Postcards from the Ledge: North to Alaska (part 2)

We had spent the past week in a cloud-shrouded realm of sea and mountains, fully immersed in the rhythm of expedition life. Terry and I had mastered the ship's routine, the Sea Lion serving as a restful home amid ever-changing waters. The Nat Geo science guides were outstanding. Our days had been filled with close encounters with brown bears along misty shorelines and humpback whales bubble-net fishing just beyond the bow—moments that left us awestruck by nature’s grandeur. With four more days of exploration ahead, we felt invigorated and ready for whatever came next. Bring it on!

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Into the Tongass

The morning brings gray skies and drizzle, casting a hush over the bay where the Sea Lion is now anchored at the north end of Chichagof Island. During breakfast, the crew lower the Zodiacs to the water and ferry the kayaks to shore, setting the tone for a day of exploration. After breakfast, Alexandra briefs us all on our planned activities. Then it’s our turn to be ferried ashore in small groups. Team Spruce—including Terry and me—will be kayaking first, while the Hemlocks set off for a hike in the rainforest.

Terry and I are assigned a tandem kayak, and we push off and paddle along the shoreline in quiet awe. The water is cold and crystal clear, unveiling a hidden world beneath us. Starfish cling to submerged rocks like scattered jewels, while sea anemones sway gently with the current. Each paddle stroke brings us closer to nature’s wonders, every moment both intimate and profound. This is the magic of the Tongass.

Chichagof Island

On the beach

Cruising the shoreline

Paul & Sue from Indiana. They were on a month-long tour of Alaska,
to which the Nat Geo trip would be the last week of it. Doing it right.

The Tongass National Forest covers much of Southeast Alaska, and at 26,000 square miles, is the largest national forest in the USA. This vast expanse of wilderness is also one of the world’s largest temperate rainforests, receiving up to 200 inches of rainfall annually. Frequent fog and mist among the towering trees create an atmosphere that is mystical and serene. Remote and largely untouched by man, the Tongass provides sanctuary for many endangered species of flora and fauna.

The name “Tongass” is an English transliteration of the Tlingit name for a specific group among their people known as the “Sea Lion Tribe.” For centuries, these indigenous people had settlements scattered throughout the Alexander Archipelago. Their enduring connection to this land reminds us that every inch of this remarkable forest holds stories worth preserving—for both nature and humanity alike.

Someone who truly embodies a connection with the Tongass is our hiking guide, David. Born and raised in Alaska, he’s the real deal: a 21st-century woodsman who knows every inch of this rugged landscape. When he’s not guiding, David lives not too far away in the hamlet of Gustavus (population 700). He lives close to the land: gathering berries and mushrooms in season, hunting deer in the fall, and making Costco runs to Juneau (4-hour ferry ride) when necessary.

When it’s our turn to hike, David leads eight of us straight into the woods—no trail in sight. We’re bushwhacking from the first step, scrambling up steep muddy slopes that are thick with ferns and mossy rocks. Every so often, we clamber over or around fallen tree trunks—called “nurse logs”—that have been feeding new forest life for centuries. Within minutes, we have gained 200 feet in elevation and most of us are peeling off layers. But David hasn’t even broken a sweat. Clearly this forest is his home turf.

The way up

Bushwacking

David (sitting) spins another fascinating yarn about life in the Tongass.

We soon emerge from the woods onto a wide-open plateau of grassy bogland that David refers to as a “muskeg.” At first glance it looks like a vast, golden-green sponge. But this isn’t just any wetland: muskeg is a boggy, peat-forming ecosystem that accumulates decomposed organic matter faster than it can decay. Because of poor drainage and permanently waterlogged ground, you really must watch your step. The earth is spongy with thick mats of sphagnum mosses that sometimes reach over 100 feet deep, and the soil is acidic and nutrient-poor: a harsh place for anything to grow. There are only scattered clumps of low-lying shrubs and the occasional stand of small, stunted trees draped in moss—survivors from an alien world.

