Greetings, y'all! It has been a very long time since I last posted on the Trekking Transcendentalist Blog, and the backlog of stories I'd like to share is vast. Recently, I returned extraordinarily renewed after my first solo camping trip in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The journey and adventures were wonderful and I cannot wait to share the events in future blog posts. For now, I'll leave you with a link to my flickr photos from my adventures in the South.
Happy Trekking!
https://flic.kr/s/aHskue5YjG
Sunday, April 3, 2016
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Thoreau and Emerson in the New York Times
Transcendentalism in the news:
Wild and Craggy, Just Like Thoreau
Although, I can offer a few quips about Thoreau's 'experience in nature,' I like the idea of "Civil Disobedience" being played out atop a mountain in the philosopher's honor. Get out and explore--and name things after transcendentalists!
Wild and Craggy, Just Like Thoreau
Although, I can offer a few quips about Thoreau's 'experience in nature,' I like the idea of "Civil Disobedience" being played out atop a mountain in the philosopher's honor. Get out and explore--and name things after transcendentalists!
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Musing about Walden
The following entry was originally born onto the page as a sample independent reading response for my students to use as a model. Although the piece could be deemed 'snooze-worthy' by the average 8th grader (and perhaps by some adults), I recognized its potential as a beautiful edition to "The Trekking Transcendentalist." Enjoy!
Walden by Henry David Thoreau
In 1845, Henry David Thoreau decided to apply Ralph Waldo Emerson’s transcendental philosophies to his life by escaping society and living within nature. Although Emerson’s transcendental ideas are meant to be followed in a more spiritual and theoretical fashion, Thoreau decided to trade in materialism for self-reliance and built a cabin in the woods near Walden Pond. Thoreau spent one year at Walden where he hewed his own wood, hunted for his own meat, grew his own crops, and built his own house. Although I have a few gripes about how truly ‘self-sufficient’ Thoreau was—he interacted with many people on Walden Pond, inherited a half-completed cabin, and received food from pitying locals—Thoreau does muse well about nature. My favorite quote from Walden illustrates the inherent conflict of wanting to explore nature while guarding its purity:
Walden by Henry David Thoreau
In 1845, Henry David Thoreau decided to apply Ralph Waldo Emerson’s transcendental philosophies to his life by escaping society and living within nature. Although Emerson’s transcendental ideas are meant to be followed in a more spiritual and theoretical fashion, Thoreau decided to trade in materialism for self-reliance and built a cabin in the woods near Walden Pond. Thoreau spent one year at Walden where he hewed his own wood, hunted for his own meat, grew his own crops, and built his own house. Although I have a few gripes about how truly ‘self-sufficient’ Thoreau was—he interacted with many people on Walden Pond, inherited a half-completed cabin, and received food from pitying locals—Thoreau does muse well about nature. My favorite quote from Walden illustrates the inherent conflict of wanting to explore nature while guarding its purity:
“We need the tonic of wildness...At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable. We can never have enough of nature” (Thoreau 122).
This quote stands out to me most because it represents how everyone seeks the tonic of wildness and that once people get a taste of nature, they grapple with the issue of immersing themselves within nature while desiring that it will remain untouched by man. In connection to Walden, Thoreau is commenting on the fact that although he finds tranquility within the woods surrounding Walden Pond, he wants to preserve the territory as a place that is vacant of man and wild with nature. While Thoreau wants to preserve nature, he also wants to live among it—claiming that “we can never have enough.” Thoreau’s message serves to illustrate the ‘slippery slope of exploration,’ in which humans have a tendency to ‘over indulge’ in something they want to preserve and end up removing its novelty and its purity through exploration.
Thoreau’s quote connects well with my life because, I too, find myself yearning for nature, yet wanting to preserve it. For me, living in the Alaskan backcountry for seventeen days was one of the most extraordinary and humbling experiences of my life. I was forever at the mercy of Mother Nature—her creatures, her weather, and her violent change. While in nature, I was in awe of everything around me and both wanted to explore it, yet wanted it to remain untouched. In my explorations most of the ‘leaving nature untouched’ came from the perspective of ‘other people leaving nature untouched;’ me, I could be immersed in nature as much as possible without fear of destroying anything. My concern in connection to Thoreau’s quote is the idea that other humans over-love, over-process, and over-harvest nature. We begin with this sense of being in awe of nature, of wanting to immerse ourselves in it—because it is so pure and wild, but in immersing ourselves within it, a bit of wildness is lost. The issue, that we all yearn for nature, yet want to protect it, is the issue about which Thoreau was speaking. This is the issue with which I grapple while exploring and it is the issue that most naturalists feel is their number one concern. Although we need the tonic of wildness, we all need to learn how to preserve it.
