Misty Fjords National Monument
Salmon, bear, rainforest. The connection is both immediate and eternal. Immediate, as the salmon twists and writhes, plucked from its cold, clear stream by a bear intent on laying on fat for the winter. Eternal, as the centuries-old cycle of death fostering life.
Pacific salmon are born in fresh water streams, but venture far out to sea for the majority of their adult lives. Consuming herring, jellyfish an krill, they mature into sleek, silvery swimmers, obeying some mysterious internal command to return to their natal streams. In doing so, they transport the enormous productivity of the ocean to the earthbound residents of this lush temperate rainforest. As they swim back to the place of their birth, these adult salmon spawn, and then die. Top-level carnivores, like bears and bald eagles, take advantage of the easy pickings in the stream shallows, and pull live salmon to the banks. Ravens and gulls feast on the leftovers. Western red cedar and Sitka spruce grow tall after being fertilized by the decaying remains. Over 130 rainforest species depend on the fats and proteins, nitrogen and phosphorous that these salmon provide.
We spent our entire day in the far reaches of Misty Fjords National Monument, intimately witnessing this phenomenal cycle. Huge schools of chum and pink salmon swam under kayaks and Zodiacs, while dozens of bald eagles perched on stream bank and tree top. Zodiac cruisers watched a river otter hoarding salmon, while kayakers paddled silently alongside a hungry black bear. The sights, sounds and smells were pure wild Alaska.
Late in the day, we lifted anchor and cruised the remainder of Rudyerd Bay, marveling at the soaring fjord walls veiled in wisps of clouds. Here, strong granitic shoulders withstood the icy onslaught of multiple glaciations, and we bore witness to their victory. Just in the fading light of day, we sailed out into Behm Canal and passed close to the picturesque New Eddystone Rock, named by Captain George Vancouver for a famous lighthouse off the coast of southwest England. We finished the day, and our time in Alaska, with a rousing chorus of The Eddystone Light, sung by all as a paean to life on “the rolling sea”.
Salmon, bear, rainforest. The connection is both immediate and eternal. Immediate, as the salmon twists and writhes, plucked from its cold, clear stream by a bear intent on laying on fat for the winter. Eternal, as the centuries-old cycle of death fostering life.
Pacific salmon are born in fresh water streams, but venture far out to sea for the majority of their adult lives. Consuming herring, jellyfish an krill, they mature into sleek, silvery swimmers, obeying some mysterious internal command to return to their natal streams. In doing so, they transport the enormous productivity of the ocean to the earthbound residents of this lush temperate rainforest. As they swim back to the place of their birth, these adult salmon spawn, and then die. Top-level carnivores, like bears and bald eagles, take advantage of the easy pickings in the stream shallows, and pull live salmon to the banks. Ravens and gulls feast on the leftovers. Western red cedar and Sitka spruce grow tall after being fertilized by the decaying remains. Over 130 rainforest species depend on the fats and proteins, nitrogen and phosphorous that these salmon provide.
We spent our entire day in the far reaches of Misty Fjords National Monument, intimately witnessing this phenomenal cycle. Huge schools of chum and pink salmon swam under kayaks and Zodiacs, while dozens of bald eagles perched on stream bank and tree top. Zodiac cruisers watched a river otter hoarding salmon, while kayakers paddled silently alongside a hungry black bear. The sights, sounds and smells were pure wild Alaska.
Late in the day, we lifted anchor and cruised the remainder of Rudyerd Bay, marveling at the soaring fjord walls veiled in wisps of clouds. Here, strong granitic shoulders withstood the icy onslaught of multiple glaciations, and we bore witness to their victory. Just in the fading light of day, we sailed out into Behm Canal and passed close to the picturesque New Eddystone Rock, named by Captain George Vancouver for a famous lighthouse off the coast of southwest England. We finished the day, and our time in Alaska, with a rousing chorus of The Eddystone Light, sung by all as a paean to life on “the rolling sea”.