As we hike across the muskeg in sporadic light rain, David warns us not to step into the dark pools dotting the landscape. These bog ponds could swallow your boot (or worse) like quicksand. At one point, he has us stop for ten minutes. No talking. Just be present and feel the muskeg around us: its quiet strength; its gentle resilience; the patter of raindrops. It becomes almost meditative. Then you realize this whole place is alive—a living thing shaped by time and weather into something rare and wondrous.

The Muskeg

Sphagnum mosses

David explains the muskeg ecosystem. It's all connected.

The Inian Islands

The Sea Lion dropped anchor in a protected bay off Inian Island early in the morning. Clouds and drizzle set the tone for the day. Again. The Inian Islands sit directly in the middle of Icy Strait, where the northern end of the Inside Passage meets the vast Pacific. That means larger swells and strong tidal currents, making navigation tricky. How tricky? One of the narrow channels between two of the islands is nicknamed “The Laundry Chute.”

Today’s fun activity was to find the sea lions and sea otters that linger around the islands. Melissa was our Zodiac skipper for the day, and she came with an impressive résumé: marine biologist, divemaster, certified ship captain, NOAA research tech, Nat Geo guide… and I don’t think she’s yet thirty years old. She zipped us around jagged outcroppings and along craggy shores as the tide ebbed and Icy Strait flowed like a river.

Spotting sea otters was harder than expected—they are virtuosos at hiding in kelp beds—but we had no trouble finding sea lions. They crowded the slick rocks, sprawling out in rowdy gangs, barking and croaking so loudly that how could you NOT find them? According to Goggle Translate, they were telling us, “Throw us a fish or go away.” Or something like that.

Queing up to board the Zodiacs.

Melissa at the helm.

The Steller sea lion (Eumetopias jubatus) is found along the coasts of the northern Pacific Ocean and the Pacific Northwest of North America. The species is named after the naturalist Georg Steller, who accompanied explorer Vitus Bering on the Russian expedition to Alaska in the 1740s. Adult females typically reach about eight feet in length and weigh around 600 pounds, while adult males are larger, often exceeding 1,000 pounds. They are known for their vocal behavior and can produce a wide range of sounds, including barks, belches, growls, snorts, and hisses—both on land and underwater. These vocalizations serve mainly social and warning functions within their colonies, helping individuals communicate and maintain order in large groups.

They make a racket.

The male (left) is getting an earful from his mate. I feel his pain.

Playing the kelp trumpet.
Miles Davis, I am not.

Stellers lounging below a cliffside seagull colony.

Haines

We arrived at Haines the next morning, having traveled over a hundred miles during the night. It is the first town we’ve seen since Sitka four days ago, and it’s almost surreal to lay eyes on civilization again. The sky is dazzling blue; the sun is shining; lofty peaks soar all around us. It’s hard not to just stand on deck and ogle.

Haines is a unique little town of 1,700 residents, located on a scenic peninsula near the head of Lynn Canal—the longest and deepest fjord in North America. For over a millennium, this site was known as Deishú (“end of the trail”), a Tlingit trading village that provided access to the interior. White settlers began arriving in the mid-19th century, and by 1884, the settlement adopted the name Haines.

The town played a significant role during the Klondike Gold Rush, when entrepreneur Jack Dalton transformed the ancient Tlingit trade route into the Dalton Trail—a vital toll road for prospectors heading into Alaska’s interior. Today the economy is mostly tourism and commercial fishing. The fishing trawlers operating from its harbor are primarily family-owned businesses, reflecting an independent, multi-generational tradition. What's more, Haines boasts a notable art scene, particularly Tlingit wood carvings and blankets. It is reputed that the town has the highest number of artists per capita in the country. Oh, and then there’s the Hammer Museum: the only museum in the world dedicated exclusively to hammers, with over two thousand on display.

Haines

View from our cabin.

