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Tofino dream-like, bathed in a golden light, tall furs stood proud against the pastel blue waters of the calm Clayoquet Sound. I had come so far in my ambition of seeing Alaska, and now it beckoned two days’ journey away. As the gold light became pink and dusky, I reviewed the day. The pastel-filtered light was perfect for putting my thoughts in order and preparing for future adventures. So many months of planning, hours of lugging an increasingly heavy pack to train my sorry muscles, and now with that evening light seeping over me, my far North plan was unfolding.

I would be kayaking through some of South East Alaska, and in preparation for this test of physical ability, I took a half-day kayaking course back in Perth, Western Australia. A retired sergeant, who barked orders at us and drilled us with military precision in the basic strokes we would be using, oversaw the course. The course culminated in participants voluntarily tipping their kayaks over, ripping our protective cover off the hole, and wriggling out into the balmy Swan River. It did occur to me that South East Alaska might be a trifle colder if such an event were to occur, but I brushed this thought aside; after all, I’m sure folk did not fall out very often from these things.

Once settled into the delightful hostel in Tofino, I opted for a paid half days paddle with a guide. We would head out of the sound and circumnavigate some smaller islands dotted around.

I arrived at the kayak company and donned wet suit booties and a skirt, not so much a skirt of fashion, but one that sucked the fat out of my hips and bounced in front of me like some big clumsy bib. An invitation to descend the stairs to partake in the required safety drill brought me one step closer to adventure on the high seas. Feeling that I now had a high level of kayaking experience, I strolled nonchalantly toward the kayaks. Clutching my newly purchased dry bag for my camera, I assessed the kayaks like a true professional. With each stroke across the sound, my elation grew; I felt as if I was kayaking in uncharted waters. The small group had paddled for about an hour, and my arms began to feel tired. My bottom ached, and my knees were cramped; despite the boots, my toes felt soggy. I wondered what would happen if I peed into my squashed capsule, but decided I better hold on in case a large jet of urine caused the thing to sink.

I fell a little behind, subtly using the old, taking photos ploy to give my arms a much-needed rest. The group was a little way ahead, and I made some effort to catch them. As I paddled, I saw a large bald eagle approaching me from above. So this was what it was all about, wildlife in abundance, unparalleled wilderness, and moving under my own steam. The eagle kept coming, and soon I could make out details such as feathers, a hooked beak, and sharp talons. Suddenly there was a shift from awe to panic. That eagle was now flying directly at me. I was about to be scalped by a sizeable ugly bird in some unknown backwater in the Pacific Rim. I stopped paddling and waited for fate to catch me. At the last second, he swerved; there was a sensation of wind, the feeling of ruffling feathers so close, and then he was gone.

Adrenalin pumping, I made it swiftly to the rest of the group, who were fawning over a group of seals sunning themselves lazily on rocks emerging from the ocean.

“You had a narrow miss there, hey.” said the laid-back guide.

Narrow miss, a major attack by a demented predator bird, and all he could say were, “Hey.” It turns out that the eagle did not mean to take part of me back to his eyrie. The Dungeness crabs have an unusual practice of rising to the surface from time to time and floating for a while. The eagle spotted a crab from a faraway and locked his sights upon it. I just paddled into the same piece of water as the crab.

 “Yeah,” said the guide. “You must feel sorry for that guy; he sure missed out on a meal there.”

Personally, I thought that the guide would feel very sorry if he made one more comment about the eagle’s loss and continued to demonstrate a lack of empathy for my near removal of skin, but I do not think he caught the glare from behind my sunglasses.

Yes, the trip was going well; I was managing to stagger onwards with my cumbersome pack; the beer had not been overpriced, and now dangling my legs over the edge of the jetty, I could feel my tired, overworked muscles begin to relax. Tomorrow I would head back to Victoria on Vancouver Island and catch the bus to Port Hardy.

