Postcards from the Ledge: February 2026

Neither Terry nor I had ever been to Alaska before. The state that is frequently referred to as America’s “Last Frontier” —which made the prospect of visiting even more alluring. But where to begin? There were so many things to see and absorb. Alaska is immense (over twice the size of Texas) and it would take at least a month to explore it entirely. Since we were committing only two weeks to the venture, we had to be realistic and focus on one region and leave the rest for another time. Hence, we chose the coastal Southeast panhandle.

Terry had been wanting to try a National Geographic Expedition cruise for years and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. She looked into it, and we wound up booking a voyage through the fabled Inside Passage with an adventurous itinerary; rugged coastline swaddled in misty wilderness; breaching whales; calving glaciers; grizzly bears... What’s not to like? Just do not forget the rain gear.

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Welcome to Sitka

We landed in Sitka at midnight with rain coming down in sheets. The airport terminal was small; a single conveyor belt chugged in the baggage claim area, squeaking and clunking along. We grabbed our bags, and once outside, flagged down a shuttle van to take us into town. The rain had stopped by the time the driver pulled up to the Sitka Hotel and unloaded our luggage with practiced efficiency. Loud rock music rumbled from the building next door.

“That’s Ernie’s Saloon,” the shuttle driver said with a grin. “They go at it every night until two o’clock.”

And he wasn’t joking. For the four nights that we stayed at the Sitka Hotel, Ernie’s was rollicking with music and laughter—especially after the night shift from the fish-processing plant streamed in after work. It quickly became clear the establishment was not just another dive bar: it’s part of Sitka’s social fabric, a place where stories are swapped and friendships are forged long after most of the town has gone to bed. As for Terry and me, our room faced the saloon’s parking lot which invariably made sleep a challenge, especially when subjected to “Sweet Caroline” three times on Karaoke Night.

But hey… We finally made it to Alaska!

Our home for four nights. Ernie's Saloon is next door.

Breakfast on the waterfront.

Russian Orthodox church was completed in 1848.

Russian Orthodox church.

Downtown Sitka, cir. 1880s

For centuries, the indigenous Tlingit people who lived here called it Shee Atʼiká—later translated by the Russians to “Sitka." The Tlingit developed a rich culture with spiritual traditions and trade networks that stretched along the Pacific Northwest coast. Their connection to the land and sea was profound.

Everything changed when Russian explorers arrived in 1741, drawn by the promise of wealth from the sea otter fur trade. The high demand for pelts prompted the Russian merchant trader, Alexander Baranov, to establish an outpost which quickly grew into a bustling settlement. By 1808, Sitka had become the capital of Russian America and a hub where cultures often clashed.

The prosperity didn’t last, however. By the mid-19th century, the sea otters were close to extinction due to relentless over-hunting. With profits tanking and interest waning—not the mention a massive debt accrued from the Crimean War—Imperial Russia offered to sell their entire Alyaska Territory to the United States for $7.2 million ($160 million today, or 42 cents/acre).

Today, Sitka’s booming tourist industry surpasses commercial fishing. A record 600,000 cruise ship passengers came ashore in 2024, bringing in $6 million in tax revenue. While this certainly benefits local businesses, it also causes congestion and threatens Sitka’s small-town charm (8,000 permanent residents). In response, officials now cap arrivals at three ships per day to balance tourism with quality of life—a challenge that continues to spark debate.

Tlingit blanket weaver, early 1900s.

Tlingit elders outside clan house, early 1900s.

Hand-carved dugout war canoe.

Tlingit blanket displayed at Sitka Nat'l Historical Park, cir. 1890s.

Russian Bishop's House was completed in 1843.

The view from Castle Hill, which was adjacent to the Sitka Hotel. In 1836, Alexander Baronov, Russian America’s first governor, built his mansion here. The hill was also the site of Alaska’s transfer from Imperial Russia to the United States. Following this period, U.S. Army leaders occupied the mansion until a fire destroyed it in 1894. Today, the hill is a public green space with a terrific view.

Another view from the summit of Castle Hill.

Our first day exploring Sitka was all about embracing the moody weather and seeing where our feet would take us. The clouds hung low, and a light drizzle kept things fresh as we set out along the Totem Trail: a two-mile path through the forest which is embellished along the way with majestic totem poles. We paused at the Indian River, where hundreds of salmon fought their way upstream to lay their eggs. It was fascinating to witness. After this final act, the adult salmon would all die: the end and beginning of another life cycle.

