The Power of Off-grid: A Trip to Baranof Warm Springs

Fishing for cutthroat trout on the river flowing out of Baranof Lake

About a month ago, on a rainy afternoon in the kitchen, Kiki broke into tears.

“You guys are always on your phones!”

It was true. Summer had brought a cascade of guests on Airbnb, requiring constant handholding - how to find the kayaks, the location of bike helmets, unclogging the head on the boat after someone decided wet wipes would be just the thing for the macerator.

“You’re always texting and talking to people.”

Rachel and I considered how bizarre it must be for a kid to be told not to use screens, while adults constantly have their attention sucked into the whirlpool of the phone without any notice. Looking down into this mysterious black lozenge as if it were some oracle.

Crossing the Indigo glacier on Baranof Island on the way to Warm Springs

The girls still had memories from two years back when we stayed in our small cabin at Baranof Warm Springs. Work, along with the expense of flying over the island, or taking the long boat trip, had made it impossible for us to visit for the past couple years. You could walk there - I wrote this article about the 18-mile journey for Patagonia, and this one for Sierra Club - but the girls weren’t old enough to cross the glaciers. Indeed it was a trip Rachel wanted to do, but we hadn’t found the time.

The Dacha at BWS

In our approach to raising these three small Alaska girls, Rach and I had gone all-in on this idea of spending as much time with them as possible before they reached teenage-dom, even at the expense of our own careers.

As it happened, these phones allowed us to take the approach. Being in contact over magazine articles, online teaching, renting our properties, allowed us to create our own schedule. True, we were tied to the phones - especially in the summer - but we could also hang with the kiddos.

Still, it had become too much. The phones were becoming a wedge - the girls wanted our full attention. Kiki, our canary in the coal mine, had made her appeal. In Warm Springs the phones wouldn’t work. Full stop.

And we could get there without spending a grand. Recently we had incorporated Sound Judgment into our rental stable. Now we had options.

Rachel blocked off July 10th through the 22nd, following my five weeks teaching at Sitka Fine Arts Camp. We began to prepare the boat, changing the oil on the generators and the engine, buying food, getting the bottom scrubbed. Getting geared up for the 9-hour float to Baranof Warm Springs. Knowing that - about an hour into the trip - the phones would go dead.

When I told Kiki, she smiled, and gave a thumbs up.

*

Preparing to drag the Silver Sledge in the Sitka Channel

We set off in the early morning hours of July 12th, pulling out of Thomsen Harbor into Sitka Channel while the girls continued to sleep. Rachel followed in the Silver Sledge, our skiff, and we tied it off behind Sound Judgment. Past the breakwater we drove north across Western Channel, passing Middle Island to the port, and slipping into Olga Strait, the clouds still low over the mountains. Town disappeared in our wake, leaving just the forest - hemlocks and spruce, with alders growing along the small streams emptying into the ocean.

Kiki came up to the fly bridge to sit on my lap, wedging her head under my jaw bone. One by one the bars disappeared from my phone. Finally, the last one vanished, and the phone converted to SOS. It felt like I could breathe. The leash off.

We entered Neva Strait, with the volcano pushing out of the fog to our port. We used the screen to navigate, avoiding rocks, a silence settling over the craft as we continued north.

Now you could argue - and I know people will - that switching the phone off, or at the very least onto Airplane Mode, is easy. Problem solved. But it’s not the same. Breathing really does come easier - for me - when you’re out of range. Knowing that your phone won’t work, that people can’t find you and you can’t find people, is powerful juice indeed. For the kids as well - as if someone flipped a switch there was an ease in conversation, regular interactions, that didn’t exist when our phones were near and working.

But what about the responsibility of having three kids aboard? Our neighbor worked as a Coast Guard helicopter pilot, and had all sorts of stories of rescues. (He had promised to do a fly-over of Warm Springs to make sure we arrived safely.) Wouldn’t we feel better about being connected to the grid?

We had the marine radio - that called the Coast Guard immediately, faster than a cellphone. We reviewed with the kids how to convey our coordinates on Channel 16, along with our boat name.