There is no shortage of adventure options today—peak-bagging, cycling, rafting, fly-fishing. Scaling Mount Riley sounded enticing, but that would be a push with my dodgy hip. Instead, we chose cycling for our morning activity. I checked Google Maps and saw that it was twenty miles round trip from Haines to Chilkoot Lake, mostly flat terrain and within my comfort zone. We first stopped by the local bike shop to get fitted for our bikes. Then came the surprise: instead of starting in town, we would be shuttled four miles up the road before beginning the ride. In other words, we would only pedal twelve miles—not as far as I wanted, but the scenery made up for the shorter distance. The ride was beautiful, with tall trees lining the road and vistas of snow-capped mountains. Chilkoot Lake was stunning. The water was like glass, reflecting snowy peaks with hanging glaciers. No matter the mileage, the ride was worth it just for that view alone.

Photo op

Cycling guide provides us with geology lesson along the way.

Chilkoot River

Fly fisherman

Outlet of Chilkoot Lake

Junior anglers

Chilkoot Lake

Heading back to Haines.

After a savory lunch aboard the ship, about two dozen of us board a private bus that takes us twenty miles up the Chilkat River to an authentic clan house in the Tlingit village of Klukwan. It’s not every day that you get to step inside a piece of living history and learn firsthand the traditions and stories of the indigenous ones.

Klukwan (“eternal village”) is one of the oldest and historically significant Tlingit settlements in Southeast Alaska. It is the last of five original Tlingit villages that thrived along the Chilkat River before the arrival of white settlers in the 19th century. The Tlingit people led self-sufficient and prosperous lives until the Klondike Gold Rush in the 1890s. As outside interest and intervention grew, especially from those seeking fortune during the gold rush, the Tlingit lost control of their lucrative trade routes into the interior, as spears and daggers proved no match against firearms and the U.S. Army. Before 1900, over a thousand Tlingits lived along this stretch of river. Today, Klukwan—the only village remaining—has dwindled to 84 residents.

Klukwan clan house

Tlingit artwork

After the clan house visit, we all gathered at the riverbank for our rafting excursion. The setup was simple: four rafts with six passengers and a river guide in each. Our guide introduced herself as Nicole. She was sweet, originally from Connecticut and currently living in an abandoned school bus in Haines, living large on the Last Frontier. I couldn’t help but admire her spirit. (YOLO)

The float itself was more chill than thrill: a relaxing two-hour drift down the river with no whitewater action. However, I was really looking forward to passing through the renowned Chilkat Bald Eagle Preserve, home to the largest concentration of bald eagles on the planet. Three to four thousand baldies! I had lugged my big camera lens along just for this moment. Bring it on! But as fate would have it, I only spotted three lone eagles perched high in the trees; all the other feathered residents seemed to be MIA.

Turns out, the famous gathering of eagles doesn’t start for another month. Darn it!

Chilkat River, where it flows through Bald Eagle Preserve.

Our river guide, Nicole.

Looking for eagles.

There's one!

Evening in the Inside Passage.

Onto the next destination...

A solid Plan B

On August 10th, 2025, (ten days before we flew to Alaska to start this adventure), at precisely 5:26 AM, a massive rock wall had sheared off within the Tracy Arm fjord, releasing an estimated 100 million tons of debris onto the terminus of South Sawyer Glacier. This triggered a mega-tsunami that surged over a thousand feet up the opposite wall of the fjord and sent a formidable 100-foot wave charging down the length of Tracy Arm. On Harbor Island, located at the mouth of the fjord (35 miles away!), kayakers reported that 10-foot waves swept away their camp. Miraculously there were no injuries, and no vessels present in the fjord at the time—a fortunate circumstance, considering that just 36 hours earlier the Sea Lion had visited South Sawyer Glacier. In response, authorities promptly closed Tracy Arm to all maritime traffic. There would be no South Sawyer Glacier for us. Instead, our Nat Geo team came up with a “Plan B”—we would visit Dawes Glacier at the head of the Endicott Arm fjord. And keep our fingers crossed.