Next, we walked to the nearby Alaska Raptor Center, where injured raptors are rehabilitated and given a second chance. Most of the birds are released once healed. There were bald eagles… hawks… falcons… owls… you name it.

We wrapped up the morning by hiking back into town for lunch and then spent the afternoon wandering around downtown, browsing quirky shops. Sitka’s eclectic waterfront is charming: a placid harbor of fishing trawlers; old Victorian buildings; a vintage Russian Orthodox church that feels like a nod to another era. Overall, it was a fulfilling first day—clouds, drizzle, salmon runs and all.

Start of the Totem Trail.

Low tide in Crescent Bay.

This is the site of the 1804 Battle of Sitka between Tlingit warriors and Russian troops.

The Tlingits were outgunned and slipped away during the night.

Indian River

Salmon in the Indian River. Many of them have spawned and are waiting to die.

A bald eagle scans the salmon in the river below.

Bald eagle at the Raptor Center. His wing could not be
fully repaired, so he is a permanent resident of the center.

I'm in a reconstructed eagle's nest at the Raptor Center,
imitating a chick squawking for dinner. The good life.

Sitka waterfront.

Fortress of the Bear

We rented e-bikes for our second day in Sitka, extending the distance that we could explore. The main attraction to visit was the Fortress of the Bear, a bear rescue sanctuary just outside town. Getting there was a scenic delight: a six-mile ride down the coast where mist and clouds shrouded emerald peaks. We spent over an hour at the Fortress observing black and brown bears in a semi-natural habitat.

Stunning views along the ride.

Fortress of the Bear is essentially a passion project, brought to life by founders Les and Evy Kinnear. Their mission was clear from the start: to create a sanctuary for injured bears and orphaned cubs—animals that would otherwise be euthanized. In 2003, the Kinnears leased an abandoned water treatment plant from the Sitka township. Their vision was bold: to house rescued bears in massive open tanks, each one 200 feet in diameter.

But it wasn’t just about giving the bears space: the Kinnears wanted these tanks to mimic the bears’ native habitat as closely as possible. They added ponds for swimming, a winding creek, spruce trees for shade, salmonberry shrubs for snacks, barrels for enrichment, and even a swing. Over the years, Fortress of the Bear has grown beyond its modest beginnings. Some of the bear residents have found permanent homes in zoos around the country, where they continue to live safe and enriched lives—proof that with enough heart and creativity, even the most vulnerable animals can be given a second chance.

Brown bears

Black bears

There are two species of bear in southeast Alaska: the black bear and the brown bear. Black bears are generally smaller and less aggressive, and in the wild, have an average lifespan of 20-25 years. Males can weigh up to 500 pounds and typically stand about three feet tall on all fours. However, when standing upright on their hind legs, black bears can reach a height of seven feet.

Brown bears, on the other hand, are notably larger and much more aggressive (in Canada and Montana, they are commonly known as grizzly bears). Males can weigh over 1,200 pounds and usually stand over four feet tall on all fours. When standing upright, they can tower nine feet or more. Brown bears also have large, sharp claws that help them forage and defend themselves. Interestingly, their closest relative is the Arctic polar bear.

Ursus americanus

Ursus arctos

A grizzly smile.

A foraging brown bear.

From the Fortress, we pedaled up Sawmill Canyon to Blue Lake, which the bike-rental guy had highly recommended. The narrow dirt road was steep in places as it wound its way through dense forest—no people in sight, which made us wonder: what about bears? Wild bears. In the wild. Be that as it may, we pedaled on with a little extra pep to our cadence. The climb paid off, though, with an exhilaratingly fast ride back down to the sea. Back at the Sitka Hotel, we cleaned up for dinner (the seafood here is scrumptious) and wrapped up the day with a sunset stroll along the waterfront.

Blue Lake.

The streets of Sitka become quiet once the cruise
line passengers return to their ships for dinner.

Bon Voyage

On the afternoon of our fourth day in Sitka, we boarded the National Geographic Sea Lion for the next stage of our adventure. Operated by Lindblad Expeditions, this vessel has been purpose-built for exploration. At 152 feet long, with a 33-foot beam and a 9-foot draft, it’s designed to navigate shallow inlets and coastal areas that bigger ships simply can’t reach. With only thirty passenger cabins, the ship felt intimate enough. A crew of twenty-five keeps everything running efficiently, from delicious meals to engaging talks by Nat Geo science guides. There’s even a doctor on board. For excursions, Zodiacs and kayaks are stowed on the top deck aft of the bridge, promising up-close encounters with Alaska’s wild side. Stepping onto the Sea Lion felt like joining an expedition—and we couldn’t wait to be underway.

