harlequin ducks no longer had to dive to pry blue mussels from the ocean floor. Instead they waded to the shallows to nip the byssal threads and swallow these bivalves whole. On the opposite shore the houses of Petersburg stood silently, their occupants still asleep and oblivious of the eagle wars that were occurring just outside their front doors. A stranded fish or a remnant of one was all that was needed to initiate a feud. When the eagles were done, the gulls moved in, all shrieking and squeaking irritably. At the water’s edge stately great blue herons ignored the commotion and the easy pickings of the intertidal zone, preferring instead to catch their prey live as it swam by. The harbor was quiet as we sidled into the dock between colorful fishing boats. Orange sea stars clung tightly to the pilings waiting for the refreshing waters to immerse their bodies once again. Our visit here seemed tied to the tides, for as the waters reached their zenith, once again we slipped away.
The town provided a base from which we ventured forth in a myriad of directions and modes of transportation. Float planes, helicopters, Zodiacs and pedal power all provided a means to reach out and discover this water-dependent world. Aerial views of glaciers illustrated far better than words how rivers of ice flow and sculpt the land around. Where the ice had released the land, lush green vegetation dripped with epiphytes, evidence of the preponderance of moisture that falls in liquid form. In places the earth is sodden, supersaturated with tea-colored water. Here life is harsh. Water is everywhere, but not a drop to drink can be found except what falls from the sky. Plants must be miserly and not waste a molecule; not let any more than necessary be lost to transpiration. Water steals the nutrients from the soil and life becomes dwarfed or stunted. Here is the world of carnivores. Yes, big-toothed critters might pass through, but their diet is more omnivorous than that of the tiny glistening rosettes that twinkle with fluid tipped hairs. A clever trap they lay inviting unsuspecting insects to sample their wares. The trap is sprung. They are ensnared and the plant has a protein feast. Round-leaved sundew (Drosera rotunifolia) sits on mossy mounds where crawling insects roam while its cousin, the long-lived form (Drosera anglica) waits in shallow water for flying insect forms.
Le Conte Glacier is a busy one, speeding downhill at 30 meters per day, and yet it doesn’t grow. As fast as the falling snow is piled upon itself and compressed to glacial ice, gravity pulls it down toward the sea where it casts its progeny forth in crashing calving roars with such rapidity that, for many years, the fjord has been tightly choked with ice. And yet today luck was with us; the icebergs and bergy-bits parted enough for us to see its cracked and craggy form pouring over a cliff edge and into the tidal flow. We weren’t the only observers of this aqua in solid state. Hundreds of harbor seals rode the waves on icy rafts while bald eagles stood and stared nearby hoping for a feast of afterbirth.
As evening creeps across the sky and the sinking sun inches toward the horizon painting the snow striped mountains crimson, misty exhalations dot the sea of Frederick Sound. Humpback whales feast in the nutrient rich waters, their backs reflecting the pink of the coming night. There will be little darkness as summer is ushered in, but we will sleep satisfied, rocked by the gentle sea.
