The Alaska Marine Highway, Alexander Archipelago, and one confused dog

I swear a shred of that same excitement at the harbor in Seattle as boats blew perfect smoke rings out their fiddles, warming the engine for the trip north, transporting hundreds of men and women with gold in their corneas north to make their fortune, manifests itself at the Bellingham ferry terminal, as the flagship of the Alaska Marine Highway system fills the water jackets of god knows how many cylinders in anticipation of departure from the lower 48.

In the aisles of the supermarket in Fairhaven, a walk from the terminal, folks bought duct tape to fasten down tents on deck, ramen noodles, dried fruit, candy bars. Hundreds of people preparing to go camping all at one.

Kind of. Some folks had cabins, and thereby separated themselves from us campers in the solarium, heated beneath our heat lamps like old french fries at Wendys. But I get ahead of myself.

As I pulled into line, I was asked if I had any gas in canisters, and were there any firearms and live ammunition on board. The answer to all questions was Yes. Too bad they didn’t check Mathilda’s registration.

But I answered no. One of these problems was solved easily, by heading to the bathroom with my MSR canister and dumping white gas down the toilet. The others I spent a couple minutes worrying about, as police checked out vehicles with their impressive German shepherds. They Xed Mathilda with a blue crayon, like the Jews in Exodus marking their doorposts with lamb’s blood so the angel of death would pass over. And alas – the X meant something similar – we were free to drive onto the ferry.

Which we did, passing by the gathered police. Can I describe the weight which began to drop from my shoulders, head, arms? Like shingles of cast-iron shedding one after the other, clinking on the cement deck as I set up the tent on the solarium, duct-taping down the rainfly. Made a couple trips back and forth from Mathilda to bring stuff top-side, getting Cal installed to what would be his home for three days. If he was confused before….

The sun shone through the clouds, a freight train negotiated the gentle curve leading out of Bellingham and vanished into a tunnel, sailboats kept steady course to our starboard, and folks situated themselves with great elation on deck for the long journey north. For anyone who has not experienced such joy of being outside, and having a simple shelter, good food in store, and the future wide open – a good feeling.

Evening fell quickly. I chatted with a fellow called Jim Seida and his family – he was writing an article for MSNBC on the trip north, and reminisced about coming up to Alaska on a motorcycle as a young man.Also with another family relocating north with the two young children to live in Anchorage – they lived in Juneau when they were younger, and missed it too much. And a young couple from I forget where who appeared unsure of the whole project, and kept to themselves in their tent.

I woke at about 2 to the flapping of the rainfly – wind and rain blowing out of the north. I hadn’t taken time to clip the fly into the sides of the tent. The ends were taped to the deck, and it was difficult in the rain and wind to reach in and get the clips working. Other tents had started to come loose, and flashlights lit the fabric as folks inside contemplated the next move. The rims of rainflies wacking tents made a cacophony of sound reminiscent of the worst/best of modern compositions.

Morning dawned early. The day disappeared  – black and white movies about the dynamiting of a rock in Canada interrupting the passage of ships, the New Yorker Fiction issue, soups and strawberries, brief conversations before extended periods of solitude. A fairly smooth passage over the open water of Queen Charlotte Sound. Becoming familiar again with how the light plays against fog stuffed like cotton balls between the series of mountains.

The following morning I woke at three. I swear I could taste the clearness of the sky by smelling the relative dryness of the air, listening to the wind, a certain open coldness on the sides of the tongue. I had forgotten this. I unzipped the tent opening like unwrapping a gift – sure enough, the morning sky clear. I walked toward the bow – dall porpoises cruised just beneath the surface of the water, surfacing in twos, showing off by diving inches before where the bow cut through the water.

I went into the lounge area, with the Pullman chairs and TV screens. The curtains were pulled. Underfoot looked like a plane crash – doll-like kids curled up in disney-themed sleep sacks, diaper bags, open board games, cardboard boxes filled with donuts and chips. Why are so many people asleep together somehow quieter than no one ? Just the potential for sound ?

That day more reading watching the Green Hornet writing in the dark of the lounge area. Sitting in the tent watching the mountains recede and eating spinach on crackers and chocolate bars. Receding deeper into a quiet state interrupted only by the regular deck calls to go check on Colorado, walking him around between the campers and SUVs, letting him hang with the other confused and frustrated creatures. Poor guy. He had never been on a big boat. He kept looking for doors to get outside and pee. Other dogs, used to the drill, picked a big tire of a ratcheted down semi and let loose. Their owners followed dutifully with paper towels.

What swirls of smells in that hold – pee diesel salt and the dynamic heady scents of multiple unbathed humans. Back Colorado went to the front seat, reluctantly. A good boy.

We hit Ketchikan – a town that, in my humble opinion, has lost its soul to the tourists. The shadows of cruise ships in the deepwater docks darkened downtown. Every business and even house had a sign with a number out advertising something – walking tours, whale tours, smoked salmon, Harley rentals. Cal was just happy for the walk.

Soonafter we reached Petersburg, or Little Norway, as the case may be. Apparently at one point someone in town had started the tradition of waving a towel to greet the ferries. Now everyone did it – which explained all those people on the front porch waving their towels at us.

Tara – the mother in the young couple moving to Anchorage – showed her kid the sights from the railing. Tara – the name of the woman in that first novel The Alaskan Laundry. Strange how that was working. When she told me her name I couldn’t wipe the stupid smile from my face. I think she thought I was a bit strange.

Anyhow, Cal and I cruised around town a bit. We checked out the shipyard – where the Adak was hauled out five years ago. I wondered whether we’d be spending more time here down the line. Cal began to actively not want to get back in the truck, and we had a long conversation over how we were very close to being in Sitka. He understood. I really needed to talk more to real people. It was becoming scary.

In Juneau we deboarded, took our place in line, enjoyed the early morning air, and waited to board the Fairweather, the fast ferry. I had started to text folks that indeed we would be arriving soon. The fast-ferry, English-built – was pretty plush. A trip that took in my memory a good 14 hours on the LeConte shrunk down to four – the boat slowing only to navigate Peril Strait, and allow folks to watch a whale bubble-feed.

And then we were coming out of Peril, hooking south passed Mosquito Cove. Houses began to appear on Halibut Point Road. The boat made fast. I texted Xander that we were tying up, he said he’d be out. And he was, with his boy Aidan. A welcoming committee, complete with a purple flower.

Colorado was quite happy, to say the least – and made instant friends with Aidan. As I followed Xander into town, passed Harbor Mountain Road, Granite Creek, SeaMart – tuning into Raven Radio. Many years in the making – how many times had I imagined just this same scene.

Now it was time to get to work.