Day 2

Alaska is two and half times the size of Texas with more designated wilderness area than any other state. Much of the land is remote, with few roads; there are more licensed pilots in the state than all other states combined. From the ship, the unsullied and breathtaking grandeur of the place reveals itself. The weather plays hide and seek as we traverse the fjord where the water plunges to 600 feet. Then it clears. The water sparkles; the sun warms enough to remove a layer of clothing. It’s a pristine early summer day, ideal for wildlife-watching.

First, we spot magnificent bald eagles diving for fish and resting on icebergs. Then come the humpback whales, among the largest mammals in the world (some females are 50 feet or longer), distinguished by their enormous fluke (tail fin) breaking the surface. Next are the coastal brown bears, a mother (who David says may weigh 800 pounds) and cub at the shoreline. The female rears up on her hind legs as another adult—a male?—clambers down from the mountain. There are also cawing gulls and puffins, perched on rock outcroppings, and harbor seals, slithering off rocks into the water. Camera lenses are zoomed, binoculars are adjusted, video is shot.

It’s a lifetime’s worth of animal spotting, all before lunch.

There are glaciers in Southeast Alaska the size of Rhode Island. At Grand Pacific and Margerie Glaciers, we hope to see dramatic “calving” as large chunks break off and crash into the water. Just 200 years ago, this entire region was completely covered by ice. Glacial ice is a special clear, brilliant shade called storis blue. The ice appears blue because it absorbs all colors of the visible light spectrum except blue, which it transmits. As we drop anchor, we watch and listen to the stresses and strains of melting ice, water dripping, air bubbles popping and cracking.

“Ice crispies,” Beth calls it.

We hear the calving before we see it: it sounds like a giant thunder clap. Eyes riveted to the glacier in front of us, we wait. A few minutes later, a huge block breaks off and hurtles into the water—just like on TV. I have goose bumps and not because I’m cold.

Later, we hike with Richard, our other onboard naturalist, who points out the old man’s beard that hangs on the hemlocks in the forest. It looks like Spanish moss and is an indicator of good air quality and a lack of pollution. Back on the boat, Elaine has concocted a warming beverage called a peppermint patty and Phil plays piano.

When I return to my cabin, the bed’s been turned down with chocolates. Sweet dreams indeed.

Day 3

Merlinda, wellness instructor, has been offering yoga and stretching every morning at 7 a.m. But I’m not an early riser. Instead, I sign up for my complimentary 45-minute massage. As she’s rubbing me down, she comments on my “boat kisses,” the mysterious bruises I’ve acquired while onboard. They don’t hurt —- I didn’t even know they were there—but I follow her advice and head up to the top-deck hot tub.

Several of my boat mates have encamped there. No wonder: day or night, it may have the best view of any hot tub in the world. There’s also a sauna and two step machines on deck. Just a few steps away is the bridge. Open to guests 24/7, it could probably accommodate all 31 of us at the same time. Scott is passing the wheel after this trip and Shawnda will pilot the ship for the balance of the season.

We’ve entered the richest whale waters in Southeast Alaska. We don orange life vests, put our cameras in the waterproof bags provided and climb into an inflatable skiff to get nearer to these gentle giants. Humpbacks are endangered, but this is their summer playground. It is thrilling when Beth spots telltale plume spray: there’s a pod of five, including a mother and calf. She cuts the engine and we watch, riveted, as a light rain begins to fall.

The humpbacks are aerobic, acrobatic whales, diving, breaching and slapping their massive flukes on the surface of the water. At one point they come within 15 feet of the skiff, their huge knobby heads just above the water. We can feel the sea spray.

Then comes the money shot, when the Y-shaped fluke crests the water. After 20 photographs, I finally snap proof. Sea lions cavort just in front of the skiff. We might be a little wet and a bit chilly, but we are energized.

Tonight, we celebrate the birthday of an 85-year old female passenger with a candle-lit cake. She’s given a tiara to wear, but I suspect she’d rather have a kayak paddle. The gal’s got game.

Day 4

Thousands of sea lions on Brother’s Island jostle for space on the rocks, bellowing their discontentment when a patch of sunny stone is compromised. Talk about high-density living.

This morning’s excursion is kayaking in Kelp Bay with my new friend B. from California. Sea lions bob their heads up, playing a game of hide and seek. They follow us, ducking below the surface as we attempt to steal a glance or take a picture. When we round the rocks too close to them, they waddle and slip with a splash into the water.

In the afternoon, we pull into Baranoff Harbor to hike to the hot springs. The sulfuric smell fills the air as we disrobe to our bathing suits. The springs are located in a shallow rock pool directly over rushing falls; the rocks are slimy with moss but the water feels silky and warm. The perfect touch? When Gabe brandishes a bottle of champagne from his backpack and pours each of the (all-female) “Baranoff Babes” a plastic cup of bubbly.

We hike further into the woods, coming upon skunk cabbage. It’s well named -— the odoriferous plant fills our nostrils before we see the bright yellow flowers and waxy leaves. Richard tells us Indians used to wrap fish in them. (I wonder if heat kills the smell). The ground underfoot is mossy, springy and spongy; the forest looks almost fairylike. One passenger spontaneously hugs a giant tree.

Returning to the ship, I notice my silver ring is tarnished from my dip in the springs. I ask Dani if she has any silver polish. She returns it bright and shiny later that evening.

