Visiting Ketchikan

Ketchikan was experiencing light rain, the captain cheerfully announced. As I left the ferry, it became apparent that The good folks of Ketchikan needed help understanding the definition of rain here. It was clear my newly dried belongings were about to get rewashed. I cleared customs; the agent asked if I was a terrorist.
“No, but I’m willing to learn,” I wanted to quip.
I judged that the customs official might not be familiar with an Australian sense of humor. I was not too worried about the temporary rain deluge, as I had read that one of the local churches let travelers sleep in the hall for a small fee. My Alaska trip was about to begin; Ketchikan would be my first frontier town. I was rudely awoken from this reverie by the pastor’s voice.
“We have a live one here!” He announced.
It turns out the hall was not ready for passing travelers due to a musical shortly to be performed. Ousted by Jesus Christ Superstar, the pastor redirected me to a house that took in backpackers. I should have been suspicious when the pastor told me the name – Eagles Rest, but I gladly accepted the offer of a ride up the hill to this warm, dry, and relatively cheap establishment. Eagles Rest was up a set of steep stairs, and I struggled up with my backpack that bore a resemblance to a large blue sponge. I got to the first landing and rang what appeared to be the doorbell.
“Can’t you read, you idiot?” a voice yelled down to me. “That is the men’s entrance.”
I peered with rain-soaked eyes at the door; sure enough, it read men only, and underneath, in fine print, it advised to climb another level to book in and entrance for women. Each step up led me closer to a segregated world. Made sense, I reasoned; after all, there were not many women up here. My host was indeed a little eccentric and subjected me to a long tirade of his backpackers’ do’s and don’ts after assuring me it was a free and secure place I was to treat as if my own home. Finally, when he started whining about how tired he was of dealing with tourists, I got ready to depart. I would ditch the sponge over the rail and hike on out. The voice of reason prevailed even if my first Alaskan, who did not like foreigners, was slightly crazed; he did have a warm, dry bed available and a hot shower. I would stay a night and plan my escape when the sun shone the following day.
Meeting a long-time hostel resident cemented my resolve to leave further—Gustav, a poor soul with giant beaver-like teeth and coke bottle glasses. He kept me company as I prepared a hearty feast of two-minute noodles. He had arrived in Ketchikan and had run out of money. Thankfully he had picked up a job at one of the local canneries that processed the enormous loads of fish coming into Alaskan harbors. He was a long-term resident of Eagles Rest, and by the way, he addressed my boobs rather than my face; I was somewhat glad segregation was a hostel rule. Avoiding my crazy host as much as possible, I retired early to discover I was sharing a room with a Japanese couple; perhaps the host had not realized that there was a male in the girl’s only part of the house. Maybe his short stature and limited English qualified him as part of the female species; who knows? Nevertheless, they were pleasant, rational and were heading off tomorrow to kayak the Misty Fjords. With my faith restored in the possibilities of Alaska, I drifted off to sleep, warm and dry and so far not axe murdered by the host and his stooge Gustav.
I escaped from Eagles Rest in the rain; I was beginning to believe the blurb about high rainfall. I planned to head to a campground north of Ketchikan and return to a more basic Alaskan adventure. I shopped for food, beer, and a bear bell. The guidebook assured me this tinkling sound on my back would keep any large North American predator at bay. The fearsome jingle bells warning them to keep their distance or face the consequences.
I stashed my pack at the library while I went to the tourist information center to organize a ride to the campground. Entering the tourist heart of Ketchikan was like entering some warped, twisted pantomime. Speakers piped the song North to Alaska by Johnny Horton, along with advertisements for helicopter flights and jet boat rides. Giant floating hotels lined the dock, towering so high the ships obscured the water beyond. People poured from these ships toting cruise bags, cameras, and rain jackets. Many appeared to be dazed and wobbly; I wonder if this was due to having not gained sea legs. On the other hand, it could be connected to the fact that the median age of this humanity pouring forth from the bowels of the ships was at least seventy.
