Thomas Bay, Petersburg
A sense of expedition was in the air today: this morning, the Sea Lion turned through fog into Thomas Bay and, after a quick pre-breakfast scouting mission, decided to set ashore on a trail that not a soul aboard had explored.
The Spurt Lake trail, it turns out, is gorgeous. It snakes up along a drainage of skunk cabbage paralleling a high wall of rock to the northward side. There were roots, boot-sucking mud pools, and scrambles, but long hikers made it to the lake itself, and hikers who took their time along the trail were rewarded by close views of Southeast Alaska’s rich vegetation and the songs of winter wrens and hermit thrushes.
Our afternoon was spent in Petersburg, a fishing town with strong Norwegian heritage. There, we explored the shops and byways, clambered aboard a fleet of bicycles to pedal along the shoreline, or set aloft by seaplane and helicopter to see what a more elevated vantage might reveal. Those hungry for more exploration headed across Wrangell Narrows to Kupreanof Island, stepping up the boardwalk to a gorgeous muskeg. In addition to splendid plants, we found a strange beetle. Dave Kavanaugh, our guest lecturer from the California Academy of Sciences, enthused over the fact that it was a firefly. He’d not seen one in Alaska before, and it turns out that the fireflies up here, beetles, in fact, do not bioluminesce as adults like their east coast cousins. In this cool, non-humid air, they save their energy for other displays. What a thrill to find a surprise in ground well-traveled. What a day of discovery: new territory, carnivorous plants, and dark fireflies.
Fireflies First Seen at Age Thirty
They were in my childhood woods but dark,
dark fireflies they’re called, I now discover,
quick but not chemical, quick but not light,
and so a bit of romance I find
stolen from me. When I did first
see them, it was as if I were faint
and not the evening itself dizzy
and specked with bright confusion, light
inconstant through leafed-out blueberries,
against peeling birch. Too old now
to trap with Mason jar or net and not hear
history and literature whisper across
my senses, guide my sweated palm. I held
my breath, hoped I’d stay conscious and not startle them out,
searching for a response unlayered, genuine,
true to what was there, gone, there in the woods.
A sense of expedition was in the air today: this morning, the Sea Lion turned through fog into Thomas Bay and, after a quick pre-breakfast scouting mission, decided to set ashore on a trail that not a soul aboard had explored.
The Spurt Lake trail, it turns out, is gorgeous. It snakes up along a drainage of skunk cabbage paralleling a high wall of rock to the northward side. There were roots, boot-sucking mud pools, and scrambles, but long hikers made it to the lake itself, and hikers who took their time along the trail were rewarded by close views of Southeast Alaska’s rich vegetation and the songs of winter wrens and hermit thrushes.
Our afternoon was spent in Petersburg, a fishing town with strong Norwegian heritage. There, we explored the shops and byways, clambered aboard a fleet of bicycles to pedal along the shoreline, or set aloft by seaplane and helicopter to see what a more elevated vantage might reveal. Those hungry for more exploration headed across Wrangell Narrows to Kupreanof Island, stepping up the boardwalk to a gorgeous muskeg. In addition to splendid plants, we found a strange beetle. Dave Kavanaugh, our guest lecturer from the California Academy of Sciences, enthused over the fact that it was a firefly. He’d not seen one in Alaska before, and it turns out that the fireflies up here, beetles, in fact, do not bioluminesce as adults like their east coast cousins. In this cool, non-humid air, they save their energy for other displays. What a thrill to find a surprise in ground well-traveled. What a day of discovery: new territory, carnivorous plants, and dark fireflies.
Fireflies First Seen at Age Thirty
They were in my childhood woods but dark,
dark fireflies they’re called, I now discover,
quick but not chemical, quick but not light,
and so a bit of romance I find
stolen from me. When I did first
see them, it was as if I were faint
and not the evening itself dizzy
and specked with bright confusion, light
inconstant through leafed-out blueberries,
against peeling birch. Too old now
to trap with Mason jar or net and not hear
history and literature whisper across
my senses, guide my sweated palm. I held
my breath, hoped I’d stay conscious and not startle them out,
searching for a response unlayered, genuine,
true to what was there, gone, there in the woods.