Our six-day journey: starting in Sitka and ending in Juneau.

Our voyage would meander through the northern half of the Alexander Archipelago, a 300-mile-long cluster of islands along Alaska’s southeastern coast. Narrow channels and fjords separate the islands—in all, over a thousand—creating a labyrinth truly akin to a maze. The islands shield the Inside Passage from the Pacific Ocean’s big swells, making a ship’s transit smoother. The topography is mountainous with rocky coasts and dense evergreen rainforests. On land and sea, wildlife abounds. There are few people and fewer roads. Most of the islands can only be reached by boat or floatplane.

Alexandra Van Nostrand gives us the lowdown.

Once the Sea Lion had departed Sitka, we joined our fellow passengers in the salon to meet the ship’s captain, officers, and our Nat Geo guides. Our expedition leader, Alexandra, kicked things off with a thorough presentation of what to expect. She walked us through emergency evacuation procedures (apparently ships can sink) and gave a rundown of our six-day itinerary before our trip concluded in Juneau.

After the formalities, dinner was served in the dining room. Afterwards, Terry and I went out on deck to catch a dramatic sunset over the water, the first of many on this trip. It was mesmerizing, the ship gliding down a broad channel between two forested islands, the water a smooth sheet of obsidian reflecting the sky. Darkness descended. When it got too cold, we retreated to our cabin and called it a night.

Holy Megaptera!

The clank and rattle of the Sea Lion dropping anchor roused me in the morning. It was quite early. Outside our cabin window, the sky was heavy and gray: a classic Alaskan morning that is cold enough to have you grabbing your heavy jacket. Breakfast was at 7:30 sharp. We shuffled into the dining room in our layers; hands curled around mugs of hot coffee.

We were anchored off Pavlof Cove on the east side of Chichagof Island, and after breakfast, expedition leader Alexandra informed us that we would stay the entire day here, weather and wildlife permitting. Passengers were divided into two groups, “Spruces” and “Hemlocks,” with thirty in each. Terry and I landed on Team Spruce. Our morning mission? Whale-watching from Zodiacs—the helmsman on the bridge had spotted a pod of humpbacks a half mile away. Lucky us, Team Spruce got to go first.

Heading out, David at the helm.

Bundled against the chill, we piled into our Zodiac and set a course to where the whales had been spotted. Our Nat Geo guide, David, was at the helm—calm, focused, and clearly in his element. It didn’t take long before we saw vaporous spouts dead ahead: at least five humpback whales, probably more, churning the glassy water. Their enormous bodies moved just beneath the surface, barely breaking it until—WHOOSH—plumes of spray shot up from their blowholes as they exhaled.

David slowly maneuvered us closer, careful not to disturb them. The whales surfaced again with a deep whoosh to starboard and everyone gasped in awe. They were majestic—giant flukes raised high before descending again into the deep. Mist hung in the air where they had surfaced just moments before. We observed the pod for an hour as they employed a distinctive bubble-net feeding technique, utilized exclusively by humpback whales to hunt schools of herring. This is the time of year when they fatten up for the fall migration south to Mexico. When it was time to head back to the ship, I couldn’t help but think how lucky we’d been. I’d never seen so many whales in one place. And so close!

A whale slaps his pectoral fin against the
water in a sign of play or communication.

Megaptera novaeangliae can grow to 60 feet long and weigh 40 tons, and as gigantic as that may seem, their long wing-like pectoral fins—almost a third of their body length—make them incredibly maneuverable in the water. Instead of teeth, they possess up to 400 baleen plates for filtering small fish and krill from seawater, assisted by an expandable, pleated throat that can ingest hundreds of pounds of food in a single gulp.

A fascinating sight to witness is their bubble-net feeding technique. In this highly-choreographed tactic, a group of humpbacks generate a spiral formation of small bubbles to concentrate a school of fish into a smaller and smaller area and then rise from underneath with mouths agape to swallow them. Bubble-net feeding is not an inherent instinct to humpbacks. Rather it’s a learned behavior that’s passed along from generation to generation, demonstrating intelligence and strong social bonds.