The Sea Lion was cruising up the Endicott Arm when we rolled out of bed to another bright, sunny day—picture-perfect for our last day of exploring. After breakfast, we board the Zodiacs. Melissa is our boat skipper again, proficiently motoring us along the shore, avoiding the rocks and floating chunks of icebergs. The scenery is nothing short of majestic: steep fjord walls with waterfalls cascading down like silvery curtains into turquoise water.

As we neared the terminus of Dawes Glacier, the luminous blue ice takes our breath away. Some of the giant ice pillars look like they could calve off at any moment. And just when we thought it couldn’t get any more sublime, a launch from the Sea Lion races out to provide refreshments, its three-man crew dressed as Viking raiders, horned helmets and all. They handed out hot chocolate (spiked with brandy on request), warming us against the crisp breeze and adding a spirited touch to the morning. You gotta love Vikings.

Endicott Arm

Big walls

Dawes Glacier

Melissa samples glacier ice that she plucked out of the water.

A 10,000-year-old ice cube

Viking raiders provide refreshments.

The LOWDOWN on DAWES GLACIER

Naturalist John Muir originally named it Young Glacier in 1880 to honor his Alaska traveling companion, Rev. S. Hall Young. Eleven years later, the USGS renamed it Dawes Glacier after Henry Dawes, the Massachusetts senator who authored the nefarious Dawes Act.

Originates from the Stikine Icefield on the Canada/USA border and flows northwest for approximately twenty miles. Its thickness at terminus ranges from 300 to 500 feet today—significantly thinner than it was forty years ago (1,000 feet ±).

Velocity has slowed in recent years. It moved 59 feet per day in 1999, 16 feet/day in 2014, and only 9 feet/day in 2024.

Since 1985, the glacier terminus has retreated 2.3 miles, or about 300 feet per year.

Half of the terminus face of Dawes Glacier is underwater.

The Polar Plunge was the main event for the afternoon. The water was 38°. Nope. Terry and I gave it a hard pass. But about two dozen brave souls were game, and we watched from deck, cheering them on and scoring their flips and dives accordingly. Afterwards, the kids on the voyage took turns racing a Zodiac around the ship, channeling their inner pirate with swashbuckling zeal. Arrrrg!

That evening we enjoyed a scrumptious dinner, followed by a presentation of photos taken on the trip by passengers, put together by Tim, our Nat Geo photography pro. But the grand finale was standing on deck after sundown, watching a pod of humpback whales play in the fading light. Not a bad day.

Our Nat Geo guide team.

A humpback's tail fluke.

Searching for whale spouts in the moonlight.

Welcome to Juneau

It was dawn when the we eased up to the dock in Juneau. I stepped outside our cabin, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and was faced with a towering cruise ship moored next to us, infinite stories high. The Sea Lion’s crew was already engaged in preparing for the next cruise departure, bustling about with efficiency: the ship would set out tonight with a new manifest of passengers.

We gathered for breakfast in the dining room one last time and then said our goodbyes. And just like that, our Nat Geo adventure was officially over. Our newfound friends from Indiana, Paul and Sue, and Karl and Patty, were flying home—they had been touring Alaska now for a month. As for Terry and me: we had two full days to soak in Juneau before hopping on our flight home. Hence, onward and forwards.

"Tahku"- a life-size sculpture of a breaching humpback located on the
waterfront. It commemorates the 50th anniversary of Alaska statehood.

After checking into our hotel, our first stop was the Red Dog Saloon: a historic bar that’s been around since the late-19th century gold rush days. Stepping through the swinging saloon doors, you’re immersed in an Alaskan frontier establishment: sawdust-covered floors; walls decked out with eclectic memorabilia like animal heads, bear skins, and even a vintage pistol rumored to have belonged to Wyatt Earp. It’s rowdy but cheerful, with a gravely-voiced piano man keeping the energy buzzing. Back in the day, prospectors gathered here to drink and spin tales after long hours in the mines. Now most of the patrons come from cruise ships that stop in Juneau.