I had booked the bus ride some time in advance, which turned out to be a lucky organizational move for once. It was a holiday, and many first nation folks were heading up the island to spend time with family. From the bus terminal, I had a seat to myself, and then we stopped twenty minutes out of town to pick up more passengers. I just knew the large man with the hacking cough easing himself up the stairs was destined to sit by me. His name was Charlie, and he squeezed his bulk into the seat next to me. He would be part of my journey toward Alaska for the next 8 hours or so. Charlie seemed to be in the throes of some terrible form of lung disease. His wheezes would build, and as the sound of phlegm balls seemed to roll around the back of his throat, I watched, fascinated, for the balls to appear, which Charlie launched into a large tissue. Producing gooey balls took time and lots of impressive hacking noises that Charlie committed to wholly. Finally, when Charlie deemed he was getting close to dispersing a diseased-ridden, little gooey ball, he would produce a tissue from his pocket. Charlie seemed pleasant and hopefully not infectious, happily sharing his journey with the big green balls.

“These lungs no good,” he confided. “Medicine no good; got to get it out somehow.”

I could only nod in some grim sort of solidarity; after so many hours, I felt for him. Arrival in Port Hardy was indeed another celebration, not only because I was finally spitball-free. I was another day closer to the great, big wild Alaska.

I set up my tent in the campground near the ferry terminal and spent the required amount of time admiring my tent, sleeping bag, and cooker. Hundreds of dollars worth of equipment were now getting a road test in British Columbia. A charming lesbian couple set up camp next to me; they, too, would be heading North tomorrow.

As that gorgeous dusky light settled over us once again, they picked up the ante and gave each other long slow kisses on the jetty that jutted out over the bay. I had a naughty moment where I visualized sending my brother a postcard, you know, the wish you were here sort, with the girls tonguing in the front of all that scenery, but then scolded myself. I was jealous that I had no one to kiss.

Needless to say, I was unsure if all the noises during the night had come from unknown wildlife around us, and I was excited to pack up at about 5 am and head towards the ferry terminal.

The day on the Queen of the North ferry will forever remain in my memory as delightful. Initially, half the tourists on board would scream excitedly when an eagle, porpoise, or lighthouse came into view, but this calmed down after about five hours once they realized there was no shortage of distant eagle photographic opportunities.

There was an exception, a focused Belgian man with photographic lenses more prominent than the snout of an African elephant. He was dressed in a khaki safari suit and devoted his attention to zooming in on eagles perched in the trees.

I do hope he procured a good shot of the feathered friends. He indeed invested his time in attempting to capture them. His chest puffed up like some proud European hen gathering chicks as he clicked the shutter.

People-watching proved to be a great way to spend the day and gave me time to ponder my dreams of Alaska.

I had come to see the bears, that classic shot so loved around the world of several bears catching salmon in the falls. I had also come to admire the whales and those giant glaciers that appear on glossy brochures. I had definitely not come for love. There are few women in the Great Frozen North. My guidebook advised that the odds of finding love were good, but the goods were likely to be odd.

Our long idyllic day ended on the Queen of the North with arrival in Prince Rupert, largely invisible due to pelting rain. It took seconds for my squeaky clean pack to soak up the rain like some large blue sponge. My wild country tent, so admired the night before, was now lying forlornly in a large puddle in the campground, taking on the appearance of a giant washer woman’s bed sheet. The charming lesbian coupled was also struggling, but they had managed to get the poles up on their home for the night. I contemplated asking if I could join them, but fear of the unknown kept me working away to try and resurrect my tent. As I climbed into my damp duck-down sleeping bag, I knew I was in for a long, miserable night. Prince Rupert was foggy in the grey light of dawn, and the ferry couldn’t leave quickly enough for me.

 “Perhaps it would not be raining in Ketchikan,” I thought.

 Alaska was going to be perfect in every way, including the weather. When the ferry finally did leave, a few of us travelers hung out tents, clothing, and sleeping bags near heat vents to dry. It does not take long to turn a perfectly respectable vessel into a third-world refugee camp. With steaming socks and a Bohemian look to my surroundings, I chewed the fat with others heading on Alaskan odysseys.

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