Thoreau’s quote connects well with my life because, I too, find myself yearning for nature, yet wanting to preserve it. For me, living in the Alaskan backcountry for seventeen days was one of the most extraordinary and humbling experiences of my life. I was forever at the mercy of Mother Nature—her creatures, her weather, and her violent change. While in nature, I was in awe of everything around me and both wanted to explore it, yet wanted it to remain untouched. In my explorations most of the ‘leaving nature untouched’ came from the perspective of ‘other people leaving nature untouched;’ me, I could be immersed in nature as much as possible without fear of destroying anything. My concern in connection to Thoreau’s quote is the idea that other humans over-love, over-process, and over-harvest nature. We begin with this sense of being in awe of nature, of wanting to immerse ourselves in it—because it is so pure and wild, but in immersing ourselves within it, a bit of wildness is lost. The issue, that we all yearn for nature, yet want to protect it, is the issue about which Thoreau was speaking. This is the issue with which I grapple while exploring and it is the issue that most naturalists feel is their number one concern. Although we need the tonic of wildness, we all need to learn how to preserve it.
Friday, August 15, 2014
Immersion in Nature Can Be Risky, But It's a Risk Worth Taking
Below is a link to an interesting article published by NPR that outlines how immersing one's self in nature can be risky. As a transcendentalist at heart, I agree that escaping into nature is a risk, but it is a risk worth taking (as long as you are prepared and head out knowing it is risky). When Gavin and I explored Alaska, risk was evident. Before leaving cushy New Jersey, I always was somewhat aware of how risky a sea kayaking trip in the wilderness of Southeastern Alaska would be, but until I was in the thick of the wilderness, the bay, and at the mercy of Mother Nature, could I fully grasp how risky the situation truly was. During some particularly trying moments in Alaska, when the danger of hypothermia was in full swing, I remember Gavin looking at me, slashing his arm through the pouring rain, pointing to nature, nature, nature; the absence of human life and shouting: "This is not some Disney princess paddle through Glacier Bay! We could die out here!" His remark came from a small mistake I had made on our journey--something so minuscule that in society, one wouldn't even bat an eye. But here, out here in 3.3 million acres of wilderness, surrounded by no one else except wildlife, a small mistake is big. So big, it could cost you your life. Although I knew it was risky, I, then, fully became aware of the grandeur of this risk. As someone who typically pays attention to detail, I became more focused on survival and surroundings than I had ever done in my life.
All of this commentary serves not to dissuade folks from immersing themselves in nature--I truly believe nature is great for the soul--but instead it is meant to remove the veil of safety from the wilderness, exposing the harsh realities for which any trekker needs to be prepared. In the words of a seasoned Park Ranger from Glacier Bay (a celebrity in his own right for being in the park orientation videos, which Gavin and I watched three times, which made recognizing the now grizzled and slightly aged ranger in an airport a simple task): "You could do everything right in the backcountry and still die."
Happy reading and happy SAFE, RESPONSIBLE, ALERT trekking!
"Immersion in Nature, Naturally, Can Be Risky" NPR
All of this commentary serves not to dissuade folks from immersing themselves in nature--I truly believe nature is great for the soul--but instead it is meant to remove the veil of safety from the wilderness, exposing the harsh realities for which any trekker needs to be prepared. In the words of a seasoned Park Ranger from Glacier Bay (a celebrity in his own right for being in the park orientation videos, which Gavin and I watched three times, which made recognizing the now grizzled and slightly aged ranger in an airport a simple task): "You could do everything right in the backcountry and still die."
Happy reading and happy SAFE, RESPONSIBLE, ALERT trekking!
"Immersion in Nature, Naturally, Can Be Risky" NPR
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Canoeing in Algonquin Provincial Park: The Beginning
Whereas sea kayaking in Southeastern Alaska was a lesson in extreme backcountry exploration, canoeing in Algonquin Provincial Park was a lesson in zen relaxation. Our trip began on Kiosk lake, located just outside of Mattawa, where we spent one evening in the campground's jump-off site--the site where you can simply slip your canoe into the water and paddle into the wilderness.
(To backtrack, our trip really began in New Jersey around 4:30 AM where we scooted up through Canada on Route 81N, but nothing besides a stop at a Tim Horton's warrants exciting storytelling).
Well--as the Canadians say--anyways... We arrived at the Kiosk campground twelve hours after our departure from New Jersey and wiggled our way down an 18 KM paved (read: dirt) road to reach the ranger station. As a slip up on my behalf, I underestimated the length of this 'paved' road and we headed into Access Point 29: Kiosk Lake with only a quarter tank of gas--a mistake which conjured up humorous images of the Seinfeld episode where Kramer rides along the interstate on "empty" to see how far his car would go. Although thoughts of Seinfeld are lighthearted and comforting--knowing that Kramer made it pretty far running on fumes, quelled fears about being 'stuck on empty' in Kiosk--the present situation warranted an emotion that was everything but happy. So after making it down the dirt road, apologizing for the lack of gas, pushing thoughts of Seinfeld from my mind, checking in with the Ranger, inquiring about the nearest gas station, and being comforted by the kind, Canadian Ranger, we set up camp in the jump-off site. If you'd indulge a sweeping generalization: Canadians are the easiest-going people on the planet. As evidenced by several situations and encounters--to be recounted throughout this post--Canadians seem to shrug off worries and move on. A great mentality indeed!