And then there’s the famous Duck Fart. It’s the Red Dog’s signature drink, made with equal parts of Kahlua, Baileys, and Johnnie Walker—silky smooth but deceptively potent. We’d been told you can’t go to Juneau without having one. So, naturally, we did. Salute!

Bobby Reynolds (aka The Great Baldini) stirs up the crowd with "The Mosquito Song."

According to Bobby, the mosquito is Alaska's state bird.

The famous Duck Fart.

The Juneau area had been a popular fishing ground for the Tlingit people for thousands of years when, in 1880, Chief Kowee guided the prospectors Joe Juneau and Richard Harris to Gold Creek, where they found abundant gold. This discovery led to the rapid formation of a miners’ camp that quickly evolved into a bustling boomtown. The settlement was officially named Juneau in honor of one of its founders.

In 1906, the Alaska territorial capital was relocated from Sitka to Juneau, reflecting the city’s growing prominence. When Alaska achieved statehood in 1959, Juneau was designated the state capital. Today, it has a population of approximately 32,000 and is uniquely characterized by its remote and geographical setting that prohibits access by road. Traveling to and from Juneau is possible only by airplane or sea vessel.

Juneau, early 1880s

Perseverance Mine, 1900.

Dinner on the waterfront, watching floatplanes come and go.

The following morning, we rented e-bikes and set off for Mendenhall Glacier, which was 13 miles out of town. The route took us through quiet residential neighborhoods and along bike trails that made the outing smooth going. And we couldn’t resist taking a scenic side trip—meaning, we got off route.

From the glacier visitor center, we hiked the trail out to Nugget Falls, which is as close as you can hike to the glacier terminus these days. All in all, it was a super fun day riding bikes with my sweetheart—though we couldn’t agree on who was responsible for getting us off route.

Mendenhall Glacier. A century ago, Mendenhall Lake (foreground) was all glacier ice, 1,000 feet thick.

The LOWDOWN on MENDENHALL GLACIER

The Tlinkit name for it had always been Aak'wtaaksit. In 1879, John Muir named it Auk Glacier after the Auk Kwaan, the Tlingit band who lived in the area. Thirteen years later, the USGS renamed it Mendenhall Glacier after Thomas Mendenhall, a prominent scientist who was the USGS director at the time.

Originates from the Juneau Icefield and flows southwest for approximately 13 miles—and gets shorter every year. It is 1-1½ miles wide and its thickness at the terminus today is only around 100 feet.

Velocity has slowed significantly in recent years, averaging 2 feet per day in 2024.

The glacier terminus has retreated 1.8 miles since 1929. But the rate of shrinkage has radically increased of late, retreating 800 feet in 2022 alone. And in 2025 (the year we visited), the terminus shrank beyond the shore of Lake Mendenhall. The glacier is now landbound, not touching water.

As of 2025, the glacier terminus no longer touches the water.

Hiking to Nugget Falls.

Nugget Falls

We had the morning to spare before the late-afternoon flight home, so we decided to take the Goldbelt Tramway up to the high country. The tram leaves from downtown and ascends 1,800 feet up the mountainside in just six minutes. It’s the steepest cable car in North America (slope angle of 39°) and the views on the ride up are impressive. There’s a Tlingit cultural center at the mountain station. Women were weaving blankets using traditional techniques—an artform almost lost these days. It was fascinating to watch up close.

Feeling energetic, we set off on a hike to Gastineau Peak. The trail is two miles with a 2,000-foot gain, but I had to call it quits halfway up because my hip was giving me grief (gotta get that fixed) and time was running out. We grabbed lunch and a cold beer at the mountain station and took the next available tram down. The remainder of our time was spent shopping for souvenirs, and then we headed to the airport—the end to another great adventure.