Lost and Found: Six.

The difficult travel of the previous two days took a toll on all of us--or at least that's the way it seemed as we lollygagged around camp until late in the morning. We stoked up the fire, made coffee, told stories, made more coffee, and just generally seemed in no hurry to get back at it.


Some of this might have been trying to time our crossing of nearby Lituya Bay on an incoming tide, but it seemed like everyone just wanted to rest and decompress a bit. That, and the beach looked to be nothing but pushing right out of camp. Dylan finally got us motivated, without a word, simply by taking the initiative to get up and do the dishes.


And push we did--for all of the 2+ hours it took to get to Lituya. But nothing this morning seemed remotely as tough as all of yesterday--today was just hard walking.


We thoroughly investigated every bit of beach booty we found that morning, partly out of genuine curiosity and partly just for the diversion from pushing.




The routine upon arriving at a water crossing was fairly predictable, but it was anything but scripted. Seemed like each and every time we blew up we'd all figure some better way to rig the boat, or lash the bike to it, or at the very least we'd give some new twist a shot even if it failed. Here at the put-in for Lituya, Roman demonstrated a novel 'roll 'er on in' approach. You'll have to ask him how it worked out.


Crossing Lituya Bay was uneventful in an anxious sort of way. We stayed far enough upstream that the visible crashing breakers at the mouth were never a concern, but ~2/3 of the way across we entered the rushing outflow of the river-within-the-bay where it met the far greater force of the incoming tide. When I saw the obvious line between calm and chaos Doom was just sliding up next to me. After rifling through my memory banks for any clue to what I was seeing and what we should do about it (and coming up empty) I asked him what he thought.

"Dude...

...I have no idea what that is!"

...was his response, which wasn't quite the guidance I'd been looking for. My lack of experience at river paddling had me a bit puckered crossing the eddy fence between incoming and outgoing, and having done it just the once made me no more comfortable, minutes later, when we needed to do it again. Ferrying powerfully came naturally--the adrenaline surge virtually demanded it. Such a unique sight to see so much opposing current channeled so tightly in this wide and otherwise calm bay.

We eddied out and packed up, tanking up on water for what felt to be a scorcher of an afternoon approaching.


Rather than following the shoreline around to the mouth of the bay we cut the corner through the woods, angling in what felt like the most direct direction, but needing to do lots of 'schwacking to get back to the beach. Many good bear trails in that forest, but none of them seemed headed our way.


Even once back to the beach proper it was boulders and cobbles, keeping us to an hours-per-mile pace. We each retreated into those familiar places deep in our own heads. And pushed.

From inside of the tree line the crashing of the waves was somewhat muted, allowing us to hear other sounds: Wind in the leaves, birds flitting or singing, and of course the constant drone of mosquitoes. But there was another noise--one that reached out to each of us several times, with us dismissing it until, finally, Eric asked Dylan if he heard anything. Dylan smiled an impish grin that didn't really answer the question. I thought I was hearing an outboard motor somewhere offshore. Eric dropped his bike and pushed his way out of the trees, then poked back in, eyes bright and smiling, and motioned for us to come look.


If you've ever heard the din (moaningroaningfartingsnarling) that sea lions make you can forgive my 'outboard motor' assumption. We crept as close as we dared, took a few pics, observed them NOT observing us, then crept yet closer.


Even at this distance they paid us no mind, likely because this haulout had proven a safe haven for generations. We couldn't get to them and they knew it.


It was neat to observe the ways they'd adapted to get up out of the water--usually waiting for an incoming wave to lift them most of the way before lunging. And even more fascinating to see the hierarchy once up on the rock. Brutally effective is the best way to sum up.


Then it was back to the slog. Within an hour the boulders gave way to cobbles, and then the cobbles got thinner. And thinner. And then they just tapered off to nothing.


We stopped there for snacks, rest, and the welcome chore of reinstalling pedals.




And then it was back to riding. The beach was soft for some reason that I couldn't deduce, but it was still blessed riding.


And it actually got much better--delightful even, with an interesting mix of techy rock and exposed bedrock dipping in and out of the intertidal. Truly wild riding.


The sun went away and the mist rolled in, changing the temperature as fast as the mood. The wind came up and stayed there. Suddenly it didn't feel like such a lark to be out here. I believe the term to describe the change that I felt is foreboding.


That feeling was reinforced at two difficult water crossings. This coast is steep and cut by rivers draining glaciers. The water roils from beneath ice, cuts through forest, gains energy, crashes forcefully into the sea. The sea crashes back. It is a timeless battle, the casualties of which are usually limited to erosion. Until silly humans with their toys and delusions of grandeur come loping along to get between the two.