Kiki at the wheel

As we approached the wide open Salisbury Sound, not far from where the Russian boat Neva had sunk just over two centuries back, the sky began to clear. We had only Xander’s old CDs, and turned up Bob Marley onto the fly bridge, where Rachel and Haley took the helm.

Haley and Rach drive from the fly bridge

After Salisbury we hooked east toward the bottleneck of Sergius Narrows, where the tide rips hard. We got the timing right for slack, and went through Canoe Pass, Xander’s expert hack for navigating the dangerous bit of water. As the air warmed everyone came up on the fly bridge, eating caramel popcorn and watching for whales, bear, deer, otters, seal and sea lion. Haley being Haley, she made a chart and started a tally of critters she spotted.

Haley’s critter-count

When she wasn’t doing this, she sat down in the salon eating yogurt and reading - wait for it - Whispering Alaska, her father’s book that he so kindly dedicated to her, along with his other two girls. Is there a greater pleasure than watching your kid read your book? If so, I’m still waiting to experience it.

Haley reads Whispering Alaska in the galley

The sun came out in earnest, and the temperature rose into the 70s. The sea opened up as we made our way past Deadman’s Reach, across from Poison Cove. Xander, a 7th grade Language Arts teacher in town, held an impromptu history class on the bow, telling the story of how in the 1800s theTlingit had lured the Russians to Poison Cove, where they fed them clams and shellfish infected with Paralytic Shellfish Poisoning (PSP).

“Pop quiz! We only eat clams in months without the letter R, right?”

The Russians, panicking, took to their boats, and paddled from Chicagof Island to the west across the water to Baranof Island. By the time they reached the shore most were dead - hence Deadman’s Reach, which has also become the name of one of Alaska’s best coffees (great at waking you up in the morning).

Q & M up on the fly bridge

The ocean rolled out as we hooked east along Peril Strait, the silver-scaped Hoonah Sound unraveling to the west, home of the mythical Tlingit sea creature - the Southeast AK analog for the Loch Ness. The Perkins engine, running on fresh diesel, hummed along without a hitch. We had changed the oil, checked all the fluids, started to pull the impeller bringing in raw sea water for cooling the engine before beating a retreat from that project.

Overall, we had no reason to think the British engine wouldn’t perform well, save for the fact that British engines always break. Like, always.

Girls driving from the fly bridge

A bright glare fanned out over Peril Strait, turning the water molten as we sailed east toward Chatham. At the same moment we all seemed to recall that our Aussie shepherd Bandit hadn’t peed in some time. We slowed so R could pull in the skiff and get him on a pee run to the coast.

In the interest of time it was decided that Haley and I would break off while the boat kept up its progress - a stunt I recalled playing with the Adak back in 2015 when we brought her down to Wrangell. We had our radio with us, I had the Glock 20 10 mm for bears. On the Adak we headed in with Smithsonian photographer Katie Orlinsky to find freshwater to keep the Fairbanks-Morse engine from overheating. I had worried a bear would sneak up on us as we filled our canisters - so had Katie and Steve.

Hauling in Haley’s Comet aboard the Adak

Except this afternoon had none of the gloom and desperation of that one eight years back. Bandit did quick work in the sedge grass. The water so clear, both Haley and I wanting to linger and explore the beach. Except Sound Judgment was receding to our right, steaming along at a steady 8 knots.

Haley hopped down from the bow, pushing us off with a long oar. We lowered the engine and set back off in pursuit of the rest of our family.

Back onboard we approached the Treasure Islands at the mouth of Chatham Strait. A humpback whale breached balletically, once, twice, three times, creating huge splashes that elicited yelps from wee Quinn. Sea monster indeed. Careful to avoid the rocks at the entrance of Peril, we traced a wide curve before pointing the bow due south for the 15 or so miles down the Strait to the Warm Springs.

Haley watches for rocks as we head to shore to let Bandit off

Out on Chatham Strait it became downright balmy. This body of water, so angry in a gale, whitewater and slashing rain and howling wind, now unfurled like a blue carpet ahead of us. Falls tracing their way between the trees on Baranof Island’s eastern flank. “The Emerald Coast,” people called it.

