My next adventure is ferry travel in Alaska aboard the Kennicott ferry.
Juneau, Alaska’s capital city, was rain-free as our small boat came alongside the dock, towered over by the floating hotels vying for space along the port. I was sad to leave the small ship that had been my home for the last seven days. The ship had immersed me in the beauty and pristine wilderness of Southeast Alaska, which would stay imprinted on me over the years to come. I checked into the youth hostel in Juneau, a charming old house a short walk from where we docked. As I explored Juneau, I planned to catch up with some of my newfound friends from the cruise over the next few days. The Mendenhall glacier, a short bus ride away, was an enjoyable half-day experience. With hiking trails and interpretive information available to the visitors, it was picturesque but very crowded due to the easy access to the glacier from the cruise ships in port.
After a night in the hostel, I regained my land legs to enjoy several hiking trails easily accessed from central Juneau. Downtown Juneau is nestled at the base of Mount Juneau, situated by the Gastineau Channel in South East Alaska. The area is referred to as the Alaskan panhandle, an apt description if you reference a map of Alaska. Many hiking trails begin at the base of Mount Juneau and take you up quickly to enjoy expansive views of the channel and Douglas Island. I could hike the Granite Creek Trail, which took me past the abandoned Perseverance mine in operation until the 1920s. The rainforest trail was a myriad of green plant life, thriving under the continuous canopy of the taller trees. I marveled at being able to access such natural beauty within minutes of being on a city street.
The other trail I hiked was the Dan Moller trail on Douglas Island; a ferry ran me across for a nominal fee. The trail rose quickly into an alpine cirque; as I trampled across the boards laid across the muskeg, my thoughts turned again to the threat of bear. The trail in Juneau had been heavily populated with tourists and locals alike cheerfully tramping their way through the green undergrowth. A boat ride away, there was not a soul on the trail, and I could not help feeling that rush of adrenalin, the quickening of my heart as I pushed on through the forest. When I did run into two hikers, I babbled at them, words gushing from me in a torrent of relief at seeing two returning hikers unscathed from the unknown trail ahead.
I was fortunate enough to coincide my visit to Juneau with a First Nation celebration. The Tlingit are an indigenous group of the Pacific Northwest Coast, and tribes had traveled from many smaller villages to participate in the celebration. The streets of downtown Juneau swelled with a street procession that different clans proudly participated in. Men and women wore red, black, and blue felted capes detailed with mother-of-pearl buttons. Influenced by Russian culture with the introduction of various colored felts, these pieces are decorated with clan embroideries. Many clan symbols are outlined with the mother of pearl detail or solid beading. Children clad in fur carried drums and copied men drumming as they marched with high heads down the town’s main artery.
Men and women were also adorned with headdresses; some were simple woven headbands made from cedar bark, and others had intricate details, such as one I saw with fur, cedar, and a design of mother-of-pearl shells. One boy danced proudly down the street, wearing a wolf head on top of his own head. As the procession neared completion, an important chief strode down the road. I know this as everyone talked excitedly about the chief and his entourage. He wore a Chilkat robe, an important symbol of Tlingit culture. Made by the Chilkat clan, a talented group of weavers, they are woven from mountain goat wool and cedar bark strips.
The chief fit his position well as he strode forward in his cape with intricate designs upon its back. The robe featured the raven and had intricate herringbone and geometric patterns woven into it; the long fringe swirled above handmade fur boots. It was impressive to see a garment so detailed that one robe can take five years to complete being worn by such an elder, and I felt grateful for the opportunity to see such an important connection to culture outside of a museum, keeping tradition and culture alive and well in the modern world.
Soon, it was time to shoulder my pack and head to the ferry dock, where I would board the Kennicott ferry for four days at sea. South East Alaska had offered me so many rich experiences that the long trip at sea would give me time to write about what I had seen, felt, and learned. The ferry ride would transition me from rainforest, Tglinglit culture, and abundant sea life to the final chapter of my Alaskan odyssey, the town of Seward, and finally, the city of Anchorage.
The state ferry was running behind schedule as it docked in Juneau. It did not matter to me; the sun was shining, and there was ample opportunity for people to watch the crowd of foot passengers milling around the embarkment point. My ticket was checked, and I lugged my heavy pack to the top deck of the Kennicott ferry. I planned to duct tape my tent down to the top floor, thus providing excellent cozy shelter for the four days at sea. Many budget travelers make use of the deck space in this manner. It is a much cheaper alternative than booking and paying for a stateroom, and it is more comfortable than trying to position one’s neck into a sleep position in an upright ferry chair.
