Waterborne

If we kept you at all on the edge of your seat there, we apologize. We made it with no problem, both onto and off of the ferry yesterday, albeit with bated breath every time the key slid into the ignition. We think it might be a new fuel filter that we need (fingers crossed that it's not a pump we need instead), along with an overdue oil change.

The ferry was incredible. An entirely different way of travelling that rocked us out of our driving lull. We had gotten so used to perceiving the landscape around us in a certain way--contingent on roads and steering wheels and especially on land--that it was almost difficult to get used to being on the water, walking about, playing dominoes, drinking tea, all at the same time.

The highlights included seeing the sun set over the Pacific. We exited the Queen Charlotte Sound at almost exactly the time the sun descended and got to see it set over the Pacific horizon. Pretty amazing. We also got a particularly special treat when an orca breached just off the starboard side of the back of the boat (aft?), probably about 100 feet from us (this was somtime in the afternoon, when we were still well inside the Sound). We heard him before we saw him, and turned just in time to see his flirty little turn in the air and fatty splash back into the channel. He gave a wave of his dorsal fin and another of his tail and then submerged hautily and was gone. Other fun parts of the trip? We spent a fair amount of time standing around in mock amazement as all the rich old folk engaged in polite machismo about the lengths of their sailboats. We met a older man, who would only hint that he was older than 87 but didn't tell us his actual age,who has been retired 25 years and spends his time travelling around the world by himself, meeting people. We watched a nerdy German dude with a mustache and really big headphones try to pick up a young Swedish nymphette (so awkward, so touching!). More, of course, but we have to run...

More from Port Angeles or Seattle (and pictures, as soon as I can get the iBook running).

Out of Alaska

Here we are, just barely, in coastal British Columbia. With our fingers crossed, we anticipate being on a ferry by 6 AM tomorrow morning, which will deliver us further south, to Vancouver Island, where we will ferry hop again into Washington State -- our final crossing of the U.S.-Canada border.

We had a little trouble getting down here. We set out Friday from Anchorage, and went to the Wrangel St.Elias National Park -- the largest and least managed in the U.S. You can hunt there, fish, ride your RV, and camp anywhere you want -- all in the shadow of massive mountains (on the order of 16,000 ft--nearly the height of Mt. McKinley). Our second night out, we opted for a river bed just off the road. That proved to be unfortunate. When we woke up, the rear passenger tire was flat. It turns out a rock had become lodged in the tire (photos forthcoming). We changed it out for our spare (actually the one rear tire that didn't explode on the Jersey Turnpike back in June), and headed to Tok. The tire's under warranty with Sears, but the nearest Sears was 200 miles away in Fairbanks--the opposite direction from where we were headed. We decided to pick up an extra spare for $50 and take our chances on the old tire for the 1,000+ mile journey to Price Rupert. The tire held up remarkably well, and hopefully we'll be able to get the busted one replaced at a Sears in Seattle.

But yesterday troubles of a different kind emerged. The truck stalled twice as we slowed to a stop--once while making a U-turn in the middle of the Cassiar Highway (very scary, as truckers blow through pretty fast), and again on a forest service road we had hoped to camp on, about a mile up. Luckily, we got him started both times and camped near the road. This morning, though, nothing doing. We flagged down a truck who rode on into Kitwanga, the nearest town, and notified the tow guy. He loaded us up and dropped us off at "Eric's" -- the local mechanic. After an hour and a half, the most we had come up with was that the throttle was badly clogged with carbon deposits, which was stopping the air intake valve (?) from pulling air into the engine. This meant that there was no air to be sucked out, which drops the air pressure and pulls fuel into the engine. End result: no fuel in the engine and your car won't start. Using a screwdriver, Eric scraped off most of what he could. He walked and talked John through it all once he figured out what the problem was, which is hardly normal for a mechanic, and was quick to admit that he had been stumped at first. So, $200 and a spare tire later, we're in Price Rupert. Problems never cease, though, and we were having a lot of trouble with the engine on our way here -- jumping, starting to stall, and being generally unruly. But he's starting up and otherwise driving fine.