The evening was spent organizing our gear and eating as much of the food from our fridge--that would have spoiled at home--before turning in. After a peaceful night's rest, peppered by periods of noisy neighbors and a smattering of rain showers, we stuffed our sleeping bags into dry sacks, shoved some food into a bear barrel (the other in a bag to be hung on a tree limb), slathered our skin with sunscreen, and pushed off into the Canadian wilderness.
Day 1--Kiosk Lake to Manitou Lake
On our first day, Gavin and I encountered three portages--three portages that grew exponentially in distance. A 'portage' is where canoeists have to exit their canoe in order to bypass non-traversable sections of a particular lake or sections in between two lakes. The non-traversable sections may either be water falls, rapids, low-water areas, or an absence of a water source linking two lakes--in other words: land. On these portages, the canoeist exits their canoe, removes all of their gear, and then heaves the canoe over their shoulders. They then proceed to march the canoe through the woods along a portage trail. Portage trails can be very maintained with easy footing or they can be like the portage trails we encountered--steep, rocky, root-filled, and muddy. After the canoeist transports their canoe across the trail, they must then walk back to their gear and portage it to the other side. Some canoeists (read: not us) achieve what is called a "single carry," in which they carry both their gear and their canoe in one trip across the portage trail. In order to successfully complete a single carry, you need an ultralight canoe and not very much gear. For us, that meant double carry all the way.
While most canoeists in Algonquin paddle around in 15-25 pound canoes, Gavin and I took the trusty touring canoe on this adventure. Our touring canoe--while sleek, sturdy, and reliable--weighs a whopping 70 pounds! That is 70 pounds that someone has to heave over their shoulders and march along forest trails--sometimes trails over a 3/4 mile in length! An impressive feat, I'd say. Last year, Gavin canoed in Algonquin solo and had to portage that 70 pound baby on his own (wow!) This year, he had me. Each time we would approach a portage, Gavin and I would unload the boat and then step to the right side. Bending our knees (or trying to as effectively as possible) we'd grip the gunwale and arc the massive boat over our heads and onto our shoulders. The visual is very akin to people walking within a donkey costume in which Gavin was in charge of the head and I, well, I was the other end.
Anyways, on the first day Gavin and I portaged our gear and our 70-lb. vessel across three portages: 200 meters, 275 meters, and 1355 meters. Following these portages, Gavin and I made it to our first backcountry lake: Manitou. As soon as we made it through the clearing of trees and onto the beach overlooking the lake, the clouds rolled in, the wind kicked up, and we sought shelter.
Before sneaking our gear and ourselves into a backcountry site located near the portage trail, Gavin was approached by a kind Canadian gentleman who asked information about which lake we were on. A bit puzzled, Gavin told him Manitou Lake and whipped out our well-worn and ziploc-sheathed map. In a twist of events and a horrible sense of direction, this Canadian man had misguided his group through three non-essential portages in the opposite direction. Instead of being on Manitou Lake, he and his crew were supposed to be on Mink Lake--located east of Kiosk, not west. When the Canadian man realized his error, he simply smiled, laughed, and said, "Well hopefully the group will be up for a change of plans..." He then thanked us--as we stood somewhat bewildered by his nonchalant attitude--and ran back to his friends. It was at that moment, when Gavin and I both realized we needed to relax more and embrace the Canadian's joie de vivre.
After the happy Canadian encounter and the passing of the storm, Gavin and I hopped in our canoe and paddled in search of a backcountry campsite on Manitou Lake. In Algonquin Provincial Park, each lake contains several campsites from which canoeists can choose. The campsites are first come, first serve and reservations need to be made for each lake in order to ensure someone is not left without a site. The campsites are marked with neon orange signs posted on tree trunks and are also found on the park map. The first site to which Gavin and I decided to paddle was an island site. This island site was absolutely perfect--flat ground, great cooking area, nice shade, easy put-in for the canoe, huge rocks for jumping, and a clean backcountry toilet. In case you are imagining a fancy-smancy flush toilet, backcountry toilets are simply vault toilets or outhouses. In reality, they are a wooden box with a hole in the center that hovers above a hole in the ground. It's the lazy-man's cat-hole*--one that's already established.
After checking out our new site and smiling at the fact that we could lay claim to a whole island, Gavin and I hung our food from a tree (to protect it from being consumed by the local wildlife), went for a quick swim in the lake, and then tucked into bed.