I arrived on the top outer deck to find the layout was slightly different than some of the other ferries I had now traveled on. In the center was a large open area, and each side of the vessel had decks covered by protective glass windows that slid back for ocean viewing. It was time to size up the possibilities for me and my beautiful tent. On the starboard-covered gangway, a German couple was setting up camp. The couple nodded politely as I viewed the nearby real estate. They already had a mat down by the entrance of the tent and, with German precision, had their shoes neatly aligned on the mat. This orderly conduct was bound to drive me mad. I planned to shove the contents of my backpack inside my erected tent and fall in there occasionally to sleep. Order was not part of the plan.
I wandered into the central open area and chatted with some young men. A young man played guitar while another passed around a joint, which each group member inhaled enthusiastically. Stay with us, Aussie, they cried; we will party the whole way. They were friendly and fun, but I did not want to party across the Gulf of Alaska. I still had whales to spot and glaciers to focus my binoculars on.
On the port side sat a native Alaskan couple chatting in two chairs pulled up next to each other. Beyond them sat a tall man in a reclining chair; he seemed to be whittling away at some woodwork and shavings swirled on the floor beneath his lounge. My gaze went past him, and there was the perfect spot for my little tent. Undercover, protected from wind and sea, and the man who would be my neighbor looked safe enough. I set up my tent and took photographs of the tent as we prepared to leave Juneau and head into unknown Alaska.
The man beside me kept to himself, and I enjoyed the sunny afternoon taking photographs from my deck. I attended a ranger’s talk on a lower deck and enjoyed browsing the books and maps available for passengers. I peeped in at a movie theatre running aboard the ferry. I didn’t feel like watching a movie, but it seemed a popular option, probably for Alaskans, who took the scenery for granted.
The next day, I tried to unfold my map to find exactly where I was with the distant coast. An onboard announcement assured me we were nearing the Hubbard Glacier. The man next to me must have seen my perplexed look as I attempted to match the landform to the map. He was kind enough to explain details to me and was very knowledgeable about the area we were viewing from the top of our ferry. So began a tenuous relationship. I was careful to respect his space, and I still fluttered about the ship having fun, but he made time to answer my questions and tell me about Alaska, which was very much a part of his life.
Passengers stopped to chat with me and ask about my journey. One woman seemed so impressed by my solo trip to Alaska that she insisted on photographing me standing happily by my tent. I didn’t mind; I could see the tent’s charm revealed in many of my photographs. I didn’t understand that many Americans don’t travel independently, and to some of my fellow passengers, I was eccentric and brave. Most Australians would not think it at all odd to travel by oneself without a tour guide, schedule, and fixed itinerary.
By the third day at sea, it became apparent that I had chosen well for my four-day gulf crossing. Brutal waves had lashed the party boys during a storm; their bedraggled camp spread out to dry in all corners of the upper deck. The guitar still played, and I think the communal reefers were comforting, but it had not turned out to be the idyllic four days at sea the boys had first conjured up. I was now on a first-name basis with my neighbor Dan; he had trouble understanding my accent but seemed to enjoy my company. We would pull up chairs under the heat lamp each night and chat. He would carve Alaskan figures made of cottonwood bark while I wrote in my journal or picked his brains to clarify aspects of this Alaskan life I was so enjoying.
On our last full day at sea, the ferry stopped at Valdez at 5 a.m. The stop disrupted sleep aboard the ship as our arrival at the port was announced. I pulled my head out of my little green tent and peered into the light rain hovering over Valdez. I had talked to him the night before about joining. We would explore Valdez at lightning speed while the ferry docked, but my sleeping bag was so warm, and the early morning appeared dreary. I went happily back to sleep. Dan could fill me in later on with all Valdez had to offer.
I emerged later in the morning and grinned at Dan as I quickly boiled water for my morning Earl Grey tea. I had barely sat down to enjoy my steaming mug when a pushy young man descended upon me. He was full of questions, promises, and endless brags about what he had pulled off in his Alaskan adventure. He was in my face, far too early for me to be anything but grouchy, and I noticed, to my dismay, that he had pulled a recliner up next to my tent on which he had spread his expensive sleeping bag out casually.
He was from Texas and seemed hell-bent on fitting right in with the cool crowd camping out on the top deck of the Kennicott. The only problem was I was not in the cool crowd. I enjoyed learning about Alaska from my neighbor Dan and had no desire to inhale anything to make the scenery change color or perspective. It dawned on me that the Texan hoped to stick to me like glue for no reason other than the possibility of turning the Kennicott into the Love Boat Alaskan style. I was a single blonde female from Australia, and he was a good-looking Texan guy with a few Alaskan adventures bound to impress me. I had a tent, and we had hours at sea to get to know one another. Bada bing ba da ba, the Texan thought he might be in with a chance of wooing me into a hot date inside my tent before our long day at sea was over.
