Back in 2011, I cut short an Inside Passage trip that was supposed to end with me paddling through Glacier Bay in southeast Alaska. Although the trip was still awesome, I’d always regretted not making it to see the glaciers.
To make up for missing them last time I was in Alaska, I flew to Gustavus one summer and spent four weeks solo, paddling the East Arm of Glacier Bay.
East Arm Glacier Bay route map. The entirety of Glacier Bay is a national park, and the upland portions are also designated wilderness. Most of the waters, however, are not wilderness.
I brought my Feathercraft Klondike with me, an enormous two-seater folding kayak. This was my first time flying with the boat, and by breaking it up into two large duffel bags, it traveled surprisingly easily.
Airfare to Gustavus was cheap from Seattle, much more so than taking the ferry would have been. The ferry would certainly have been a more relaxing mode of transportation than the plane, but between sailing time and stopover time in Juneau, the ferry would have added an extra week of travel each way.
Flying the boat did add 150 bucks each way in baggage fees, but that was still cheaper than the ferry or the cost of renting a kayak in Gustavus.
You can’t fly with bear spray or used camp stoves, but I was able to borrow bear spray from Deb at the Blue Heron bed-and-breakfast in Gustavus, and I bought myself one of those cool MSR reactor stoves, which I had been wanting for some time anyway.
Unfortunately, because I’d never used an LPG stove before, I had no idea how much gas to bring, and I ended up running out of stove fuel three weeks into my four-week paddle. I developed quite the taste for peanut butter…for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Glacier Bay itself was beautiful. The mountains came down right to the sea, so there was a descending cascade of white clouds, blue sky, white snow, gray rocks, green trees, gray beach, and blue water. The colors all seemed to match each other very harmoniously.
Loading gear at Bartlett Cove. Prior to entry into the park, visitors must attend one of the daily orientation and permitting sessions here.
Entering Glacier Bay National Park. The Alaskan landscape resembles that of the British Columbia and Washington coasts, except everything here is bigger.
Beardslee Islands, Chilkat Range in background. The shoreline in the Beardslees consists mainly of grass that floods at high tide.
From the Beardslees, looking into the park. It is advisable to bundle up, even during sunny weather, to protect against no-see-ums.
Chilkat Mountain Range. This area is so remote it is almost frightening to contemplate hiking into these mountains.
Sea otters in the Beardslees. Great rafts of these fun-loving creatures were all over the southern portions of Glacier Bay.
Sea otters near Beartrack Cove. The otters were perfectly at home in this stark, cold environment.
Paddling in the calm Beardslees. Even if it weren’t for the glaciers farther up the bay, the Beardslees would be a worthy destination just in themselves.
Setting up camp in the Beardslees. Two black bears on this island growled and moaned at me from the bushes. They raced around wildly and reared up on their hind legs.
Refilling water on the mainland. The Beardslees have no fresh water, but there are thousands of streams on the mainland nearby.
Right from the beginning, there were hundreds of sea ducks and sea otters scattered around the small Beardsley Archipelago at the south end of the bay. Because Glacier Bay is a national park, there was a strict limit to the number of motorboats that could be in the bay at any one time, so the birds and animals were not wary like they are on other parts of the Pacific coast. They just bobbed up and down, looking at this strange visitor.
I saw seventy-three birds species on this trip, which is pretty good for this type of environment. Highlights included black-legged kittiwakes nesting in a cliffside colony some 2,500 strong; tiny arctic terns plunging into the water with soft little splats; and hundreds of tufted puffins nesting in cliff-top burrows on South Marble Island.
The puffins were constantly flying in and out of their little tunnel nests, and often they would fly by my boat to take a gander at me. The colony was so much fun to watch that I spent several days camped in the vicinity, paddling out to visit the puffins’ island on different days and at different times.
On one visit, I found a single horned puffin mixed in with the tufted flock. Seeing a horned puffin had been an ambition of mine since childhood, and now I had finally done it.
It was a good trip for mammals, too. In addition to the sea otters, there were sea lions, harbor porpoises, humpback whales, brown and black bears, moose, and even mountain goats, visible through binoculars on the slopes above the bay. Mountain goats from a sea kayak—now I really have seen everything!
