Wingin' It

It’s 8:00 p.m. on Wednesday, July 1, 2015, and I’m writing from my new hammock that I purchased after my recent trip to Costa Rica’s Osa Peninsula. My rainforest view has officially moved from the tropical to the temperate, and the previous 90-degree swim trunk weather has been replaced with much cooler, long sleeve temperatures currently fluctuating between the mid-40s and high 60s. And, unlike Costa Rica, where sunlight is confined to a strict 12-hour equatorial schedule, the daylight here in Southeast Alaska is much more abundant with nearly 20 hours a day during the summer months. The one similarity between both locations, however, has been the rain.

I left Dallas yesterday morning, Tuesday, June 30, and flew to Juneau via Seattle. Cordoned off from the outside world by road, Juneau’s rugged terrain makes it the only U.S. state capital accessible by either boat or plane. Its sweeping mountain views, renowned glacial icefield and robust wildlife population also makes the remote town of approximately 30,000 the main attraction of the “Inside Passage,” a network of waterways used by ships to navigate through the islands of North America’s Pacific coast.

I took the hotel shuttle and drove along the waterfront, past the Macaulay Salmon Hatchery, where the unmistakable white heads of two bald eagles could be seen looking for an easy meal. As we approached downtown Juneau, three floating cities disguised as cruise liners filled the port, their residents overflowing onto the streets in search of tours, ranging from the laid-back whale watching excursion to the more adventurous kayak trip to nearby Mendenhall Glacier.

As for me, I checked into my hotel, the Driftwood Inn—a fitting name to describe my summer meanders thus far—and was given the key to room 316 and to a number that holds a very special significance to me. I climbed the three flights of stairs and immediately noticed a feathered visitor perched atop the roof, seemingly awaiting my arrival.

It was the largest raven I had ever seen. I stood there for a moment, my bags in hand, and watched a close up of the main character of my novel just a few feet away from me. I slowly grabbed my iPhone from my pocket and snapped a quick picture before it flew away, riding the winds on what I estimated to be a five-foot wing span.

The next morning, I set sail on a ferry from Juneau to Haines, following the Chilkat Mountain Range as we moved north from Juneau’s Gastineau Channel. The winds were brisk and the skies clear, and as soon as the ship entered the wider Lynn Canal, I threw on a jacket and walked onto the bow for a better view of the wrinkled landscape. I heard the captain’s voice over the intercom, telling us passengers to look port side, where spouts of air rose like geysers as a pod of humpback whales surfaced for a quick breath.

I eventually walked back inside and took a seat next to a woman conversing with two brothers. The woman, Clarissa, who I later learned was an artist from Juneau, belongs to the indigenous “Tlingit” people of Southeast Alaska, whose society is broken down into two major "moieties" or lines of descent: the eagles and ravens. As you can imagine, we became quick friends, and for the remainder of the ferry ride, I sat and listened to her many fascinating stories.

Turns out, she was on her way to the Yukon but was nice enough to write down the contact information of a few of her friends in Haines, one of whom is a traditional boat maker of the native dugout canoes. In exchange, I gave her a Maven the raven bookmark, which I have been handing out to different people along my journey.

We eventually arrived at Haines four and a half hours later. I said goodbye to my new friends and said hello to Suzy, a woman from Austin, Texas, who picked me up in my rental car, which I then drove to town and purchased a few “bear necessities,” including what has now become my primary defense against an attack, also known as “Counter Assault Bear Deterrent (Grizzly Tough Pepper Spray).”

By now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I decided to come to Haines, Alaska, in the first place. Let’s just say that there's a reason why this area is called “The Valley of the Eagles.” In fact, less than 20 miles north of town on the Old Haines Highway sits the Chilkat Bald Eagle Preserve, consisting of 48,000 acres of river bottom lands established by the state in 1982 to protect what has become the largest congregation of bald eagles in the world. Resident eagles total upward of 400 year round; however, when the salmon runs begin in the fall and winter, the population of eagles on the Chilkat can swell upward of 4,000.

This is why I came, and this is where I’ll be living for the next 25 days. My cabin is located on a bucolic lake with snow-capped mountaintops reflecting off its crystal-clear surface. A pair of white trumpeter swans tooted their horns as I paddled out in my canoe, acquainting myself with my new surroundings. I made a few laps around the lake, often stopping and staring at the wild Alaskan landscape, a place where I’ve dreamed of visiting for so many years.

Tomorrow, I’ll start planning my tours for the upcoming week. I decided to hold off in booking anything in advance. I wanted to play things a little more by ear—you know, “wing it” as they say. The owner of my cabin is a guide, and he has a bald eagle rafting tour going out on Friday. I think I’ll hop onto that, and maybe on Saturday for July 4, I’ll catch a flightseeing plane over nearby Glacier Bay National Park.

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