Expecting more than most,
a kayaking couple second-guess
their decision to take on the
Alaskan wilderness
by John Burbidge
Canoe & Kayak, June 2006
We had to get off the water. A
capsize in the icy, stormy waters of
Glacier Bay is a life or death
situation, and we absolutely could
not risk it. And what about that tiny
creature who had tagged along with us on this wilderness adventure? Could he or she even
survive a shock like that? Maybe. Maybe not. We had to get off the water.
The waves crashed against the cliff beside us and surged back, swirling in different directions. The
wind swooping in from behind created large, forceful swells that “surfed” us down their faces
faster than we wanted to go. If a wave rolled one of us we would be upside down in the freezing
water, desperately trying to get out of the tight cockpit and back to the surface where the real
challenge awaited—re-entering a swamped kayak during an Alaskan windstorm, body-clock ticking
toward hypothermia. Good luck.
I yelled to Claire that we should aim for a small point of land about a mile ahead. She nodded but
kept her eyes on the water, bracing to stay upright, making slow but steady progress. Antsy and
ready to bust out full speed, I kept looking back, searching for signs of panic. All I saw was wide-
eyed determination, maternal instincts in overdrive. Claire understood the stakes. I knew she
would give everything she had.
Surf, brace, paddle. Surf, brace, paddle. Finally, 30 minutes later, we pulled around the point and
slid into calm water. We breathed a sigh of relief and floated limply, got our wits back. Eventually
we consulted the map and surveyed the shoreline, where a river snaked through some grassy
fields and flowed into the bay. The map indicated this area was closed to landing and camping.
Why? An unusually high concentration of bears.
Great. We eyed the shoreline nervously. Bears in here, big waves out there. What the hell do we
do now?
Critical stages
I believe our baby was conceived the day Claire and I went sea kayaking in Puget Sound and got
surrounded by porpoises. They danced beside us for 15 minutes as we floated a mile offshore on
the west side of Whidbey Island, our home. They smiled as if they knew something we didn’t.
They did. We found out a few weeks later—less than a month before we were to embark on our
biggest sea kayaking adventure yet, a two-week, unguided, no-group, just-us journey through
Glacier Bay National Park in Alaska. Now this.
I wasn’t sure what to think. Oh of course I’m happy, I’m ecstatic, we’ve been blessed. But can we
still go on our trip?
Some family and friends expressed concern and urged us to cancel. Critical stages, one friend kept
telling me, the early weeks are critical stages. Why take the chance? You’ve got more important
responsibilities now.
Claire asked her doctor. The doctor was oddly casual about it, said sure, go ahead. I was glad to
hear this, but also insulted. I wondered if that doctor knew anything about the Alaskan wilderness.
We’d be paddling 20 miles a day through icy waters, carrying heavy boats and bags of gear up
long, rocky beaches. This trip would be harder than that doctor thought.
But the doctor’s blessing tipped the scales for Claire. She knew how much this trip meant to me—
this was the end of my life as I knew it. Thirty-eight years old and the door to personal freedom
was finally going to shut me out. No more adventures, at least not for a long time. Chained to a
freaking stroller.
Did I pressure her into sticking with our plans? Not overtly. I played the role of concerned dad-to-
be, threw in plenty of “whatever you think is best” statements. And if she’d said no, I’d have
abided without a big fuss.
But she didn’t say no. Claire likes adventures too, that’s why we got married, right? She wanted to
go. She was comfortable with her doctor; she trusted me to plan a safe trip. I’d planned many safe
trips for us in the past.
And I did plan a safe trip. In Alaska, though, “safe” revealed itself to be the entirely relative
concept that it is.
The tame part of the trip
So it was I found myself in the middle of the night on the MV Columbia, duct-taping our tent to the
ship’s deck in a pounding windstorm. Claire was inside lying spread-eagle on the floor, a human
anchor.
Christ, I thought, tying a guy-line to a handrail with a series of desperate, sloppy knots, rain
whipping at my face—is my tent even going to survive the ferry ride? We’re only a few hours up
the Inside Passage and I feel like I’m fighting for my life.
Out of the dark a guy from Australia appeared; he was camped two tents over. I’d talked to him
and his wife briefly earlier that day. They were on their way to Skagway to backpack the world
famous Chilkoot Pass trail, the same route Jack London and the gold miners followed. We teamed
up to secure the tents, then dove back inside.
The next day the four of us moved camp down one level to a more sheltered location. It was near
the engines—rumbly, fumy—but at least we weren’t worried about being blown overboard into the
frigid waters of the Inside Passage and sinking, trapped inside our tents, never to be seen again.
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