The Texan hounded me attentively. If I picked up the binoculars, he would rush up eager to share my long distant sea view; if I turned a page in my journal to write, he would lean over me eagerly trying to glean if I was penning a love sonnet to my new unwanted shipmate. He reminded me of a male dog in heat, puppy-eyed, panting, and desperate to hump if a chance presented. His unwelcome attention was so unpleasant, and I removed myself to my little tent to start packing up; I would disembark in Seward that evening.
The Texan poked his head in the tent. “Why would you pack up?” he questioned.
“We have a whole day at sea yet and might need a little nap later.” He grinned and raised one eyebrow in what I assumed he thought was a charming expression of his intent.
At this point, the Texan’s muscling in on my deck space proved too much. Not only had this blow-in assured me that Texas was bigger than Alaska, but he was also now threatening to ruin my last beautiful day at sea.
Two entrances to my tent proved beneficial as I left the Texan via one door and popped up the other side right by Dan. Dan sat working away on a carving. I leaned over him and smelled wood smoke and sweat. He seemed bigger this close-up. I liked being this close to him. I quietly explained that the Texan was hassling me and that I would appreciate it if he could keep an eye out for me. He suggested we head to the bar for a drink. He could help me dismantle the tent later.
We went down to the small bar on board the Kennicott, and Larry, the bartender, poured us both a pint of Alaskan Amber. We chatted, and I expressed relief at escaping the Texan leech who had targeted me. A backgammon was set in the bar, and I grabbed it and set it up. It was fun playing with Dan and seeing his resigned look as I beat him each time. He did not seem to mind that I won ten times in a row, and we seemed to be getting on just fine despite my victories. Larry called out that there were orcas just near the ship. Dan had been a commercial fisherman, so the lure of orcas was no pull for him. I had so enjoyed the orcas I had seen so far, but somehow, I wanted to make the most of these last few hours with my neighbor at sea.
Much to my relief, the hours we spent playing backgammon had thwarted the Texan. Unable to coerce me into a quick fling at sea, he had moved his flash sleeping bag to other prime locations, hoping to snatch an adoring female shipmate. I packed up cheerfully and checked my guidebook for a handle on how I would get around Seward once the ferry docked.
Dan seemed packed up and ready for land in the same time frame as me. We chatted as we rode the elevator to the ground floor and farewelled the Kennicott. The psycho Texan scowled at me as I stood to wait on the dock for transport to arrive. I explained to Dan that I had read that a green trolley would meet each ferry and drop passengers off at the hostel and campground for a $3.00 fee. The Texan stood listening to my trolley description, and as I pointed out, the trolley was slowly driving out to the ferry terminal. I heard the Texan shout trolley; we need that trolley! A bigger picture emerged from my unpleasant Southern friend. He was traveling with a group of young people. They all had backpacks and accents similar to the in-my-face Texan-on-the-Kennicott. He was possibly so hated that the group had hidden from him when they boarded in Valdez.
Now, the young Texans became one voice, the voice of a Texan seagull. The shout roared across the dock. Trolley, Trolley, Trolley! The group squawked and cawed as the trolley came ever closer. The group jostled forward and launched themselves at the trolley door as it creaked open. It was horrible to watch, yet it was time to join the fray. I was the one to know about the trolley, and if the group had been more orderly by rights, I should have been boarding quietly and calmly, offering up my money in return for a ride to the campground around the bay. Instead, I was pushed back by a flock of disagreeable and greedy birds. I was irked. I turned to Dan and gritted my teeth.
“Coming, Dan?” I asked loudly.
He nodded, and with his big powerhouse of a frame behind me, we pushed through the seagulls, past the deplorable Texan, and onto the Trolley steps. With $3.00 deposited in the bucket, we were on the trolley. The Texan made it on, too, and then one last girl. Squashed in like sardines, we stood resigned in the confined space of the bus. The driver assured the waiting flock he would return for them in half an hour.
Happily, the last girl on the bus wrenched her camel pack against a trolley fixture, and a fierce jet of water sprayed the Texan up and down until she finally caught the whirling tube and pinched it off. She must not have been part of his group, as she apologized profusely for the mishap. My last view of him was as he was dropped off with many others at the hostel in Seward. He was enthusiastically telling the water sprayer of his huge halibut catch, and luckily, he could cook some of his catch for her that evening.
The trolley dropped me off at the Seward campground, and Dan also chose to camp there. There was snow on the mountaintops, the water was calm, and campers had campfires set up to enjoy the evening. I had enjoyed my time aboard the Kennicott, but Seward seemed to have possibilities for me, too.
Read here to learn more about my other Southeast Alaskan adventures
Check out the cookware I used for my adventures in Alaska
