Surrounded by Whales

Saturday, July 12, 2008: Petersburg to Wyndham Bay: Frederickson Sound to Stephens Passage

Humpback whales in Frederickson Sound

“Excuse me, how far is it to the airport?” I ask the Mexican woman.

“Faaaar!” she said and pointed the way.

Another woman had said a mile. Another, two miles. Distance is relative in Petersburg. Russ and I are walking to meet Vanessa. Leave North Harbour, see the fisherman from Turkey drinking orange juice from the carton on a bench facing the boats and bay; the one-year-old Siberian husky dog with ice-blue eyes; little children dressed so sweetly, holding their parents’ hands: feet in tiny rubber boots, long leggings, and flower-print skirts, wool jerseys, pigtails. Happy children. Past Scandinavian House with its hand-painted window shutters and bronze inlays of fish or loons or northern emblems inlayed in the pavement. Past the totem poles at the Federal building, short of the quaint wooden houses at helter-skelter angles on the creek. See the old man with a long white beard sitting on his porch in front of his neat blue and white house. Up the long hill past the big, modern store and post office. Mountains with sprinkled snow surround us, wooded slopes, bogs, wild daisies and lupines and small red daisy-like flowers.

We try hitchhiking for a short while. Then Russ says “There is Alaskan Airlines.”

“I see the runway!” I reply.

Barely an hour’s walk and we see Vanessa and Devon disembark. Happy to be in Petersburg. Someone on the plane had said not to get lost in the airport. She had contemplated facing the challenge. And now knows the joke is on her.

“I want to move here!” she said as we started walking back to town. Devon was quiet, pointing out the names of flora. His degree was in biology and chemistry. He was tall, sensitive, intelligent, young. We welcomed them to Zulu with superb candy-like smoked salmon he had bought en route, cheese, and chilled white wine.

Untie the lines. See the names on fishing boats disappear: Alaska Dawn, Cinnamon Girl, Lone Fisherman, MyOwn. Smell the last faint odor from the cannery. See the workers from afar: knee-length rubber boots, elbow-length rubber gloves, plastic hair covers, long aprons. Imagine their long day ahead. Fuel up. Head for Frederickson Sound.

French toast with fresh strawberries and peaches and maple syrup and blackberry jam and cinnamon and yogurt. Smell the bacon, the morning star veggie patty, coffee, chai tea. Breakfast on deck underway.

“There’s an iceberg!” I called with surprise from the bow. White with turquoise center.

“A whale! Two, four! Another two. Another one!” we said in unison. Behemoths gliding through the waters in pairs. Blow to expel air. Fountains! Thar she blows, matey!! Then see the hump. See the tail. Sound. Into the gray. Gone. Still waters.

“Whales!!” we call. Shut the engines down. Silence. Be one with the whales. Listen to their air being expelled. Listen to their song. Oh great ones—we are humbled by your enormous presence.

1000 of an estimated 6000 whales in the North Pacific feed in Southeast Alaska during the summer. Half of them, nearly 500, enter Frederickson Sound west of Portage Bay, about 45 miles north of Petersburg, feeding on herring and krill. Orcas, Stellar sea lion, and Harbour seals are also found in this common feeding ground. There are seagulls, and eagles, and a variety of—sad to say—birds I cannot identify. Most noted are little black and white birds that bob on the water and then disappear like black magic on approach in deep dives. Murres or pigeon guillmonts?

The Orcas are part of a resident Southeast Alaska population present year round. Dall’s porpoise are only present in large numbers in the summer. I cannot identify one. They range freely in an unpredictable pattern.

How privileged we happen stance into one of the world’s best viewing grounds. We are surrounded by whales, by their sounds, song, movement. We linger in their sacred presence.