We had the ebb with us, and peeled off layers in the sun. More whales blew off our quarter. Fronds of seaweed floated in the waves. High tides had snatched cedars off the beach, and we all kept an eye out, careful to not run over one. Farther down seine boats gathered at Hidden Falls fish hatchery to scoop up the last of the salmon before the closure.

Looking out onto Chatham Strait from above Baranof Warm Springs

“What is going on in the world?” Xander asked, a couple Raindogs in. He leaned back and smiled into the cerulean sky.

“Climate change for the win,” Rachel joked.

After nine hours aboard, we were all eager to be tied up at Warm Springs Bay.

We took a diagonal course in at the mouth, careful to avoid the rock guarding the entrance. At the back of the bay we saw the white ribbon of falls tumbling between the hemlock and spruce. Clearly the lack of rain hadn’t affected the volume of water. Just the opposite - the warm weather had increased the rate of melting on the glacier in the middle of the island, causing the falls to run strong and frothy. The girls couldn’t wait to get up to the lake to take out the kayak and fish - and to get into the hot springs, despite the warm day.

Charging up the boardwalk in Warm Springs

A couple boats kindly re-shuffled, allowing us to squeeze into a spot along the dock. Bandit hopped off, followed by the girls, on a mad dash to see the cabin and get into the baths. It felt like we had just left this small community - and we were eager to find our place again. We had heard that the resident brown bear who liked to hang out by the falls had been shot legally by a hunter out of Sitka. The came as both a sadness and a relief - we had enjoyed watching the bear climb among the rocks, exploring and looking for fish. It also made us hesitant to let the girls go out and about alone. In 2021 the community went on lockdown one bright afternoon when the bear appeared in town, just above the boardwalk.

About 15 cabins dot Warm Springs, only accessible by plane, boat, or foot

Up we went, finding our cabin as we left it. Stepping inside felt like a time warp - we had still been in diapers for Quinn when we left.

“Old 555!” Haley shrieked. “My favorite book!”

Now, two years later, she was reading YA books. (Okay, middle grade is how Random House marketed it.)

Rachel and I shared smiles as the hazy memory of the kids clarified, the edges sharpening around objects long-forgotten. The rocks the girls painted and tried to sell for $5 a piece - not one sold. Here the orange battery-operated lantern they used to fall asleep.

We tried firing up the generator; it grumbled and blew blue smoke before dying. Fine. We had hot water from the baths. We didn’t need electric.

The cabin after we hiked across the island

“I can’t believe we took so long getting back here,” Rachel whispered.

Despite the sun and warm temperatures the girls insisted on going up to the Grotto, the hot springs in the forest. They dashed ahead, Bandit on their heels. I wondered if he recalled getting between the girls and a brown bear - perhaps the one by the falls - the last time we were here. Actually, I had been hiking with Xander and Aiden and our friend John across the island. For sure the dog was enjoying his time off-leash, sprinting along the boardwalk, expertly herding his three small charges.

The Grotto - Warm Springs in the woods

As it happened the Grotto was a heady soup of small-boat cruise ship passengers and seiners - the Rainier-swilling dudes eager for rest as the season closed up paired with champagne-drinking shipping magnates from Greece eager to experience the wonder of Alaska’s hot springs. Kiki, mountain goat adventurer that she was, dropped jaws as she rappelled into the “manhole” on the edge of the rushing river leading to the falls. Someone recalled the story of a black lab playing the river who had been swept up and never seen again. We all tried to keep a close eye on Bandit, who scrambled among the rocks, circling about the girls, his icy blue eyes darting about. I couldn’t tell if his heightened awareness came from shadow-memories of his puppy moment of bravery, or if he was just concerned about the rushing river below. Australian shepherds, from what I can observe, appear to live very much in the moment - constant vigilance, with little sense of humor or even play. They just like to “be of use,” as Dr. Wilbur Larch says in Cider House Rules.