*A cat-hole is what is dug by backcountry campers when they are without a toilet. Essentially it is a hole in the ground in which you, you know, do your business. Afterwards, it is covered with dirt, and hopefully, with a very large rock.
(To backtrack, our trip really began in New Jersey around 4:30 AM where we scooted up through Canada on Route 81N, but nothing besides a stop at a Tim Horton's warrants exciting storytelling).
Well--as the Canadians say--anyways... We arrived at the Kiosk campground twelve hours after our departure from New Jersey and wiggled our way down an 18 KM paved (read: dirt) road to reach the ranger station. As a slip up on my behalf, I underestimated the length of this 'paved' road and we headed into Access Point 29: Kiosk Lake with only a quarter tank of gas--a mistake which conjured up humorous images of the Seinfeld episode where Kramer rides along the interstate on "empty" to see how far his car would go. Although thoughts of Seinfeld are lighthearted and comforting--knowing that Kramer made it pretty far running on fumes, quelled fears about being 'stuck on empty' in Kiosk--the present situation warranted an emotion that was everything but happy. So after making it down the dirt road, apologizing for the lack of gas, pushing thoughts of Seinfeld from my mind, checking in with the Ranger, inquiring about the nearest gas station, and being comforted by the kind, Canadian Ranger, we set up camp in the jump-off site. If you'd indulge a sweeping generalization: Canadians are the easiest-going people on the planet. As evidenced by several situations and encounters--to be recounted throughout this post--Canadians seem to shrug off worries and move on. A great mentality indeed!
The evening was spent organizing our gear and eating as much of the food from our fridge--that would have spoiled at home--before turning in. After a peaceful night's rest, peppered by periods of noisy neighbors and a smattering of rain showers, we stuffed our sleeping bags into dry sacks, shoved some food into a bear barrel (the other in a bag to be hung on a tree limb), slathered our skin with sunscreen, and pushed off into the Canadian wilderness.
Day 1--Kiosk Lake to Manitou Lake
On our first day, Gavin and I encountered three portages--three portages that grew exponentially in distance. A 'portage' is where canoeists have to exit their canoe in order to bypass non-traversable sections of a particular lake or sections in between two lakes. The non-traversable sections may either be water falls, rapids, low-water areas, or an absence of a water source linking two lakes--in other words: land. On these portages, the canoeist exits their canoe, removes all of their gear, and then heaves the canoe over their shoulders. They then proceed to march the canoe through the woods along a portage trail. Portage trails can be very maintained with easy footing or they can be like the portage trails we encountered--steep, rocky, root-filled, and muddy. After the canoeist transports their canoe across the trail, they must then walk back to their gear and portage it to the other side. Some canoeists (read: not us) achieve what is called a "single carry," in which they carry both their gear and their canoe in one trip across the portage trail. In order to successfully complete a single carry, you need an ultralight canoe and not very much gear. For us, that meant double carry all the way.
While most canoeists in Algonquin paddle around in 15-25 pound canoes, Gavin and I took the trusty touring canoe on this adventure. Our touring canoe--while sleek, sturdy, and reliable--weighs a whopping 70 pounds! That is 70 pounds that someone has to heave over their shoulders and march along forest trails--sometimes trails over a 3/4 mile in length! An impressive feat, I'd say. Last year, Gavin canoed in Algonquin solo and had to portage that 70 pound baby on his own (wow!) This year, he had me. Each time we would approach a portage, Gavin and I would unload the boat and then step to the right side. Bending our knees (or trying to as effectively as possible) we'd grip the gunwale and arc the massive boat over our heads and onto our shoulders. The visual is very akin to people walking within a donkey costume in which Gavin was in charge of the head and I, well, I was the other end.
Anyways, on the first day Gavin and I portaged our gear and our 70-lb. vessel across three portages: 200 meters, 275 meters, and 1355 meters. Following these portages, Gavin and I made it to our first backcountry lake: Manitou. As soon as we made it through the clearing of trees and onto the beach overlooking the lake, the clouds rolled in, the wind kicked up, and we sought shelter.
Before sneaking our gear and ourselves into a backcountry site located near the portage trail, Gavin was approached by a kind Canadian gentleman who asked information about which lake we were on. A bit puzzled, Gavin told him Manitou Lake and whipped out our well-worn and ziploc-sheathed map. In a twist of events and a horrible sense of direction, this Canadian man had misguided his group through three non-essential portages in the opposite direction. Instead of being on Manitou Lake, he and his crew were supposed to be on Mink Lake--located east of Kiosk, not west. When the Canadian man realized his error, he simply smiled, laughed, and said, "Well hopefully the group will be up for a change of plans..." He then thanked us--as we stood somewhat bewildered by his nonchalant attitude--and ran back to his friends. It was at that moment, when Gavin and I both realized we needed to relax more and embrace the Canadian's joie de vivre.
