28 Nov
2011

Posted in: General
By Ian Plant    3 Comments

A Week in the Life: Glacier Bay Day 6

The story continues from A Week in the Life: Glacier Bay Day 5 . . .

Although there is a persistent light drizzle overnight, I awaken dry and comfortable, my first decent night sleep in almost a week. I crawl out of the warmth of my sleeping bag, dress, and exit my tent, only to find that everything is covered in heavy fog. Normally, fog wouldn’t present much of a problem, but we have an open water crossing across Skidmore Bay to reach our afternoon pick-up place. Needless to say, heavy fog will present some severe navigational challenges. Rich and I confer and look over the map, and decide that with a little bit of luck, we should be able to reach our destination.

We have breakfast, hoping that the mist will begin to clear some as the day progresses, but it doesn’t. After packing up our camping gear, I pay what will be my last visit to the intertidal zone for . . . how can I put this delicately . . . my morning business. Before heading into the backcountry, campers are instructed to deposit all human waste below the high tide line, so that it will be swept away by the sea during the tide cycles. It is a complex procedure, with the following steps: (1) find a large rock in the inter-tidal zone, one that has a few good handholds, (2) drop one’s trousers and underwear to the ankles, (3) grip the rock firmly with one hand, (4) lean back and assume the position, using the rock to keep oneself from falling backwards, (5) unleash the fury, and (6) commence clean-up. I should note that there is no privacy within the inter-tidal zone, a fact I learned the previous day when I looked up during my business to discover that a large cruise ship had silently rounded a corner and was now in plain view right before me. Just when I thought the embarrassment of having a thousand tourists witness my bowel movement couldn’t be any worse, I turned to see that Rich was behind me, taking a picture of the whole sorry affair. Rich, rest assured that my vengeance will be slow and painful, and will occur when you least expect it.

We are soon underway, paddling in calm waters, keeping as close to shore as we can so that we don’t lose our bearings. We head towards a string of islands that cross Skidmore Bay, hoping that we can hop from one to the next without losing sight of shore. Lucky for us, the islands do the trick, and we manage to safely navigate across the bay to the other side and our pick-up point.

After landing, we unpack our kayaks and prepare our gear for pick-up. When everything is set, we break out our backpacking stoves and proceed to cook and devour as much food as we can. Six days of rain, cold, and heavy exertion have taken their toll, and a large lunch helps lift our spirits. The light drizzle turns at times to a steadier rain, but for the moment the weather more or less holds off, and we manage to stay mostly dry and comfortable. We watch in awe as a trio of humpback whales lunge feed in the deep waters of our little cove; one comes out of the water not more than fifteen feet from the shore where we are standing. The light is completely flat and gray, so we don’t even bother to try and take pictures. Some things are better experienced than photographed.

Soon the tour boat arrives and pulls into shore, and before we know it, we are wrapped within the warmth and comfort of the boat’s main cabin. We enjoy hot chocolate and our first flush toilets in almost a week. At first we are mobbed by the other passengers, curious to hear about our exploits, but soon the fact that we have not showered in five days drives everyone away to a safe distance, allowing us to sit in silent repose. The high point of our trip back occurs when we pass a scrum of sea otters, at least forty or fifty that have linked together to form a small floating community. Once again, the light is not conducive to great photography, but it makes an interesting sight nonetheless.

We spend the night in the Glacier Bay Lodge, which gives us a chance to clean up and eat some hot food. Our decision to leave early turns out to be a wise one: that evening, it starts raining hard, and the rain doesn’t stop for several days. We spend the next few days trying to get out of Alaska, navigating through a maze of travel agent customer services lines and airport ticket counters in the hopes of catching earlier flights home.

It strikes me as somewhat ironic that, after spending so much time and energy getting to Alaska, and having so much excitement about the trip, that after almost three weeks all I want to do is get out and return home. Such is the life. Long weeks in the field are necessary to make one’s living as a pro nature photographer, but it is these long weeks in the field that make us appreciate the comforts and luxuries of home. I find that my life is eternally divided and conflicted—when I am in the field, I yearn for home, but when I am home, all I do is dream of returning to the field. Rich and I are already planning next year’s Alaska adventure. Next time, we’ll avoid Southeast Alaska like the plague.

P.S. Our Alaska brown bear photo adventure for August 2012 is now listed. We’ve got a feeling that this one will fill up fast, so consider registering early!

More From Ian Plant Dreamscapes

• A Week in the Life: Glacier Bay Day 2
• A Week in the Life: Glacier Bay Day 3 | Ian Plant Dreamscapes
• A Week in the Life: Glacier Bay Day 4

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About Ian Plant  (275 Posts)

Ian Plant's photographs and instructional articles have appeared in a number of books, calendars, and magazines, including Outdoor Photographer and Popular Photography. Ian writes a regular blog column for Outdoor Photographer online, and he is the author of numerous instructional eBooks and digital processing tutorials. Ian leads several photo tours each year.