Pavlov Harbor, Chatham Strait
By dawn’s light most of our foul-weather gear, having done its best to repel two days of rain, had effectively dried. Those who spent more money probably donned dryer clothing than those who shopped for their Southeast Alaskan sojourn on a thrifty budget. We all reap what we sow, and by the time the call came over the PA to board Zodiacs, the point was moot; we had what we had in whatever condition it was presently.
The waters of Freshwater Bay were a millpond, the air was cool and still, the sky – a uniform blanket of gray sparsely pocked with holes of blue. No rain was falling. It was, by comparison, a beautiful morning. The tide was low – a mixed blessing. Such a state could potentially expose SE Alaska’s intertidal denizens for up close viewing. It also meant a squishy, slippery substrate to negotiate after disembarking our inflatable landing craft.
On the morn of our third day we had already become inured to the precarious footing that fringes Southeast’s shorelines. In fact, it goes beyond that; most of us had been educated to view it as another habitat, generally beyond the reach of landlubbers, that merits closer inspection – a world unto its own, filled with its own brand of life, a collection of organisms which pulse to the beat of influences beyond our general reach.
With low tide the shore was beginning to seem familiar. Rockweed (Fucus sp.) was ubiquitous. Barnacles and mussels were impossible to avoid. Butter clam and cockle shells abounded. However, with the tide this low a few mid-intertidal denizens were now exposed to the world above the waves. Numerous sea stars (Evastarius sp.) lay motionless upon the sand and pebbles. We had learned something about them the day before. And now they were virtually under foot. Their colors almost spanned the spectrum. Their well-known five-armed shape was familiar from books and nature programs. But now we had the chance to touch and to hold them.
As we stepped from the Zodiacs, the sea stars only marked the beginning of our morning’s discovery. Beyond, laid the cascade of Pavlov Creek, its neighboring forest, and Pavlov Lake. During this time of summer in Southeast, various salmon runs are underway. The annual migrations of those individuals of various salmonid species whose calling is writ in their genetic codes are writing the final chapter in their lives – the run back to their places of origin. It is along the way and at the nest site that they will expend their last stored reserves of energy fighting for the right to pass their genes on to the next generation. Pavlov Creek was awash in Pink salmon (smallest of all Pacific salmon) attempting to achieve just that. We watched attentively as numerous individuals, giving all they had, attempted to leap the cascade at the mouth of Pavlov Lake and find sanctuary in its calm waters. This is an ancient scene played out since time immemorial. Though they are fish, knowing their end and witnessing their plight tugged at empathetic heartstrings.
Leaving Pavlov Harbor the National Geographic Sea Lion made way into the belly of Freshwater Bay. Just after raising anchor a trio of humpback whales was spotted near the far shore – our first of the trip. The waters remained dead calm. The whales’ blows were tall and distinct. The leviathans moved slowly and steadily on a southeasterly course just meters offshore, the angled sunlight illuminating their blubbery hides. They would periodically throw their flukes high in the air, one quickly following the other, and sound to feed. After twenty minutes of maintaining an even pace and direction, while underwater, they tacked back to the northwest and rose far behind our vessel. It was time to press on back into Chatham Strait in search of more wildlife.
We had barely left Freshwater Bay and rounded the northern point of its mouth when a sequential eruption of blows (perhaps 15 or more in close proximity to one another) went off like geysers at Yellowstone. We had hit the mother lode of humpbacks. Groups like this in this part of the world generally mean one thing – bubble net feeding. For the next hour we choked the forepart of the ship and watched as the group repeatedly dove in unison then broke the surface en masse, rostrums aimed skyward, mouths agape to swallow volumes of water and schooling fish, in one of the most extraordinary displays of cooperative feeding in the animal kingdom. It was a sight to behold.
Farther up Chatham Strait on a stretch of lonely beach on the east coast of Chichagof Island something dark and large was spotted shifting slightly in the distance. Holding the sight, in time the object began to show more motion. It had to be an animal. Further investigation eventually revealed four brown bears ambling in a right to left direction along the shoreline. Logic dictated that it was most certainly a brown bear sow and three cubs. The cubs were approximately the same size, and appeared healthy and mobile. Clearly the mother had a high level of fitness and was a ‘good’ mother to raise such a brood successfully. For a spell we watched as the family strode the beach, the cubs occasionally chasing one another into the forest edge then back out, and the sow purposefully striding the beach edge. In time the foursome disappeared up a small stream not to be seen again.
Alaska abounds with nature’s spectacle. All one needs to do is peer diligently and patiently, and then its wonders open wide.