After the happy Canadian encounter and the passing of the storm, Gavin and I hopped in our canoe and paddled in search of a backcountry campsite on Manitou Lake. In Algonquin Provincial Park, each lake contains several campsites from which canoeists can choose. The campsites are first come, first serve and reservations need to be made for each lake in order to ensure someone is not left without a site. The campsites are marked with neon orange signs posted on tree trunks and are also found on the park map. The first site to which Gavin and I decided to paddle was an island site. This island site was absolutely perfect--flat ground, great cooking area, nice shade, easy put-in for the canoe, huge rocks for jumping, and a clean backcountry toilet. In case you are imagining a fancy-smancy flush toilet, backcountry toilets are simply vault toilets or outhouses. In reality, they are a wooden box with a hole in the center that hovers above a hole in the ground. It's the lazy-man's cat-hole*--one that's already established.
After checking out our new site and smiling at the fact that we could lay claim to a whole island, Gavin and I hung our food from a tree (to protect it from being consumed by the local wildlife), went for a quick swim in the lake, and then tucked into bed.
*A cat-hole is what is dug by backcountry campers when they are without a toilet. Essentially it is a hole in the ground in which you, you know, do your business. Afterwards, it is covered with dirt, and hopefully, with a very large rock.
The Kiosk Jump-off Site
"Kioshkokwi" means "lake of many gulls" in Algonquin
A happy canoeist in Kiosk
En route to our long portage
Our longest portage--1355 meters
The beginning of the portage trail
Paddling on Manitou Lake
Signs at the backcountry campsites that denote where the toilet is located
Beautiful Manitou Lake
Our island campsite on Manitou Lake
Our awesome tent
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Day 1: Sundew Point to Skidmore Bay and Charpentier Inlet
After the Baranof Wind pulled away, and Gavin and I gathered our thoughts, we began packing the kayak. Two small green stuff sacks were shoved in the bow and stern of the kayak, the five bear barrels were placed behind my seat; a gallon of white gas, the dromedary, and the tripod sat behind Gavin's seat. Our sleeping bags and pads--kept in a dry bag--were shoved in the nose of the kayak and our remaining gear was lassoed down on top of the boat. Gavin placed the park map beneath the bungees on top of the kayak and proudly wore a compass around his neck--throughout the trip, Gavin was the master-navigator.
Gavin was also in charge of the rudder--a foreign feature found on sea kayaks to which avid canoeist have difficulty adjusting. My role in this kayaking venture was to paddle. I was in charge of pushing the paddle through the water and building up endurance while struggling against wind, tides, and some hair-raising waves. In other words, Gavin had the brains, the logic, and I had the brawn.
As soon as we pushed off shore on our rainy first day, we were instantly surrounded by marine wildlife. A few yards away a humpback whale spouted--welcoming us to his territory. We also came across skittish seals who would pop up in our path, look around, and then sink below the surface. On our first paddle we also saw a few harbor porpoises jump through the water in search of a meal. The water was teeming with life and the scenery was beautiful (and rainy).
Our first day was mainly spent figuring out the kayak and working out all of the kinks with the rudder. After we left Sundew Cove--our drop-off point--we paddled into the Hugh Miller Inlet and then traveled a scant four miles before plopping on a swath of land located at the junction of Skidmore Bay and Charpentier Inlet. The campsite we found was beautiful and in close proximity to fresh water. The beach was littered with shells and remnants of sea urchins and the wooded areas were covered in moose pellets (which meant there was a good chance of having some large visitors). Since it was pouring, cold, and we were exhausted from a long day, Gavin and I unpacked our gear, set-up the tent, and crawled inside.
As the rain was still coming down steadily, we were quickly reminded about our leaky tent. Recognizing that a wet tent could equal a wet sleeping bag, which could equal hypothermia, which--as we were miles away from humanity--could equal death, I used my creativity and wove our tarp in between the tent body and the fly. Our tent became waterproof once again. After peeling off our wet clothes and nodding at the fact that Gore-tex is not really as waterproof as it claims to be, Gavin and I crawled into our bags and bid the day adieu.
Suddenly, Gavin remembered that there was a pack of gum shoved in the front of the backpack which had been sheltered beneath the tent vestibule. Since rule #1 of backcountry camping is to have all scented items far away from one's tent and in a bear barrel, Gavin begrudgingly slipped into his Gortex jacket and hiked to the bear vault. Minutes later, Gavin burst back into the tent, his Gore-tex jacket rain slicked, and prepared to climb back into bed. Before doing so, he checked the backpack one more time to ensure all food items were placed in the barrels. Unfortunately--and this is a mistake for which I am still paying--an orange had been left in the front of the bag.