True to the spirit of St. Cloud, thus began a week of homeschooling in the morning, baths in “town,” as it were - the collection of Norwegian-inspired cabins along the back of the bay - followed by trips to the lake to kayak and fish and loll about the beach. Paddling out to “Kiki’s Island.” We picked salmonberries and blueberries, returned to do lunches down on the boat, taking advantage of the fridge and freezer. Soaked again in the town baths before walking back up to the cabin to make a fire and start dinner.

Once in the cabin Rachel took out her cellphone to look up an email and check on work. Kiki broke into tears. “You said no cell phones!”

And so we did. The world would work itself out - it would. People would be okay without us. Put the phone down, this umbilical cord connecting us to what we required to survive - apparently. Except here, in this 300-square-foot cabin with no electricity or hot water, on this small plot of land in the back of a bay, the kids were so happy. Even better - content.

Until those bars went away, it was impossible to understand the pressure we were living under - the tension of the leash tightening and loosening, and these kids trying to understand the nature of the pull of these devices. Now that they were gone, smiles were fuller, eye contact more constant, and communication clearer.

We were just able to have fun doing things together. I promised - even taking photos so that they would remember these moments together - that the phone continued not to work. No apps. No texts. No social media. Just a camera.

Dinner caught by the girls

Part of this contentedness I think came from the act of catching food for dinner.

Each afternoon at Baranof Lake the girls waded out to their favorite rock, where they could cast into the current and whip their long-casting Acme Castmaster spoon into the deep, fingers primed for the tell-tale tug on the filament. Lifting the rod tip high into the air, following the play of the fish.

“I got one!”

One afternoon a group of seiners rafted up in the bay. Three guys in wraparound glasses playing down-home country fished just upstream from the rock the girls had staked out. The boy-men watched, three sets of greedy eyes, as Haley pulled in a cutthroat bigger than anything they were hooking.

“Git after it, kid!” one said.

They took turns congratulating her, sharing granola bars and appreciative smiles, before slyly asking what she was catching them on.

“A rod,” she responded, without missing a beat. They hooted and whooped. She looked at me, not understanding the coy nature of her response.

When our second rod seized up Kiki and I cut down an alder, tied filament to the tip and smooshed wet bagel pulp onto the hook. And lifted a nice-sized fish from the current, swinging the rod high like a dowser’s wand.

Rach and Quinn sunning on the beach at Baranof Lake

Meanwhile Rachel and Quinn hung at the beach along the lake, playing in the gravelly sand. Haley bent to her work cleaning fish on the rocks, slicing open the stomachs to see what the trout had been eating before threading the fish onto bendy alder branches and plunging them into an eddy of water protected by rocks. We heard Quinn whoop, making the sound our family uses to stay in touch. “Hoo-woo!” Kiki responded.

We had to pull the girls away from the stream - one more cast! - to head back to the cabin to cook the catch. We slathered the dappled silver sides with olive oil, sea salt and lemon, and brought the fish down to the coals in our fire pit to cook up on cedar sticks.

Girls grilling the fish on a stick

The fish sweet enough to be desert - the meat flaking off the bones, which crackled and curled with flame when we dropped them into the fire. The fish so hot coming out, but so tasty. The girls huffed and puffed, trying to cool the fish down before snatching meat from the bones. Eating their fill before moving on to S’mores.

And thus our time in Warm Springs took on a rhythm of its own. When the weather turned and the rain came we remained inside the cabin, lighting the propane lanterns and camp candles and puttering about, playing the S’mores card game and reading. Visiting with Sitka friends Dan and Janet just up the boardwalk. Janet generously taught the girls how to crochet, and gave them hair ties of her own making. We all kept an eye out for bears, any sign or sound. Word was the furry friends haunted the hatchery at Hidden Falls, where the chum continued to run. I noticed that Bandit kept a careful eye on Quinn - despite their similarity in age, Bandit clearly took it as his job to keep a close eye on her. (Why had no one stopped us when we decided to get a puppy at the exact same moment as having a third child?)

