Sea Kayaking in Southeast Alaska

By Naomi Judd

The Author Kayaking

                 Southeast Alaska contains over 1,000 of the states 1,800 named islands. Harbor seals, porpoises and Orca’s skim the water’s surface with their shiny backs; I have even seen humpback whales jump right out of the water just off shore. It is only occasionally that we get to see a snapshot of what swims in the deep. When we kayak, we glide upon the fine line between all that we know above and all we can’t imagine beneath. This hope of seeing into another world is partly why my partner and I ventured to Alaska’s waters.
                From Juneau, Alaska on the Southeast mainland there are dozens of opportunities to get into a kayak and explore. It may not always be sunny in the rain forested region but it is never disappointing. A late August trip out to Benjamin Island is a peaceable paddle not far from town. There are no roads out of Juneau and so naturally the longest road is called “the road.” Just a 30 minute ride out the road from Auke Bay or 45 minutes from Juneau’s International Airport will bring you to the quiet launch area just past Eagle Beach. Kayaks are easily rented from the locally owned Alaska Boat and Kayak in Auke Bay.

A Rainy Coast

I stubbed my toe and then drenched my arm, nearly falling in as I scooted off the beach of slippery rocks. Just three yards off shore it began to rain. My hope of staying dry for at least a little while was soon gone. I was apt to brew a sour mood, but the humpback whales had a better plan for me. They began to sing their sweet songs as the sea was dappled in a million drops of water fresh from the sky.
                A deep bellow sounded from below us and then the release of the largest lungs on the planet came up in a spray and down in a splash. I looked around quickly as I paddled towards the island, it sounded close. I saw one fountain of spray about a quarter mile away and then heard another behind me. We paddled faster; it would still be half an hour until we reached the island. We tapped our paddles on the decks of our kayaks to make them more aware of our presence, though I suspect they knew we were there. Five minutes later one of the whales surfaced just 40 yards away on our other side. The massive creature had swum right under our boats and popped up to say hello on our left. My heart pumped with adrenaline to be so close and my shoulders ached with the forceful paddle strokes I made to close in on the island which looked ever more comforting. “Hurry!” I yelled, though I didn’t stop grinning until we reached the quiet Eastern cove of Benjamin Island.
                The rain let up and I released a large breath as the nose of my turquoise kayak scudded into the thick grains of sand. The beach was awash in tidal layers of green, red and orange seaweed and kelp. Pockets of bull kelp popped beneath my sandals as we carried the kayaks up beyond the tide range and secured them to a hefty sun-bleached log. We found a place in the trees to set up our tent and hammock then explored the crooks and bends of this easy to reach, yet wild isle.
                Whelks, little pink spiral shells and small white scallops and clam shells were littered among the moss, most likely brought into the trees by sea otters. A lightly marked, winding trail took us around the perimeter of the island in about an hour. An incredible inhabitation of moss made up the base for the spruce forest which was literally right on top of rocky cliffs. Looking through the trees on the islands north side there was a sharp drop where sea lions prefer to loudly congregate during the roosting season.

Across the Channel

Finding our way back to our hammock haven I found a clearing between the woods and the water. Waist-high sea grass and purple flowering beach pea grew out of a bed of crushed blue mussel shells. I found a rock to sit on; its black surface was worn gentle by the ebb and flow of the sea. An eagles fluted call whistled somewhere above the canopy of tall spruces.  The clouds lay low on the horizon and hid the Chilkat mountain range from view across the channel, as if a soft grey blanket tucking them in.
                Rain pattered on the tent, the waves sloshed against the rocks and whales breathed below, seeming to circle the island throughout the night. Soothed, I fell to sleep but awoke to a damp pool on the floor. The tent we had borrowed from a friend apparently needed some tailoring before it would be suitable for Southeast Alaska. We dined on some easy oatmeal and pushed off in our kayaks by midmorning.

This time we started the day with rain jackets and, knowing the whales were still around, decided to cut right over to the mainland and follow the shoreline back. The rain made a soft hiss and dappled pattern on the otherwise glassy water. The nooks and crannies of the shoreline were each a new world to explore. I slowly dipped my paddle in the water, taking the time to examine what is impossible to observe from atop the cliffs. The water is can’t-see-to-the-bottom deep right up to rocks colored with years of algae and microorganisms; a place where starfish, barnacles and periwinkles can be seen at low tide. I marveled at these places where tiny creatures lived in little communities, which to them must have seemed an entire ocean.
                An inlet came into view where a small, hidden waterfall spilled down over gnarled roots that grew right out of the rocks. We eventually made it to where we could pull the boats out and have a walk around. A circular shape caught our eye; a washed up, round oak table top, probably from a boat. We had an empty kitchen nook that looked as if it longed for something just this size. Who knew what journeys it had made on the ocean or who had supped and drank at its now slightly warped surface? Only the ocean knew.