Misty FIords - Ketchikan

The Truth About Ketchikan – I can recall the vision at any time.  See the article before my eyes; my eyes that are wide open, and why wouldn’t they be?  9 DEAD IN AIR CRASH.  The headline still reverberates around in my head.

It was about the exact same route that I was about to book us both on.  The exact same type of plane.  An exact same bunch of expectant tourists had gone to their death against a sheer massive wall of rock that I was booking us to fly past; well, hopefully past.  It’s the exact sort of thing you never want to hear about before you embark on such an excursion, let alone book it with knowledge of such matter beforehand.

Lorraine, who has never heard about the headline or the article, was nonetheless venting her concerns on the other side of the table.  “Small planes crash”, she argued vehemently.  Far be it from me to argue with her on that score.  I was reminded of way back when Jason and I went heli-skiing in New Zealand.  There are always crashes you can read about over there, be it chopper or light plane; but we willingly went anyway and enjoyed one of the great days of our lives.  Thus I reconciled the Misty Fiords excursion.

The actual one I booked us on was with a different company to that which the tragedy had befallen, that was my only out, but I knew it wouldn’t wash with Lorraine so I said nothing.

The day arrives and it’s the only excursion that we don’t have paper work for, something Lorraine is unaccustomed to.  I suggest that it’s fine, be at the wharf at 10.40 and someone will call out our name.  That’s wholly inadequate for Lorraine but we wander around the town for a (very) short time then check in at the Information Centre, where every tour company in Alaska seems to have a bench.  I easily locate Misty Fiords Air and find out that it’s actually 11.40 we leave and, we are booked, and all we have to do is wait by the sculpture outside.

So it’s off shopping again, in one block by the cruise ships there are 9 jewellery shops all side by side and they make up marginally less than half of such shops in the town.  Turns out that the majority are actually owned by the cruise ships but we luck out at one. 

                                                

It’s an outlet that only has works by a man named Eddie Lee, a Vietnamese refugee who carves exquisite works out of mammoth tusks, mammoth teeth, polished buffalo horn, soapstone and walrus tusks.  The piece de resistance as you enter the door is a carving that took 4 years and represents 10,000 years of human evolution.  The detail is intricate, the workmanship of the highest order, the result world class.  Apparently it’s destined for the Smithsonian; it deserves posterity, it’s that sort of piece.  The rest of his work isn’t far behind, the man is clearly gifted.

Some of the “streets” are nothing more than stairways but they still have mail, garbage and other essential services.  I know of one that has 233 steps.  Another interesting fact about the town is that it doesn’t have a football ground.  The reason being that there’s so much precipitation (391 centimetres a year average) it washes the soil away.

Then it’s off to the bus.  We get on with about 7 Asians who start chatting in Japanese and Lorraine says she’s not flying with them.  Soon after, one turns to me and asks in clear English where we’re from.  He’s from Melbourne.  I hope he hasn’t heard our conversation.

We’re waiting for a pair who haven’t turned up.  For 20 minutes the company try everything but it’s their first no-show of the year so we head off down the bay to our departure point.  Turns out we get a De Havilland Beaver all to ourselves and our pilot, Jim, exudes an air of calm.  He’s been flying in these regions since the late 70’s so he’s no doubt seen all sorts of weather, such as the showery stuff we’re having today, before.

The seats are comfortable and I’m in the co-pilot’s chair, purportedly to get a better view though I suspect Lorraine’s better positioned immediately behind me.  After the coastal cloud we fly across a hundred lakes of all shape and size, many where trees don’t grow because of the acid that leeches from the ground.

This is the land of water and soon we’re flying through the advertised misty fiords. Gossamer thin white sheets float blissfully between sheer cliffs, shaped 12,000 years ago by a million tonnes of ice and now topped by last night’s snowfall.

Jim spots some mountain goats and banks toward them so we can get a better view.  They are generally remote creatures and close-ups are very rare and we certainly don’t get too near them but it’s interesting nonetheless to see these creatures who are actually classified as goat antelopes.

I can’t help thinking that it’s one of these cliffs that the plane crashed into but the joy of Lorraine and the constancy of the spectacular scenery keep it in the back of my mind.

We weave around mountains, tilting this way and that, vista upon vista unfolding until we swing back, returning to a horseshoe shaped canyon we’d passed before, complete with its own untouched tarn.

Gliding into the gap Jim puts the plane down with such gentleness you feel like you’re dreaming it all.

It’s where we get our stop, not the advertised walk on an island, but something much better as Jim putters the Beaver towards a bank at the end of a tiny peninsula for only the second time this season.  We feel privileged to land here and Lorraine immediately requests a photo because we both recognize the speciality of the place.

I get permission to dart off in the woods to investigate the sound of a waterfall.  The ground is merely a bog with vegetation on it.  Everywhere it’s like a sponge and water oozes from every footfall.  The colours are rich and varied, the first kiss of autumn has turned some plants and their stark beauty is highlighted against the rich green forest background.  A dappling of coloured leaves where water droplets have found refuge is laid out before me as if to guide my excursion.

I scamper off and discover a furrow in the forest where water has taken its course and denied the taller vegetation.  A thin hued line marks its route before it turns and meanders into the tarn.  I can’t thank Jim enough for diverting from the norm; I’m totally entranced, smitten by the wildness and raw energy that emanate from this location and yet it’s also the silence that beckons wonderment.  It’s the sort of moment that you hope for while visiting Alaska, something to grasp hold of when memories are regurgitated, a prized possession for the mind.

All too soon it’s up and away again, with Jim forewarning us to ignore the cliff that we’re heading for as he doesn’t plan to run into it, something that has a lot more meaning for me I suspect!  The plane gently curves around as we near it and we rotate 180 degrees as he guns it and we head for the opening.

We’re back above the snow and heading for a band of serious cloud; it’s the only time I’m really concerned as it envelopes us, rain pelting the windscreen.  Fortunately it only takes a minute and we’re through to the other side and Ketchikan beckons us.  The landing is so smooth, as was the whole flight, as to be indistinguishable from actually being in the air.  Lorraine’s joy knows no bounds, her gushing rhetoric of the whole experience brings a wave of relief over me; the day’s activity has been a profound success.