Boardwalk in town - and Bandit patrolling around Quinn

Rain followed by fog and wind, with more in the forecast. The boat needed to be back for renters who would - unknowingly - be paying for our fuel for the voyage.

Except no one wanted to leave and return to civilization. After the kids went to sleep in the loft, Rachel and I drank wine from mugs, dreaming about ways to spend more time at the cabin. Perhaps even having Christmas here even if the sun didn’t even rise in the bay from late November until some point in January. A part of us wanted to get stuck in Warm Springs. We had food - fish and berries. Flour and sugar and oil in the cabin. All the Tasty Bites a family could want.

We needed to get home. The weather wouldn’t be getting any better. Getting up Chatham Strait, that tunnel of foul weather, was the main concern. It had to be with the tide - we didn’t have the fuel to buck it. It felt like this protracted obstacle course separating us from where we needed to be.

We decided to leave at low tide at 6 AM on the 18th - except the fog that morning was general in the bay - you couldn’t even see Chatham. We continued to put things in order on the boat until it lifted at the mouth. Rachel untied us from the dock, staying with the skiff as we wiggled our way out from our slot and allowed the waterfall’s current to push us toward Chatham, waiting for Rachel to motor up to the stern and tie up. We were becoming good at this.

Rain and fog as we headed out of the bay toward Chatham Strait

As we headed toward Chatham the fog eased back in. The boat didn’t have radar, which wasn’t awesome. As we moved toward the entrance of the bay the belt on the engine began making a whining sound. We slowed and eased into a cove to open up the floor and check the fluids once more, the oil pressure, which still hadn’t come up to 70 psi, where it was supposed to be.

As I ticked off different parts of the engine the girls looked on in their pajamas, gnawing on bagels and cream cheese. Six little antennas, picking up on the unsure energy, charged by curiosity and attention glossed over by the pleasure wee critters seem to glean when adults grow serious and ensconced in a project with clear stakes for the larger clan.

Pulling the Silver Sledge out of Warm Springs, the falls and the cabins off our stern

Part of me wanted to just head back to our calm rhythm in Warm Springs, wait for a calm sunny day of the sort we came in with. Tinker with the engine, tighten the belt, open the starter and sand the oxidation off the solenoids so they’d do their job. At the very least depart on a day without pea soup on the water.

Except we knew the weather would only be getting worse.

Off to the starboard a boat passed by. We closed up the floor, and made the decision to draft it, taking advantage of its radar which would pick up boats headed south, and dodge logs appearing out of the mist.

A longliner in the gloom

Chatham Strait a shape-shifter - now it felt like a ghost world, the water flat calm, the fog low and even. Windows on the boat kept fogging up. To see better I put on raingear and went up to the fly bridge. From up top everything so much clearer, though the salve of rain drenched the gear immediately. You could hear the slightest splash of a salmon jumping. When one sense goes - in this case, sight - another one becomes so much clearer - sound.

As we sailed north it felt like we weren’t moving - but we had the tide with us, and were doing 8.5 knots at 1650 rpm. The whine of the belt came and went. The kids settled, Haley repairing to the fo’c’s’le to read. The fog started to lift. The girls started a game of S’Mores in the salon. I set the auto-pilot and joined them, poking my head out every now and then to keep an eye out for logs, seaweed, and other boats.

We passed Hidden Falls, somewhere in the mist off the port side, then began the curve into Peril Strait. Threading through the Treasure Islands, where the whale had breached in the sun just last week. Kiki came up on the fly bridge with me, gnawing on seaweed.

The sun breaks through the fog for a brief moment on Chatham

“Hi Kiks.”

“Hi dad.”

She steered with one foot as we arced our way into Peril Strait. The whining kicked back up. I checked the oil pressure - it hadn’t gotten much above 50. We slowed the boat, and I checked the oil. Things seemed just all around funky - the weather, the oil, belt whining like a dying cat.