Arriving at grassy camp. It was sometimes hard to judge how high above the waterline I needed to carry my kayak to avoid the next high tide.
Approaching South Marble Island. The island’s chalky color stands out starkly against the background of greens and blues that otherwise predominate in Glacier Bay.
Wall of mussels. The waters here are so rich shellfish occupy every available inch.
Humpback whale at Sturgess Island. I spent six days on Sturgess, watching whales and visiting the puffin colony.
Humpback surfaces for breath. The whales were so close to shore I could hear them trumpeting and growling.
Wall of sea stars. Kayakers are well served to hug the beach in Glacier Bay, where the most interesting animal life is.
Making tea in Glacier Bay. Some days, I did nothing but sit on the beach all day, admiring the scenery and wildlife.
First icebergs at sea. I snapped off a piece of ice and allowed it to melt into drinking water.
First iceberg ashore. Amazing to think of this as ancient snow, transported from the mountaintops to this beach over the course of centuries.
A view of icebergs. The bergs grew denser and larger the father north in East Arm I went.
There were also, of course, glaciers in Glacier Bay. Some of the glaciers only came down to a gravel floodplain near the water, but others actually reached the water and formed icebergs.
Paddling among the icebergs was really cool. They were constantly rolling over and collapsing without warning, so I felt a bit like a frog crossing a highway—well, a slow-moving highway, anyway. The bergs also washed ashore at high tide and sometimes formed a kind of ice maze that I could wander through on foot.
The McBride tidewater glacier was constantly groaning and cracking and booming as pieces of it shifted and broke and fell. Sometimes it sounded like rumbling thunder, other times like a sharp cannon shot.
An enormous iceberg calved off the face of the glacier and plunged into the sea. Although I braced for a wave, there was none. Perhaps I wasn’t close enough to the glacier’s face—icebergs formed a wide protective barrier around the foot of the glacier, and folding kayaks are not noted for their abilities as icebreakers.
The terrestrial glaciers were also cool, although they, too, could not be approached, even on foot. The toes of the terrestrial glaciers were protected by gravel fans. The gravel fans were riven by streams produced by the great torrents of water melting from the glaciers’ faces. These streams were waist-deep, freezing cold, and rushing at twenty miles an hour, fast enough that boulders in the streambeds made audible pounding sounds as they were carried along, banging against one another. The streams formed moats around the glaciers that could not be crossed on foot. Both on land and on water, getting to the glaciers was harder than it looked!
Heading up Muir Inlet. The ebb currents seemed stronger than the floods, perhaps because of the constant outflow from the glaciers.
Waterfall in McBride Inlet. Not many decades ago, this entire inlet was buried under ice.
McBride Glacier icebergs. At low tide, stranded icebergs created a maze.
Exploring McBride Inlet at low tide. I was reluctant to enter the inlet on an ebbing tide, when I would have to fight the outgoing ice.
Black-legged kittiwakes nesting in McBride Inlet. These larids are uncommon down in Washington, but in Glacier Bay, there were thousands.
Kittiwake colony in McBride Inlet. Each of the white dots on the far wall is a kittiwake sitting on its nest.
Black-legged kittiwakes in McBride Inlet. These are some of the most handsome larids.
Face of McBride Glacier. My kayak shoved the smaller icebergs out of the way, but the larger icebergs shoved my kayak out of the way.
Watching icebergs pour out of Muir Inlet. The icebergs of a calving, tidewater glacier illuminate the truth that glaciers are actually rivers of ice.
Large, grounded iceberg. Like driftwood, icebergs float during high tide and become stranded during low tide.
Naturally, I tried to time my daily paddling with the tides, riding the flood up into the bay and the ebb back out. To my surprise, however, there was a southward current even during flood tides. Sometimes this current was strong enough that my forward progress dropped to 1.5 miles per hour—not good news if you’ve set yourself a twelve- or fifteen-mile day!
Although I’m not positive, I suspect the constant current was due to the constant melting of the glaciers. The whole bay was essentially a giant river. The current made the northbound journey a slow process, but it sure was a welcome boost coming back down.
