Pavlov Harbor, Chatham Strait
In unfamiliar surroundings and without seeing the sun or night’s celestial bodies as references, it is difficult for one to attain a proper sense of direction. Southeast Alaska is a labyrinth of islands, islets, fjords, bays, and twisting waterways. In every direction, much like in the suburbs, the scenery is consistently, and often confusingly, similar. The terrain throughout Southeast is rugged and tree covered. Mighty snow-capped mountains occasionally show themselves when conditions allow, but such was not the case today.
The morning was overcast, the hills shrouded in low gray clouds. Thick wisps of eerie mist clung to the trees like smoke. The wind was non-existent, the air cool and still. A light rain began to fall as the National Geographic Sea Lion dropped anchor in Pavlov Harbor on the east coast of Chichagof Island. At the dawn of our first full day questions abounded – “Where are we?” was as common as “Nice to meet you, what’s your name?”
To the question of “Where are we?” “Pavlov Harbor” would be any staff member’s answer, as if merely giving the name would have much meaning.
“Where is that?” – A common second question.
The natural reply of any staff member, “On the west coast of Chichagof Island,” as if that provided any real clarification at this early a stage in our journey.
“Oh, OK, hmmm,” often stated with a face screwed into an expression of growing bewilderment.
Naturally, this would lead to “Well OK, can you just tell me which way is north?”
“That way,” was the obvious and consistent staff response with fingers pointing the direction.
The not-so-unexpected last gasp from any guest involved in such an exchange was understandable to anyone who has traveled these waters, and would go something like, “Hmm, Alright. Well it all looks the same to me. Perhaps it will all make sense soon enough. Thank you anyway.”
With these natural requisite dialogues having completed their course, there was nothing more to do except go ashore and enjoy the temperate rainforest that is the central showpiece of Southeast Alaska. We took Zodiacs ashore for the first time to a rocky beach festooned with myriad high intertidal sea life. The beach quickly gave way to grass and then Sitka alder, a tree species often lining the forest edges where sunlight is more plentiful. Skirting the shoreline, we moved deeper into the inlet towards the mouth of a very short but wide stream-fed by a low, powerful waterfall exiting Pavlov Lake.
After scrambling up the rocks on the north side of the waterfall, hikers entered the forest. Under the canopy of predominantly western hemlock and Sitka spruce, the forest floor was reasonably open, blanketed with conifer needles, mosses, lichens, fallen branches, and decomposing downed trees. Nothing goes to waste in the forest, with decaying matter providing nutrients that further enrich the soil. A generous scattering of blueberry, huckleberry, and false azalea bushes added a low layer of verdant relief to the scene.
Emerging from the forest, Pavlov Lake in its entirety came into view. It was fringed by bog and meadow sporting a wealth of plant species different than those found in the forest. Horse tails (an ancient and primitive plant) were interspersed with buckbean near the water’s edge. Bog orchids, chocolate lilies, Alaskan violets, sedges and grasses, and salmonberry bushes (to name a few) comprised the meadow realm. With no wind, the lake was a mirror, reflecting the high, snow-streaked ramparts that served as backdrop. We were no more than ten or fifteen meters above sea level, but the scene led all of us to conjure alpine parallels. We could have fancied ourselves high in the Sierra Nevada. This is the glory of Southeast – a unique and exquisite meeting of land and sea.
With a fruitful and educational first excursion ashore behind us, the National Geographic Sea Lion made way out into Chatham Strait in search of marine mammals that call these waters their seasonal home. The waters of the strait remained calm, and the winds had no more punch than a strong breath. Visibility was excellent. It took only moments for the call to come over the PA requesting all on board to come up on deck, for we had Orcas in our sights.
It did not take long to determine that four Orca, including one fairly large bull, were moving quickly south from our position. After the first couple of sightings they appeared to vanish from sight. Nearly giving up the chase, we spotted them once again near the shoreline of Chichagof Island. Our ship approached slowly, effectively shadowing their course while gradually and sensitively angling in their direction – bridging the gap ever so carefully. A pattern began to emerge. The group would rise to the surface, take four or five breaths each and then disappear below the surface for two to three minutes, all the while maintaining a southerly course. After a spell, it was clear they wanted no further part of us and appeared to increase their speed. Message received! Our vessel turned back north in a continuing search for other cetaceans.
Excited, many of us stayed on deck scanning the waters. Diligence fueled by inspiration paid off as perhaps a couple of hours later, in the distance, we spotted a sizeable group of humpbacks outside the mouth of Port Frederick on the northeast side of Chichagof Island. One, two…six...eight or more blows from humpbacks in rapid succession and close proximity to one another – the blows were going off with the frequency of well-timed geysers. Something special was taking place, but distance and prudence precluded a prediction, even though the surface evidence was suggestive of what many were hoping to see. In the hours previous we had been informed of such acts taking place in these waters by our vessel’s team of on-board naturalists.
As we closed the gap, supposition and wishful thinking turned to fact. Indeed, we were soon upon a group of perhaps seven to ten humpback whales engaged in one of the most unique and extraordinary forms of cooperative feeding in the animal kingdom – the “bubble net.” All on board stood rapt for the next hour or so as the group repeatedly dove, one following quickly after the other, until all flukes had been thrown, and the group was wholly below the surface. Then following the advantageous flight of a group of gulls circling the frenzy (always a solid indicator of where the whales had descended or might re-surface), we gazed as the group rose, rostrums aimed skyward, mouths agape, to gulp voluminous quantities of water and fish (likely schools of herring), then gently collapse beneath the surface. Below the waves they would expel excess water, trapping their prey against the inside of their baleen, and swallow their quarry. Navigational hazards prevented our vessel from achieving an up-close-and-personal view. However, our distance was still close enough to afford pictures and memories to last a lifetime, for we had been privy to one of Southeast Alaska’s most prized and hallowed acts of nature.