Wind from the west ruffled the water on Peril. A few whitecaps crested. I put Kiki in charge of the wheel on the fly bridge, telling her to keep the bow pointed toward False Island so I could go below and check out the rumbling Perkins. I knew from doing an article on the Forest Service years back when I worked for the Sitka Sentinel that there was a dock in the small bay. This seemed like a good place to put in and take a beat, turn off the engine and check the oil. Though the engine had been hesitant to turn over leaving Warm Springs. I talked to Rach - we decided to take the chance and pull in.

Kiki still in her pajamas looking on as Rach pulled the skiff (and Bandit) in to the boat

Back on the fly bridge Kiki kept a steady eye on the entrance to the bay. I recognized her game face - the same one she put on before winning state in wrestling this past April. Even at the age of six it was clear she didn’t like team sports. She slipped into a zone, focused – other players only became distraction.

I took the wheel from her, and she sat on my lap as we cruised toward the bay. A wind pushed us to shore, and we corrected, although the slowness of the boat made it harder to steer.

 Rachel stood on the swim step and began hauling in the skiff. We were near enough to shore to make out the bizarre steel pipe pavilion on the dock. Behind it a cleared landing. Somewhere near they loaded the high-graded hemlock, cedar and spruce for taking down south to the pulp mills. More recently, Todd Miller’s sawmill ran just east of the dock. I recalled visiting when we came here with the Forest Service and encountering a bear just beyond the top of the ramp, at the wood pile.

View from the fly bridge as Rach brings skiff to dock and we prepare to tie up

Rach drove the skiff to the dock, truck tires lashed to its perimeter. As we came in Haley took her spot on the bow, with Kiki off to the port, the two watching for rocks and seaweed.

 “Why is there a dock where no one lives?” Kiki asked.

 I told her that people had come here not too long ago to cut down the trees.

 “To build houses?”

“Not really. They used it for pulp. For paper. Also to make baby diapers, fence posts, plywood.”

 She seemed unimpressed.

The engine shuddered as we keyed it, and the girls hopped onto the dock, each in their life vest. The high tide made the steel ramp leading to land an easy climb, but Rachel wanted the girls to stay on the dock because of bears, and also because the place had a scene-of-the-crime gloom about it, the wind whipping through the trees, flipping the alder leaves to show their pale undersides. The scene of some large-scale extraction operation not too long ago. Trauma seemed general.

Rachel sat at the table in the salon thumbing through the oily manual for the engine. Did we use the wrong oil? Put in too much? Transmission fluid good? Filters all replaced? (Yes – we had done an oil change before the trip, along with the two Honda generators.)

Once more we cycled through the fluids. Everything looked good. The kids scrounged for food. We tried keying the engine – and it wouldn’t start. I took a wrench to the starter and banged on it. Checked the connections on the battery. Nothing. Rachel and I exchanged glances. It would be no good to get stuck out here – we’d have to go on 16 and catch a ride, though we had seen only a couple boats since leaving Warm Springs. Perhaps that longliner was still in the neighborhood? Maybe call the Coast Guard. I banged some more, trying to get the solenoids to make contact. Rachel turned the key. With a reluctant grumble, the Perkins came to life.

At that point, we decided we just wanted the big waters out of the way – and areas with ominous names, like Peril Strait, Poison Cove, and Deadman’s Reach. If we could make it south to Sergius Narrow we could anchor up in a bay we knew and wait for slack in the morning - slack would be after nine tonight, and we weren’t inclined to drive in the dark.

Rach gave the thumbs up from the bow, pleased with her skiff maneuvering, and happy that the boat hummed along.

The Perkins, seemingly satisfied with the attention we had given it, motored smoothly as we tied up the skiff and let it back out on its leash. The wind died down. It was almost as if our gesture of caution had calmed the elements, slaked their thirst for drama. We had acknowledged the potential for disaster, and somehow that was enough.

Kiki and Haley took turns at the helm. Dinnertime approached – and we were nowhere close to making slack at Sergius Narrows. We decided to anchor at __Bay , where our good friend in Warm Springs had hit a rock on the way out. Haley and Bandit stood on the bow in their life jackets, Haley finding the current line as we maneuvered our way between rocks and fronds of kelp, pointing me to port or starboard. Still in her pajamas.