*Flashback to the Baranof Wind: Lunch on the boat consisted of a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a choice of fruit. By the time I consumed my sandwich and the bread from Gavin's, I was stuffed and decided to return both the bag of chips and the orange. As per Gavin's suggestion, I shoved the orange in the front of the backpack to be consumed as a high-sugar snack at a later time.
As soon as Gavin reached into the bag and retrieved the orange, his eyes flashed angrily at mine and the memory of the ordeal on the Baranof Wind washed over me. The orange. Why hadn't I remembered the orange? I offered wildly to dispose of the orange in one of the vaults, but Gavin simply shook his head and stomped out of the tent, into the rain and 50 degree weather, again. When he returned I apologized profusely and we both hunkered down for a peaceful, warm night.
In that moment, it became starkly clear that I was a neophyte in the backcountry and that in order to make it out alive, I would have to pay close attention to everything at all times. Unfortunately, since I was still learning how to navigate my way in the wilderness, there were a few mistakes prior to the 'orange incident' and there would be a few more to come. Luckily, Gavin and I were dry, warm, happy, and still had the taste for adventure.
Gavin was also in charge of the rudder--a foreign feature found on sea kayaks to which avid canoeist have difficulty adjusting. My role in this kayaking venture was to paddle. I was in charge of pushing the paddle through the water and building up endurance while struggling against wind, tides, and some hair-raising waves. In other words, Gavin had the brains, the logic, and I had the brawn.
As soon as we pushed off shore on our rainy first day, we were instantly surrounded by marine wildlife. A few yards away a humpback whale spouted--welcoming us to his territory. We also came across skittish seals who would pop up in our path, look around, and then sink below the surface. On our first paddle we also saw a few harbor porpoises jump through the water in search of a meal. The water was teeming with life and the scenery was beautiful (and rainy).
Our first day was mainly spent figuring out the kayak and working out all of the kinks with the rudder. After we left Sundew Cove--our drop-off point--we paddled into the Hugh Miller Inlet and then traveled a scant four miles before plopping on a swath of land located at the junction of Skidmore Bay and Charpentier Inlet. The campsite we found was beautiful and in close proximity to fresh water. The beach was littered with shells and remnants of sea urchins and the wooded areas were covered in moose pellets (which meant there was a good chance of having some large visitors). Since it was pouring, cold, and we were exhausted from a long day, Gavin and I unpacked our gear, set-up the tent, and crawled inside.
As the rain was still coming down steadily, we were quickly reminded about our leaky tent. Recognizing that a wet tent could equal a wet sleeping bag, which could equal hypothermia, which--as we were miles away from humanity--could equal death, I used my creativity and wove our tarp in between the tent body and the fly. Our tent became waterproof once again. After peeling off our wet clothes and nodding at the fact that Gore-tex is not really as waterproof as it claims to be, Gavin and I crawled into our bags and bid the day adieu.
Suddenly, Gavin remembered that there was a pack of gum shoved in the front of the backpack which had been sheltered beneath the tent vestibule. Since rule #1 of backcountry camping is to have all scented items far away from one's tent and in a bear barrel, Gavin begrudgingly slipped into his Gortex jacket and hiked to the bear vault. Minutes later, Gavin burst back into the tent, his Gore-tex jacket rain slicked, and prepared to climb back into bed. Before doing so, he checked the backpack one more time to ensure all food items were placed in the barrels. Unfortunately--and this is a mistake for which I am still paying--an orange had been left in the front of the bag.
*Flashback to the Baranof Wind: Lunch on the boat consisted of a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a choice of fruit. By the time I consumed my sandwich and the bread from Gavin's, I was stuffed and decided to return both the bag of chips and the orange. As per Gavin's suggestion, I shoved the orange in the front of the backpack to be consumed as a high-sugar snack at a later time.
As soon as Gavin reached into the bag and retrieved the orange, his eyes flashed angrily at mine and the memory of the ordeal on the Baranof Wind washed over me. The orange. Why hadn't I remembered the orange? I offered wildly to dispose of the orange in one of the vaults, but Gavin simply shook his head and stomped out of the tent, into the rain and 50 degree weather, again. When he returned I apologized profusely and we both hunkered down for a peaceful, warm night.
In that moment, it became starkly clear that I was a neophyte in the backcountry and that in order to make it out alive, I would have to pay close attention to everything at all times. Unfortunately, since I was still learning how to navigate my way in the wilderness, there were a few mistakes prior to the 'orange incident' and there would be a few more to come. Luckily, Gavin and I were dry, warm, happy, and still had the taste for adventure.
The last photo our point and shoot camera took before biting the dust. Here, wind-whipped and rain-slicked Gavin loads the kayak before pushing onward to adventure!