The crashing, dumping breakers prevented us from just paddling out to avoid the rivers. The (lack of) depth and steep grade meant that we couldn't paddle across, either. The rounded slimy rocks and powerful current pushed us to undesirable places--sweeping my feet, causing Eric to stumble and drop his bike, forcing Doom back to reassess his line. Even Roman stumbled. We all had a tough time getting across. An exhausting, hyperventilating, stumbling, staggering, wide-eyed and cold-sweat kind of time.

I'm zoomed in on Roman in the pic above, thus you can't see the real width of the crossing. Nor can you hear the chaos of the waves crashing into the river, feel the power of the current preventing so much as one solid footfall. Perhaps most importantly, you cannot imagine the deep, numbing cold of the glacial runoff our legs are in.

I'm here to tell you that it was all real, it was real big, and it scared me.

Scared.

Later, after dinner, we talked a bit about the day's adventures, but everyone seemed knackered and at best the conversation was thin.


I was knackered too--probably more than the rest. But I wasn't sleepy, not yet. It took a lot of ruminating while staring into the embers to understand why.


There's this quote that I've been carrying around since college. It rears its disheveled head from time to time and I'm honestly never sure exactly what to do with it. The words are attributed to Nietzsche but have probably been re-worked ad infinitum. This night, I don't know if they leapt forward unbidden out of the musty depths or if I deliberately called them up.

The quote goes something like this: "We moderns, we half barbarians, we are in the midst of our bliss only when we are most in danger. The only stimulus that tickles us is the infinite, the immeasurable..."

Past altercations with these words have seen me torture them into some sort of quasi-logical justification for solo travel in remote places, for calculated risk-taking regardless of time or place, even as a Malloryesque quip to explain (without really saying a thing) why I'm drawn to attempt such seemingly difficult, dangerous, and frivolous endeavors.

I worked the words over in my head.

Added a stick to the fire...

Settled back down...

...and thought some more.

I may have just gotten tired, rummy enough that I didn't want to think on it any longer, and chose an easy way out. But that quote didn't really seem appropriate to this situation either. I wasn't in the midst of any bliss while struggling across those rivers. I was scared, really frightened, because I knew I wasn't in complete control.

That sounded right, if incomplete.

And then I laughed: out loud, tears rolling, belly jiggling--really laughed. At myself, of course. Because only at that moment could I clearly see what a farce the illusion of control really is.

Before I could get sucked down that rabbit hole I kicked the fire apart and went to bed.

Lost and Found: Five.

Our campsite was chosen because it was the only ~flat ground nearby that was ~big enough to host two tents. We'd removed as many cobbles as possible, ceasing digging only when we reached bedrock. Then adjusting the layout of each tent and sleeping position accordingly. It was kind of a novel challenge.

But the spot we ended up with was mere inches above the most recent high tide line, which meant that whenever a wave crashed in the night I sat bolt upright in my bag, fearing that our gear was being pulled out or that we were about to be very wet and very cold.

I'm such a drama queen. The water never got close enough to worry about--all that was achieved with my worrying was a continued lack of good rest.

Packing up after breakfast.


I noted the fine condition of all of our chains and took the time to lube and drag mine. Always the optimist. It was a nice gesture but we rode so little this day it hardly mattered.


For a good chunk of the day we pushed and carried our bikes over and through this:


Again the others moved so much faster, more effortlessly through that I saw them mostly at breaks, or when the boulders had gotten so massive that they'd scout before proceeding.




I had a hard time determining whether they were taking breaks because they really needed them, merely wanted them, or simply felt bad for leaving me so far behind. There was nothing to be done for it, so I just kept plodding as efficiently as I could and tried to get a bit ahead whenever they gave me the chance.

No one likes to be the reason for slowing a group down, so I vowed to limit the amount of pics I took on this day--tried to make them really count. That was fine and it may have even helped some, but the reality was that they were moving so much faster regardless that it was almost a token gesture. Eric's legs are as long as I am tall, and he confessed to a compulsive need to move as fast as possible ("I just put my head down and GO...") when 'schwacking. Then off he went. Roman's bike was so light, and he so adept at choosing lines and hopscotching from boulder to boulder, that he was almost as fast as Eric. Doom and Dylan were just plain better athletes, I guess.


I vowed not to dwell on the speed I couldn't go, instead focusing my thoughts on how I could lighten my load to move faster on future, similar trips. A bigger pack was clearly needed. Less camera gear was obvious, but my heart wasn't fully in that--you can only get so much with a P&S. I knew that this would be my first and last bike and boat trip with a rear rack--it got in the way when paddling, got hung up in brush when 'schwacking, and gave me too big of a platform on which to place too big of a stuffsack. Without the rack I'd be forced to carry less, and in so doing would move faster for a host of reasons.


It was starting to make some sense.

Beach booty.




Slow as the travel was through the cobbles and boulders, near the south end of Cape Fairweather things actually got worse.


When I arrived here I didn't immediately see the others, and could scarcely imagine how they'd crossed this tangled mess and gotten completely out of sight so fast. They were practically underfoot--laughing and joking as always from a protected spot between two massive boulders.

