Baranof by mother ship

By Ross Prather

updated 6:44 p.m. ET July 20, 2005

We had been paddling for hours in a cold, penetrating Alaskan drizzle. Our five kayaks—three tandems and two singles—were widely spaced, with the most distant ones blurred intermittently by fog. Onshore, nothing remotely resembled a decent campsite. Dense rain forest extended right down to the waterline, and seaweed raked from the last high tide was draped from the lowest branches like toilet paper left behind by Halloween pranksters. Beneath, a steep, rocky shore provided few places to land a kayak, much less to pitch a tent. It was starting to get late, about 9:30 p.m. Even though we were at 57 degrees north latitude just one week before the summer solstice, there was little more than an hour of daylight remaining. The sprinkles turned to steady rain.

Rounding a point, we spied the only beach we’d seen all day, on the far shore across Kasnyku Bay. Paddling directly toward it, we soon noticed the unmistakable blue smudge of wood smoke as we got closer. Then, a couple of kayaks and tents materialized out of the murk on the tiny pocket of sand. These were the only other paddlers we would encounter during the entire upcoming week, and they occupied the only campsite we had seen on this, our first day of kayaking around Baranof Island.

They looked like a dispirited crew, a group of wet hens in green slickers. Huddled around their weak campfire, they didn’t exactly resemble a welcoming committee. Before paddling within speaking distance, we steered away and pulled into a dank, compact cove. My wife, Laura, remarked, “What a miserable night for camping.”

Fortunately for us, it didn’t matter. Minutes later, our mother ship, the Home Shore, puttered into the cove for our prearranged rendezvous. We paddled alongside and climbed aboard; skipper Jim Kyle hoisted our kayaks up behind us with his boat’s boom.

Gary Luhm / C&K

As we changed into warm, dry clothes, Jim and his son, Ben, retrieved shrimp traps set earlier in the outer bay. They were somewhat disappointed with the harvest—a dozen or so from the first trap, only a handful in the next, a couple of dozen more in the last. Still, a bucket was sufficiently filled with the wriggly pink crustaceans that they kept springing out onto the slippery deck in futile attempts to escape through the scupper holes. Ben scampered to retrieve them, but we would have to wait until breakfast to enjoy them, served in the form of shrimp and avocado omelets. Meanwhile, we had a dinner of king salmon and fettuccine to dispatch, along with a couple of bottles of wine and a plate of fresh-baked chocolate-chip cookies.

As we motored farther down Chatham Strait toward our anchorage for the night, the camped kayakers slowly dissolved in the distance off our stern. I couldn’t help but think about how many nights I had spent in similar circumstances—pitching a tent in the rain, tracking wet sand inside, fumbling with a mound of soaked clothes, preparing an uninviting meal, trying to keep my spirits up even when it continued to rain for hours and sometimes days on end. Instead, I was getting my first taste of kayaking in relative luxury.

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