The bottleneck opened onto a coliseum of beaches strewn with fuchus, mustard-colored seaweed. With a rumble the anchor dropped 50 feet down, and we let out another 150 feet of chain and line to keep it 3-1.

Using the buoy as a perch to see rocks and seaweed as we came in to anchor for the night

We had promised S’mores at the end of the day - except it was raining, and we were all exhausted after the long day of running. So the girls made S’mores over the stove that night, and everyone conked out hard.

Making S’Mores on the stove in the galley

The next morning we woke to a low fog, the bay still except for a land otter swimming from the still water into the rocks. Bandit and I took a trip into the beach to pee. With the mist settled into the valleys the land appeared so quiet and forlorn. The water calm, fishing dimpling the surface every now and then.

Pee run

Back on the boat the girls rose. Brushing teeth on the deck, toothpaste foam making dollops on the brown water, slowly floating south toward the mouth of the anchorage. Haley wanted to fish so took the time to thread a lure onto the line.

Bandit looking on as Haley rigs up a pole

Kiki wanted to take the canoe in to check out the beach and explore. We found fields of beach asparagus – hence my hesitation to name to bay, though locals will surely recognize it – and picked a bag full.

Bandit chews a rock as girls forage

Quinny and I explored some, finding a camp in the woods with tarps strewn about. Picking a number of different plans and doing our best to identify them - Quinn constantly asking if we could eat this, or this, or this.

Woods exploring

I stretched out my wool sweater to use for collecting beach asparagus, and we started to load up.

Beach asparagus

As the tide came up we got the crew back together and canoed back in to Sound Judgment. Pulling the anchor and getting the boat in shape.

As we weaved our way out of the bay through the rocks and kelp Kiki came up to the fly bridge in a panic. She had dropped the crocheted hair tie Ms. Janet had made her in Warm Springs. Heroic mama Rachel pulled in the skiff – which was already shorted up to as not to swing out and hit rocks – loaded Haley in, and Haley leaned over the gunwales with a gaff, searching for the tie. Kiki and I watched, floating at the entrance to the bay.

Mission to shore

“Found it!”

 And so they did, motoring back to the boat triumphantly.

 We hit Sergius at 15 minutes before 9:54 high slack. I had expected the water to already start slowing, allowing us to slip through Canoe Pass without a problem. We didn’t have binoculars on the boat - much to Haley’s dismay for her animal search - so it wasn’t until we were already committed that I saw the buoys still heeled over. Too late to turn back, especially with small whirpools and swiriling frothy eddies.

Haley keeping an eye out for rocks and seaweed as we leave the bay

The sun broke out from the clouds, lighting up the rocks on the port side of Canoe Pass. I steered alone from the fly bridge, not liking one little bit the increasing loss of control as we neared the bottleneck. The girls continued to play S’mores in the Salon. Even as I slowed the engine we kept going faster - 10, 11, 12 knots. As the island on the starboard approached I realized how we were just sledding through.

Haley and Rachel on a mission to find Janet’s soaked hair-tie

The chart had an underwater rock on the back side, and I turned to port to get out of its way. The boat had little maneuverability not being under much power - so I pushed it, which only made us go faster. 13 knots. The rudder finally took hold, and we skirted around the rock.

I came back down with my heart pounding. “That was fun,” Haley said, looking up from her hand of cards. As we came up on the open water of Salisbury Sound text messages rained into our phones. “Ugh,” Rachel grunted. “Life.”

Life indeed.

Approaching our anchorage for our final night off the grid

We took a family poll. Who wanted to get back to town? No one, that’s who.

“Let’s go to a beach!”

We discussed the likelihood that the engine would turn on once we shut ‘er down - and decided to take the gamble. It felt worth it. If something happened, we be close enough to town to skiff in and deal with it.

I recalled a sweet anchorage at the mouth of St. John the Baptist, where we had anchored the Adak during the run to Wrangell. A wee volcanic sand beach.

Bandit and the girls wanted to kayak into the beach. We let them – there was little wind and no current and the sun had come out. That, and you gotta let go some time.