In the entire four weeks, I only spoke to other people on one occasion about two weeks in to the trip, when I encountered two rangers patrolling the park by kayak. Cruise ships in Glacier Bay were limited by regulation to two vessels per day, and they only went up the West Arm. Many parts of the East Arm were closed to motor boats altogether. The result was an environment with hardly anyone around. What few kayakers there were tended to be concentrated around the glaciers, so it was easy to get off by myself for weeks at a time.
Camp at McBride Inlet. The icebergs stranded on the mudflat looked like a herd of strange, mythical grazing animals.
Setting up camp at Riggs Glacier. The sparse vegetation and coarse sand are evidence of how recently this spit of land was under the ice.
Walking to Riggs Glacier. The outflow streams are too fast to paddle and too deep to wade.
Paddling up Muir Inlet. In contrast to coastal British Columbia, where inlets often funnel winds, Glacier Bay’s inlets were sheltered and calm.
Terminal moraine of Muir Glacier. One hundred years ago, there was no Muir Inlet, because this glacier was burying the entire inlet in ice.
Sheer walls of Muir Inlet. Although the inlets were steep in some places, there was never any difficulty finding a campsite.
Muir Inlet campsite. The second “tent” was just a rainfly where I could prepare food under cover.
Hiking across the glacial till. The tundra-like uplands offered a delightful change of scene from paddling.
Glacier Bay vista. Some parts of this national park looked like manicured grounds swollen to enormous proportions.
Recently tilled glacier soil. The landscape was so thoroughly scoured it sometimes reminded me of a desert—if a desert could have clouds or streams.
I saw many amazing things. I saw red-throated loons dancing together in unison, wings outstretched and feet paddling furiously to raise their entire bodies out of the water. I saw a youthful brown bear at a distance of ten feet (three meters), foraging for mussels at low tide. Gulls and terns sat on icebergs and watched me paddling up while they floated down. I saw the orange crown of an orange-crowned warbler (it’s harder to do than it sounds) and was attacked by a mother sooty grouse defending her chicks.
I was also attacked by mosquitos and midges, which were present in great numbers in many locations. I only had a worthless “all-natural” insect repellent, so I would often have to don rain gear just to save my skin from bites. Next time, I would like to bring a headnet and some more robust chemical repellents.
It rained a lot, of course, but that was made up for by the incredibly long days. The sun shone for nineteen hours every day, and even when it went below the horizon, it didn’t go far. Nights were nothing more than a dim twilight. I didn’t see a single star the entire time. Sometimes on rainy days, I would just stay on shore, reading and strolling on the beach rather than deal with packing up and paddling in poor weather.
Then again, sometimes on sunny days, I would just stay on shore, reading and strolling on the beach to take advantage of the warm, relaxing rays. With twenty-eight days of travel time, there’s never any hurry to do anything.
I’m not saying I wasn’t glad for a shower and a hot sandwich back in Gustavus when it was over. That was the best sandwich I ever ate.
Young brown bear in Muir Inlet. This little guy was more interested in eating shellfish than eating me.
Young brown bear. One of six bears I saw, three black and three brown.
Eastbound from head of Muir Inlet. Whenever the sun came out, the landscape would come alive with color.
Riggs Glacier, seen from upstream. Its arms used to reach tidewater, but the glacier is now landlocked.
Southbound toward the Nunatak, the vegetated mountain in the middle distance left. “The Nunatak” of Glacier Bay has not actually been a true nunatak since 1929, according to the USGS.
Looking up Wachussett Inlet toward Carroll Glacier. Wachussett Inlet was the darkest and most desolate of the inlets.
Reading on Strawberry Island. Here I heard the only owl of the trip, a barred owl that woke me out of a sound sleep with its “Who cooks for you?”
On the way out, weather grounded all aircraft in Gustavus for several days. Apparently, the airport did not have all the necessary guidance equipment to bring in planes on foggy days.
Deb at the Blue Heron arranged a boat to take me and some other tourists to Juneau so we could intercept our flights there. That was a very Alaskan end to a very beautiful, wild Alaskan trip.
—Alex Sidles