Humpbacks are also known for their acrobatic stunts, i.e. breaching, tail-slapping, and flipper-slapping. Found in all major oceans, they migrate thousands of miles between polar feeding grounds in the summer and tropical breeding areas in the winter. Their average lifespan is estimated to be 50 years.

Bubble-net fishing in action.

Whale-watching from the ship.

Bubble-net fishing, right off the starboard bow!

The Hemlocks went out on the Zodiacs after us. I was chatting with a few of our Spruce colleagues on the stern deck while Terry stood nearby at the gunwale railing, scanning the sea through her new, high-powered binoculars. Suddenly she cried out “Oh my gosh!” She’d just sighted a giant humpback breaching—shooting completely out of the water and landing with a massive splash near the Hemlock boats. The wild part? We had just been out there ourselves, in that exact location, not thirty minutes earlier! Which only goes to show that sometimes it’s all about being in the right place at the right time.

Close Encounter with Ursus Arctos

Our objective after lunch was to observe brown bears on Chichagof Island, an enormous island of two thousand square miles that has the highest density of Ursus arctos on the planet—or to put it another way, there are 1,600 brown bears and 1,300 humans who call the island home. So, yeah. We’re outnumbered.

The Hemlocks would get to go first this time, while we Spruces hung out on the Sea Lion. I explored the ship while we waited; took a short nap; then procured an espresso in the salon (hey, I’m on vacation). When it was finally time, Terry and I climbed into a Zodiac with six other guests and off we went. Our boat skipper this time was Jim, a naturalist who has led Nat Geo excursions for years. While we sped across the water to the island, he provided further details about how brown bears had seen feeding on salmon here all day—so many bears, in fact, that we wouldn’t be going ashore. Our bear-watching would be done from the boat.

Chichagof Island

Jim reduced the throttle when the shore was close at hand and then motored slowly up a shallow cove toward the mouth of a small river. On either side, grassy banks rose to meet densely wooded slopes. Primo bear country. Jim reminded us to keep our voices to a whisper. The air was brimming with suspense as we scanned the murky forest for any sign of movement. Nothing stirred. But then, about a hundred yards ahead, a brown bear emerged from the shadows onto the riverbank. We whispered excitedly to each other and aimed our cameras while Jim skillfully maneuvered closer, the motor just a soft purr.

We were busy snapping photos when another bear lumbered out of the trees. Then came perhaps the most magical moment: a mama bear appeared with two cubs in tow, all three wading into the shallow river to fish for salmon. Watching them catch supper in their natural habitat was nothing short of breathtaking—a memory that will stay with me long after we leave.

The mouth of the Pavlof River.

Alaska’s coastal brown bears rely on the annual salmon run from July through September to build fat reserves for winter hibernation. During these months, rivers teem with salmon rich in fat and protein, providing bears with the high-calorie diet they need to gain extra weight before winter arrives. An adult male can eat thirty salmon in a single day, taking full advantage of this concentrated and predictable food source.

The significance of this ritual goes beyond survival. As bears catch and eat their fill, they will leave pieces of salmon carcasses along the riverbanks. This simple act has profound ecological benefits by redistributing marine-derived nutrients (i.e. nitrogen) into the forest. In this way, every bear feeding on salmon not only prepares for its own survival but also plays an essential role in nurturing and sustaining the broader environment around them.

When we arrived at the mouth of the river, there was a group of tourists sitting on the grassy bank: ten people, huddled together and snapping photos of the bears fishing. Jim leaned in and explained that a floatplane from Juneau (45 air miles away) had probably dropped them off for the day. Frankly, it didn’t look safe to me—sitting in bear country with nothing but a camera and maybe a can of bear spray between you and fierce grizzlies. On the other hand, historical records show that brown bears have not attacked groups of four or more people who remain close together and stand their ground. The trick is to stick together. Whatever you do, don’t run!

As I lined up my own shots, my heart skipped when I noticed a brown bear lumbering down the shoreline towards the group on the bank. As it approached, they squeezed in even closer, their guide whispering instructions as they kept their heads down—no eye contact; no sudden moves; no breathing; play dead. Warily the bear circled behind them; it was so close I could see its fur bristling. Their guide ever so slowly reached for the canister of bear spray holstered at his hip; the bear came closer. And then it stopped to look at them. Ten feet away!

Now we were all holding our breath. For those few seconds, time seemed to freeze, only the sound of the river cascading into the cove breached the spell. Then, just like that, the bear turned away and continued down the shoreline undaunted.

I wonder if those folks had spare underwear in their daypacks?