Baranof by mother ship

Perhaps no other place is better suited to the mother-ship concept than Alaska. To begin with, there’s a lot of distance to cover—far more than anyone can hope to paddle in a lifetime. A circumnavigation of Baranof Island is more than 200 nautical miles and would take several weeks by kayak. We went around it in seven days aboard the Home Shore, cherry-picking the best places to paddle along the way—deep fjords, secluded bays, ragged islands, and wave-battered sea stacks.

A mother ship also makes it possible to avoid pesky Alaskan critters both large and small. Camping in brown bear country can be intimidating and requires scrupulous food management and care while cooking. We saw only two bears, each grazing in knee-high beach grass, but it was a lot more comfortable watching them from the deck of the Home Shore than peering anxiously through the door of a tent pitched on the same cramped beach. Then there are those smaller Alaskan carnivores to contend with—biting bugs. On our trip, we never used head nets or insect repellent. We spent most of our time beyond the range of mosquitoes, flies, and midges, whether paddling kayaks or cruising aboard our mother ship. When you’re anchored half a mile offshore, they’re not much of a problem, and it’s a real joy to no-see-um.

Gary Luhm / C&K

What we did see was lots of wildlife. Bald eagles were as routine as gulls, puffins as common as crows. Rounding the island’s southern point, Cape Ommaney, we smelled a large group of Steller sea lions basking on the wave-washed rocks before we actually spotted them. Minutes later we were drifting in the tidal current, surrounded by 30 to 40 humpback whales, alternately rolling on the surface and diving beneath it, momentarily holding their enormous tail flukes aloft before slipping noiselessly into the sea. Later, while paddling in swells amid an outer-coast rock garden, we inadvertently came upon a sea otter nursery, where a large raft of mother otters glided effortlessly on their backs while clutching their fuzz-ball pups on their chests.

But there’s no denying it. Besides the wildlife-viewing potential, one of the best things about kayaking from a mother ship is comfort. As indicated earlier, Alaska can be wet and cold. Paddling in the rain is no big deal, but it can be a drag to camp in it night after night. On one kayak trip to Glacier Bay, Laura and I aborted a day early simply because we grew tired of the continuously soggy conditions. On a mother ship, not only is it cozy and dry, but there are also a host of other little luxuries: soft bunks instead of hard ground, tasty meals instead of reconstituted glob, flush toilets instead of cat holes, and a hot shower instead of stinky polypro.

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