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Stepping Off the Baranof Wind and into the Wild
After a couple of peaceful nights in the Glacier Bay Campground, a short hike around Bartlett Cove, coffee in the intertidal zone (the area that is flushed by the extreme rising and falling of the tide), and several orientations, our kayaking exploration was about to begin.
Prior to heading out in the kayak, Gavin and I prepared our gear by making it 'waterproof.' We stuffed the bear barrels with plastic bags and designated specific barrels for each type of product. One barrel housed our toiletries, another held the coffee, rolled oats, and dried fruit; a third had as much cheese and hard salami/pepperoni that would fit. A fourth container had dried soup mix and bouillon cubes, and a fifth contained trail mix, nuts, and dried apricots. In addition to prepping the bear barrels, Gavin and I practiced stuffing our dry sacks with clothing, sleeping bags, sleeping pads, and our tent--all items that must be kept dry. With our gear organized, we fell asleep to the comforting spouts of whales in the cove and set our sights to tomorrow's exploration.
Our alarm went off at 4:15 AM and we awoke to rain and a dripping tent. All last year when we explored America and its campgrounds during our cross-country road trip, we had never experienced a leaky tent. Then again, our tent had never experienced an Alaskan downpour. We quickly tried to protect our sleeping bags and began stuffing everything into dry sacks. After about an hour breaking down camp, and zipping up in our Gore-tex, we wheeled our gear to the Bartlett Cove dock and prepared for our departure into the wilderness.
At 6:30--in 48 degree weather and a steady rain--Gavin and I hauled our kayak and all of our gear onto the Baranof Wind, a tour boat that takes lodge visitors on a six hour journey through Glacier Bay. Gavin and I sat on board the ship wearing our PFDs unaware of the drop-off procedure. In my mind, the boat was a simple ferry that would carry us to our drop-off point, leave us in the wilderness, and would carry the remaining, jean-clad and umbrella-toting passengers on a scenic tour of the park. Little did we know that we, too, would be traveling on a four-hour portion of the tour and would be fed, kept warm, and provided all-you-can-drink hot beverages.
On the boat, Gavin and I met a lot of wonderful people. The first kind folks we talked with were an older married couple who were on a month-long tour of Alaska. We delighted in sharing stories of past trips and we were warmed with each others' company. The next group of helpful people were the wonderful staff members on the Baranof Wind--namely Jared, Lauren, and Megan--who gave us helpful tips and advice about where to paddle, where to camp, and what to see. The final group of people with whom we chatted was a group of twelve kayakers that we picked up from Mount Wright, a pick-up/drop-off location on the East Arm of Glacier Bay. The kayakers were a school group that was lead by a seasoned kayaker, Alison. In a fascinating twist of events, Alison revealed that the school group was from a New Jersey high school--information at which my ears perked up and I desired to ask which one.
"The Lawrenceville School," was her response, and the information was almost earth-shattering.
The reason I was so taken aback was this--here Gavin and I were, in the middle of nowhere Alaska, cruising Glacier Bay, waiting to be dropped off in the wilderness, and there's a group of students from a school located only minutes away from our Ewing, New Jersey residence. What are the odds? After reeling back from the shock of this 'small world' interaction, Gavin and I sought more advice from Alison and began to feel comforted about our upcoming excursion in the Alaskan backcountry.
The Baranof Wind cruise was truly remarkable and it allowed for us to see territory we would not be chartering in our kayak. While aboard, Gavin and I saw humpback whales, sea otters, seals, sea lions, mountain goats, a brown bear, and the calving Margerie Glacier. With an exception to the mountain goats, Gavin and I would see many of the other creatures during our paddle throughout Glacier Bay and within the Icy Strait.
When it came time for us to begin prepping for our drop-off, the wind was still whipping, the rain was still steady, and it was still only about 50 degrees. Being left, beached, as the boat pulled away was not looking too exciting. The Baranof Wind approached our drop-off point, Sundew Cove, located on the West Arm of the park, and all of the tour passengers ogled us as we prepared to 'fire line' our gear to the shore. We began passing bag after bag through a line of people to the beach where we, too, would soon set foot.
After all of our gear was stashed on the beach, well above the tide line, we unloaded the kayak. As per a suggestion by the Glacier Bay Sea Kayak owner, Leah, Gavin and I sported 'water shoes' out of fear of having our rubber boots top over with water. So, we stepped our sandal-clad feet into frigid Glacier Bay, caught the bow of our kayak, and hauled it on shore. As soon as all of our gear was off the boat, the kind folks on the Baranof Wind wished us safe travels and the lodge people snapped photos of us, frantically waving as the boat pulled away.
Watching the warm, sheltered ship pull away from the beach where we were stranded in search of adventure, was somewhat stress-inducing. After a brief moment, Gavin and I snapped back to reality and began to load our kayak. Our adventure was underway. No rain, no wind, nor cold conditions would stop our exploration. Day one in Glacier Bay had begun.