Girls dressed in yellow rain gear carried loudspeakers and lollipops. They cheerfully advised that it was safe to cross the road by them. Despite this, some dazed individuals still seemed bent on self-destruction and wandered into the streets, causing tires to screech and drivers to curse. In some ways, I could understand it; I was having trouble believing we were not in an altered reality, too; maybe it was not a real street.
A large bear waved cheerfully as it handed out flyers offering ten percent off t-shirts, and a cancan girl jiggled her bits as she preyed upon older men to enter her museum. A group of people stood by the trash can outside the liquor store, emptying spirits into water bottles before dumping the liquor bottles. Presumably, to smuggle alcohol back on board to avoid paying a king’s ransom for a couple of rounds at cocktail hour. But it was sad to see such self-respecting individuals stoop so low. I had to get out and fast.
The tourist center proved to be in la-la land as well. They had no way of accommodating an independent tourist. They seemed puzzled that I could not name the cruise ship I was on, and one lady kept repeating there were no camping activities available for booking. I did the only sane thing I could; I headed to the nearest bar for a couple of quiet ones. A bit of liquid gold would present me with an answer.
The Pot Luck Bar was perfect, situated on a seedy part of the dock away from the madding crowds of souvenir shoppers. Prominent burly men in rain gear and brown extra tuff boots knocked back spirits, and Alaskan Amber beers, a young man with one single tooth in his smile smoked incessantly as he watched the weather channel. The barmaid was cast well with platinum blond hair, a smoker’s husky voice, and a push-up bra. I was bound to get the right sort of help here. I grabbed a seat at the bar and began chatting with the characters around me. Pretty soon, I organized a boat lift out to the campground.
I returned to the library to grab my pack and headed back to the Pot Luck Bar to meet my ride. It was then I noticed I did not have my wallet. I tried to remain calm as I mentally retraced my steps. It had to be back at the bar. The most valuable thing in it was my photograph taken with Desmond Tutu, but losing the credit cards this early in the trip would be a pain. The barmaid happily told me they had indeed discovered it and had organized for the crew of the last cruise ship of the day to pick it up to take back on board. It was currently being shipped out across the strait to the ocean liner. I had spent three hours telling the bar and its occupants that I was an independent traveler and not a cruise ship passenger, and now my wallet and prize photograph was being shipped off and up the inside passage.
It required some quick thinking to work out how to get the purse back and a round of beers for all concerned. But, most of all, it gave me a chance to reflect that not a soul in that bar had been listening to me at all.
Doug was to take me to the campground by skiff. I persuaded him for an additional beer or two to head first to the side of the giant cruise ship and come alongside to retrieve my wallet. Doug was easygoing, and the beer made him agreeable to any new plan. So we headed down the dock to meet the boat. I thought “The Skiff” was the name of his ship. Turns out “The Skiff” is a small boat the size of a bathtub and one I would deem suitable for river travel or lakeside paddling, but now we were heading out across the strait towards a massive iceberg-like cruise ship in search of my autograph and cards.
Doug maneuvered the boat skillfully, despite the beers, or perhaps because of them, and we came alongside the cruise ship. First, the crew said welcome back as I leaned forward to explain about the wallet. Then, once they had established I did not belong onboard and had no intention of getting on board, they produced the purse and waved a puzzled goodbye.
Doug now negotiated the waters of Ketchikan and headed further across the bay towards the campground. He picked up speed, and the skiff seemed to leap up in the air. I clutched my pack and well-traveled purse and tried to remain calm as the maniacal skipper continued to power the boat when it was apparent it could flip at any time. I should not have bought the bear bells; I did not have to worry about being eaten by predators. Instead, I was likely to drown in the icy straits around Ketchikan. Obviously, this would be my first and last full day in Alaska. Surprisingly, this was not the case, and the skiff eased off as we arrived at an idyllic little bay. The water was green and calm, and the trees scattered on the shoreline were solid, with undergrowth of ferns nestled under them. As I had not drowned on the way out, maybe the predator mauling was now possible.