We're hoping he starts up in the morning, as we have to be at the ferry at dawn before any service stations are open. We're really looking forward to a different mode of transport, and a ferry at that. Hopefully a bit of fog will burn off and we'll have a good view of the Queen Charlotte Islands on our way down -- it's supposed to be some of the most beautiful seacoast in North America.

Again, we've been listening about Katrina on our satellite radio. Amazing the difference between the NPR and FOX stations in coverage. The question ringing in our ears: How can you rebuild the city as it was, or "restore people to their former lives" with any sense of decency, and place 30% of the city's population back into poverty?

An intensely felt fear of fish guts

After leaving Anchorage, we headed south toward the Kenai Peninsula and camped at Skilak Lake. We were the only people in the campground, and our site was right on the large lake that was lapping the shore almost violently in wind. That night, the fish were jumping. They were so big that their contortions sounded like bears splashing around in the water, and more than once I made John sit up so we could yell at the beasts to move along. I felt a bit foolish in the morning when we realized it was just monsterous fish (which, to be fair, are a little scary in their own right). I've been having more night fears lately, since we started reading Into the Wild by John Krakhauer about starving to death in Alaska (in Denali, actually).

The next day we went down to Homer, a quaint drinking town with a fishing problem (or so advertises the bumber sticker at the bar we parked at). It's the most ... cosmopolitan (I think that's the word I want) place we've been so far -- bookstores, art galleries (mostly full of chunks of wood with native-inspired titles and dreamy paintings of Wind, and Sky, and Fire--know what I mean?). We camped on the Homer Spit -- a four mile stretch of land that sticks out into Ketchemak Bay, full of charter fishing outfits, campgrounds situated to overlook outrageous sunsets, some toursist spots, and local industry--and a dude who lived out of a giant, aged boat that looked like Captain Hook's ship, with strange unmatched elements glommed on--tires on the deck, shabby curtains, pieces of other boats. We drank at the Salty Dawg saloon, where the walls are festooned with thousands of dollar bills (inscribed by visitors with sayings like "In Homer the odds are good, but the goods are odd"). There we met Matt, a guy about our age from Kodiak Island (native), who works on the "slope" (the oil fields). He was teaching himself to fly fish on his two weeks off, and offered to give us a salmon filet from a salmon he'd caught on the Anchor River. He drew a map on a napkin to his house and said he would leave it in a cooler for us the next morning when he went out fishing. Then he went off to deal with a "complicated" situation involving two blondes.

The fish was huge -- a two pount filet at least. For dinner, we breaded it and fried it (no way to bake it). We ate an early supper after driving back toward Skilak Lake and the Kenai River, a turquoise ribbon that bursting with the deep pinks and reds of some of the biggest salmon I've ever seen. We could see scores of them resting in calm spots on the river, feeding in the eddies. When they crested, they were like prehistoric monsters. Not being much of a fisherman, I found the sight actually unsettling more than thrilling. After supper, we loaded on our packs and hiked three miles in the evening out to a spot on the Kenai to camp for the night.

The trail had some great views of the river early on but turned into bushwhacking as it passed through an old forest fire site. Once we approached the river again, we came upon a pretty ripe stink. John stopped short in front of me and uttered, "Holy shit." I immediately thought it was a bear or a moose, and seeing the shadow of fear, he quickly moved to reassure me that it was only mutilated, rotting fish that had been dragged up to the trail by a bear. I felt much better, of course. Now in a total panic and unable to look at the fish, John guided me down the trail with my eyes closed, where we promptly came upon some more of the offending creatures. I was already a bit afraid of them when they were in the water, alive and well. When they were dead and rotting, I was unnerved in the utmost.

We found a spot to camp nonetheless, which smelled clean and woodsy. John had to read to me for about two hours to get me calm enough to stop seeing the fish dance around in my head (it helped also to picture pygmy goats jumping over a fence). By morning, I was calm and realized how gorgeous the river was, and how incredible the fish. We hiked out, had a cup of coffee, and headed back to Anchorage.

Watching the news last night was the first we heard about Hurricane Katrina. We met a firefighter up here who is being sent down to help with disaster relief -- I was amazed that they're pulling people all the way from Alaska, but I guess it's necessary. Also, McGill has announced that it will take Tulane students in for as long as they need--good for Canada. We shudder to think about gas prices, but it's a small thing to swallow until the city's back on its feet.