There’s another birthday celebration tonight. The kitchen staff worked all afternoon to create a glacier-shaped chocolate cake. It’s a big hit.

Day 5

We’ve pulled into Petersburg, a Norwegian fishing village. It’s the quintessential Alaska fishing town—think Northern Exposure. The hardware store sells groceries. There’s also a great bookstore where several of us replenish our reading material. The townspeople are friendly and stop their trucks to let us (jay)walk across the street.

A small group of us bike around town. We spy two Sitka black tail deer on the front lawn of a house. They are not spooked by us at all. The owner is backing out of his driveway. He rolls down his window when he sees we have stopped to admire them.

“They’re a nuisance,” he shouts with a smile. “You can have ‘em. I can’t keep them out of my yard.”

And he heads down the road with a wave.

Several of us meet up on Main Street in a local sporting goods store. We quiz each other on brands and performance, encouraging the purchase of waterproof hats, gloves, fast-drying undies and other gear.

After dinner, we get another show as Dall’s porpoises appear below the bow. With their unique black and white coloration and thick-in-the-middle bodies they look like miniatures Orcas. We lean over the rail to get a closer look; at one point I count 10 of them. I try to react quickly enough to catch them on camera, but their rapid-fire swimming, jumping and zipping from side to side shows up as a splash and bubbles on all my shots.

Below board, we warm up with hot blueberry tea and chocolate martinis.

Day 6

It’s raining this morning, so we don rubber boots and raingear (provided by the Explorer) for the skiff excursion to look for brown bears at Admiralty Island; sadly, it’s a bust. Many of us opt for a dip in the hot tub. I opt for a nap and a DVD. Call it a mini hibernation.

Day 7

We are hugging the steep fjord walls of Endicott Arm and Ford’s Terror. The name comes from a naval crew member who rowed a dinghy into the narrow entrance at slack tide in 1889. As the tide began to rise, Ford was trapped in the turbulent current of the granite-chiseled canyon for six terrifying hours.

We’ve dropped anchor. The weather, mostly warm and sunny all week, has turned rainy, chilly and a bit melancholic but it’s hardly terrifying. Still, Beth, our onboard exhibition leader, gives us a serious safety briefing before we launch our kayaks.

“Watch out for icebergs — and not just the big ones. Even the bitty bergs can capsize your kayak. You can’t see what’s underneath.”

B. and I have bonded over drinks and dinner, swapping book and movie recommendations, sharing sunblock and gossip. We share a kayak. He takes his position in the back; I sit in the front. His job is to steer; mine is to navigate.

Dawes Glacier is both spectacular and surreal; I feel as if I am floating in a giant cocktail.

Some chunks of ice are the size of cars; others the size of ice cubes. The water is gin-clear, aquamarine, smooth as glass. It’s quiet, so quiet that the only sounds I hear are the paddles slapping water, a seal crying out and ice creaking, cracking and shifting. I begin clicking off pictures, trying to capture this moment.

We begin to paddle, heading toward the wall of ice that glistens a couple of miles ahead of us. It takes us a few moments to gain a rhythm, to get our paddling in sync, but I am grateful to have a companion to share this experience.

I make split-second decisions about the potential hazard of the icebergs -— big and small—in our path. I shout out the simplest, most succinct directions: “Iceberg right, steer left.” “Big iceberg ahead. Bear right, then straight.”

We agree to deviate from a straight-ahead course. Sometimes the safest path is not the most direct; sometimes, we have to zig when we want to zag. Although we are paddling determinedly, focusing on the ice just a few feet in front of us, we begin to enlarge our view.

We paddle toward a huge iceberg that glints like blue topaz. A harbor seal pops its head above the surface. We paddle toward a mother and pup on an ice floe, getting within a paddle length before they slip into the water. We paddle toward the rocky shoreline, then back toward the glacier.

We take turns coasting, putting the paddles across our laps and taking photographs. Or just listening intently for the tell-tale boom of calving.

Sometimes one of us reacts too slowly and we bump a bitty berg while heading for our target. We brace ourselves, curse, hold our breath. Often, we laugh. There’s a sound that accompanies our miscalculation, a flat “thunk” as we make contact, then clear the icy obstacle.

It’s a little bit scary and totally exhilarating.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the sun comes out. Misty clouds lift from the mountains. The icebergs begin to melt like a huge slushie. There are fewer, less imposing obstructions and we navigate with greater ease. Fewer words are exchanged. We have gained some mastery and more than a little faith in our abilities in the past hour. Or perhaps we’ve just grown more comfortable with what we can’t see.

All too soon, Beth is signaling for us to return to the ship. B. and I are the last of the passengers to paddle in; we jokingly contemplate making a break for it, forcing the boat to chase us through the fjord, thinking we are nimble enough to elude the captain.

Back onboard, Elaine, the bartender, uses an ice pick to break up a CPU-sized block of glacier ice and proposes a martini. I accept, as does B.

“It’s the purest ice you’ll ever have,” she says with a grin. “Cheers.” We clink glasses.

At the farewell dinner, champagne is poured and Captain Scott speaks of friendships that are formed during oceanic voyages. Beth shows a photographic slideshow of the weeks’ activities to raucous good cheer (we will receive a copy during breakfast before we disembark the next morning).

Even though we have to be in port at Juneau early the next morning, no one wants to end the night, so Elaine obliges us into the wee hours.

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© 2009