Upon resuming we took a different tack--up into the woods.


From a certain perspective, it was a lot better up there.


We'd heard the bear trails through here were ab-fab, and for a person afoot with no bike, they'd have been stellar. But although bears make good trails they don't do so on their hind legs, nor do they schlep bikes along with them. We did lots of crawling, muttering, scrambling, head scratching, and backtracking. In reality, the progress up here was merely a change of scenery--no different in terms of speed or effort.

Can't remember verbalizing it, but as I snapped this pic I wondered how many generations of bears had trodden in those prints?


At some point Roman or Eric poked their head out of the forest and declared that the beach would probably be better now. Glad if only for a change of scenery and a new outlook, we stumbled and dragged ourselves back down.


An exemplary husband and dad.


South of Cape Fairweather the boulders gave way to cobbles, then shortly to beautiful black sand.


It was indescribably wonderful to thread pedals back on and then perch atop a bike seat, all weight removed from sore ankles, knees, feet. Doom and Roman fairly raced ahead in their exhilaration, while Eric, Dylan and I moved more sedately, perhaps simply savoring a peaceful end to the day.

After eleven we arrived at the spot they'd chosen for camp. A fire had been kindled next to a pretty little creek. We cooked, ate, and crashed.

Lost and Found: Four.

Somewhere between first light @ 3AM and when Dylan started rekindling the fire I must have managed a few winks. I felt stiff and sore and beat down inside my bag, but glancing out the tent flaps removed any of those concerns.


I was *here*, now, and anything beyond that was just going to have to wait.


The view from camp.






Doom was already up and rambling about--I sensed a certain manic to his motions (more than normal I mean...) and figured he'd been amped all night too.


Roman was stirring but Eric was not, so when the thought occurred to just go for a pleasure paddle into the lagoon, I mentioned it to Doom and he blurted his response immediately--some version of 'Oh eff yes--just try to stop me!'.

So we tempered our boats and shoved off.






Paddling an unladen boat through this ethereal scene was nothing shy of delicious. Not a lick of wind, no noise other than the rasp of glacial silt against the paddle and then drops of water falling back to their rightful resting place. One of the most prized hours of the trip, for me.




Eventually we could see that the others were up and starting to tear camp down, so we made our way back, giddy inside and out.


Coffee and vittles consumed and camp broken, we battened down bikes and shoved off for real. It was awesome to see the level of giddy the others immediately rose to once out among the bergs. We probed in and out of melt pools, eased under overhangs, even posed for pics, laughing and nodding our approval all the while.








Eventually the end of the lake came, but not before challenging us with a teeny bit of an ice maze to navigate.


We weren't even fully out of the boats before the bugs descended and proceeded to feast. And it was only going to get worse for awhile.

The maps showed an outflow stream leaving the lake, headed for the coast. I think we'd even entertained the idea of being able to paddle some of it. But there'd be none of that--it wasn't really a stream anymore, more of a linear bog. And it was rarely deep enough for boats, always slimy underfoot, and usually the most direct route was choked with veg that needed to be bashed through or crawled under.


This is about as good as it got--when we'd pop out into an opening big enough to flap our arms at the bugs for a moment.


And then we'd dive back in. 'Thick' is the one word that best described it. I saw bears looming behind every stump and snag, which means I kept my cameras holstered--didn't want to risk falling behind the group.

We could hear breakers crashing into the beach long before we arrived. I think we were all daydreaming about being back out in the open when the bear charged. I was furthest from it--could feel the wave of adrenaline pass through the others on her way to me. Doom was closest, and spent the next hour awake, alert, and yammering on about every detail indelibly etched onto his retinas.

Perhaps a meal for our ursine friend not so long ago? Seemed likely to me at that moment.


One last pond to wade and then we could feel the breeze on our cheeks as we sat in the warm sand threading pedals back into cranks.


It felt so, so very sweet to get back to pedaling effortlessly along.






Mileage-wise the day hadn't been anything to speak of, but the cumulative effects of the past few days had taken a toll. I was knackered, and as the day wound down I found myself falling further behind the group. Had I been willing to holster the cameras and *just* ride I might have been able to catch up, but, I reasoned with myself, how likely is it that I'll ever get to see this place again? I figured they'd be easy enough to 'catch' when they stopped to camp. Meanwhile, too much to see to worry about hammering.


Those aren't people prints.






I caught the gang as they got busy excavating spots for the tents amidst these cobbles.


Another calm evening descended as we warmed water, rehydrated grub, then lay under intermittent stars, feeding a driftwood fire while recounting scenes from this and other memorable days of our lives.

These days were so full, so rich...

The thought that floated through my muddled brain as I fell off was this: It seemed like we'd already gotten our money's worth 100 times over, yet we hadn't even covered half of the route.

Stick with me--so much more to come.

MC