Prior to heading out in the kayak, Gavin and I prepared our gear by making it 'waterproof.' We stuffed the bear barrels with plastic bags and designated specific barrels for each type of product. One barrel housed our toiletries, another held the coffee, rolled oats, and dried fruit; a third had as much cheese and hard salami/pepperoni that would fit. A fourth container had dried soup mix and bouillon cubes, and a fifth contained trail mix, nuts, and dried apricots. In addition to prepping the bear barrels, Gavin and I practiced stuffing our dry sacks with clothing, sleeping bags, sleeping pads, and our tent--all items that must be kept dry. With our gear organized, we fell asleep to the comforting spouts of whales in the cove and set our sights to tomorrow's exploration.
Our alarm went off at 4:15 AM and we awoke to rain and a dripping tent. All last year when we explored America and its campgrounds during our cross-country road trip, we had never experienced a leaky tent. Then again, our tent had never experienced an Alaskan downpour. We quickly tried to protect our sleeping bags and began stuffing everything into dry sacks. After about an hour breaking down camp, and zipping up in our Gore-tex, we wheeled our gear to the Bartlett Cove dock and prepared for our departure into the wilderness.
At 6:30--in 48 degree weather and a steady rain--Gavin and I hauled our kayak and all of our gear onto the Baranof Wind, a tour boat that takes lodge visitors on a six hour journey through Glacier Bay. Gavin and I sat on board the ship wearing our PFDs unaware of the drop-off procedure. In my mind, the boat was a simple ferry that would carry us to our drop-off point, leave us in the wilderness, and would carry the remaining, jean-clad and umbrella-toting passengers on a scenic tour of the park. Little did we know that we, too, would be traveling on a four-hour portion of the tour and would be fed, kept warm, and provided all-you-can-drink hot beverages.
On the boat, Gavin and I met a lot of wonderful people. The first kind folks we talked with were an older married couple who were on a month-long tour of Alaska. We delighted in sharing stories of past trips and we were warmed with each others' company. The next group of helpful people were the wonderful staff members on the Baranof Wind--namely Jared, Lauren, and Megan--who gave us helpful tips and advice about where to paddle, where to camp, and what to see. The final group of people with whom we chatted was a group of twelve kayakers that we picked up from Mount Wright, a pick-up/drop-off location on the East Arm of Glacier Bay. The kayakers were a school group that was lead by a seasoned kayaker, Alison. In a fascinating twist of events, Alison revealed that the school group was from a New Jersey high school--information at which my ears perked up and I desired to ask which one.
"The Lawrenceville School," was her response, and the information was almost earth-shattering.
The reason I was so taken aback was this--here Gavin and I were, in the middle of nowhere Alaska, cruising Glacier Bay, waiting to be dropped off in the wilderness, and there's a group of students from a school located only minutes away from our Ewing, New Jersey residence. What are the odds? After reeling back from the shock of this 'small world' interaction, Gavin and I sought more advice from Alison and began to feel comforted about our upcoming excursion in the Alaskan backcountry.
The Baranof Wind cruise was truly remarkable and it allowed for us to see territory we would not be chartering in our kayak. While aboard, Gavin and I saw humpback whales, sea otters, seals, sea lions, mountain goats, a brown bear, and the calving Margerie Glacier. With an exception to the mountain goats, Gavin and I would see many of the other creatures during our paddle throughout Glacier Bay and within the Icy Strait.
When it came time for us to begin prepping for our drop-off, the wind was still whipping, the rain was still steady, and it was still only about 50 degrees. Being left, beached, as the boat pulled away was not looking too exciting. The Baranof Wind approached our drop-off point, Sundew Cove, located on the West Arm of the park, and all of the tour passengers ogled us as we prepared to 'fire line' our gear to the shore. We began passing bag after bag through a line of people to the beach where we, too, would soon set foot.
After all of our gear was stashed on the beach, well above the tide line, we unloaded the kayak. As per a suggestion by the Glacier Bay Sea Kayak owner, Leah, Gavin and I sported 'water shoes' out of fear of having our rubber boots top over with water. So, we stepped our sandal-clad feet into frigid Glacier Bay, caught the bow of our kayak, and hauled it on shore. As soon as all of our gear was off the boat, the kind folks on the Baranof Wind wished us safe travels and the lodge people snapped photos of us, frantically waving as the boat pulled away.
Watching the warm, sheltered ship pull away from the beach where we were stranded in search of adventure, was somewhat stress-inducing. After a brief moment, Gavin and I snapped back to reality and began to load our kayak. Our adventure was underway. No rain, no wind, nor cold conditions would stop our exploration. Day one in Glacier Bay had begun.
The Baranof Wind
Rachel posing in her rain-soaked Gore-tex on the Baranof Wind
Our 'dry' camp shoes
Our life- (and toe)-saving rubber boots
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