Bandit, Quinn and I followed in the Sledge, watching as Kiki pulled the kayak up on the beach. I checked the handgun for bullets, and trailed along behind the girls as Kiki introduced the three different levels required for entering her Detective Agency. First being a treasure hunt, second being flower identification, third being agility – leaping between shells without touching the sand. Quinn doing excellent work finding clam shells in the high grass.

Paddling to the beach

Back on the boat Rach and Haley were having a mommy/Haley date. As the sun set we went out to the bow and read in the sun. Janet’s husband Dan had lent me 1776 in Warm Springs. Rachel wasted no time stealing it, reading chunks of pages at a time while Haley read Whispering Alaska and Bandit barked at herring and the sun cast a buttery glow over the beach and trees.

Reading 1776 and Whispering Alaska on deck as the sun sets

We ate in the salon, making entries into the new ship’s log, which Alexander Allison had been so kind to purchase for the boat. Contemplating re-entry into civilization, wondering exactly why Australia had been called “New Holland” in the 1630s – and how did these small countries come to dominate such large swathes of land?

Quinn inspects a clam shell

As the sun slipped behind the clouds we started dinner, covered the fly bridge and began to put things in order. The anchorage lovely and snug, the girls already planning a morning mission to the beach.

Sun setting over the beach at the entrance of St. John the Baptist

The following day the sun rose above the trees, the clouds scalloped over a blue sky. Haley fired up about heading to the beach while Quinn slept. Back into the kayaks for a beach mission, this time to construct the Whispering Volcanoes - five volcanoes with seaweed erupting from the cones on on a sandy plot beneath alders.

Silver Sledge and Sound Judgment

After a couple hours of beach-combing we piled the dog back into the skiff. The girls wanted to kayak as a pair, Haley chanting “Teamwork makes the dream work!”

Building volcanoes with seaweed lava

Back on the boat Rachel had made cinnamon bun and coffee, which we took up on the fly bridge. Quinn was beside herself that she slept through the beach mission. The girls promised another trip after breakfast.

Cinnamon buns & coffee on the fly bridge

This time Rachel wanted to come. She took Haley and Quinn in the kayak, and Bandit and Kiki and I skiffed in. It reached 70, and felt like the Jersey Shore - except we had the beach to ourselves, and no fried Oreos or escape rooms or mini-golf.

Haley, Rach and Quinn piled into the kayak on the way to the beach

Kiki insisted on kayaking back herself, and took a long detour to a set of islands revealing themselves with the low tide. It was like dislodging abalones, getting the girls off the beach in the warm sun, coaxing them back to town, where we needed to be because the following day the boat would be rented.

Kiki kayaking back to the boat

Back on SJ we pulled anchor, dredging up clay and mud and seaweed. The Perkins took its good time firing up - but fire it finally did. Rachel cooked eggs as we passed Nakwasina, Lisianski Point, the ferry terminal appearing along the coast. Two Holland America cruise ships were tied up at the terminal, blending together to make an optical illusion of one huge floating hotel. After the smallness of Warm Springs, it was like returning to the Capital.

Haley took the wheel, eager to guide the boat into the breakwater.

“We’re back!” Kiki said.

One by one our bars returned. Once again the phones seized our attention as we desperately tried to catch up with messages and emails. Once more shut out of the conversation, the girls seemed resigned to their return as second class citizens, the phones taking pole position once more. And yet it was the boxes that had allowed us to take the trip, that we depended on for financial security, navigation, communication with friends and family.

We drifted into Sitka Channel. Rach expertly pulled in the skiff, motoring to the harbor to tie it up. She kayaked back out to help us tie up, standing on the stern as we backed into the slip, taking a line and pulling the boat in.

Washing down SJ

For the next few hours we cleaned, spraying off the salt, running up the trash we had accumulated. Kiki charged up the ramp with Haley and Quinn, the girls happy and excited to get back to the chickens and life in town. Hardly noticing as Rach opened her phone to let incoming guests know the boat was ready for them.