Authors: Will Hobbs
Wild Man Island
Will Hobbs
to Elise Howard,
my wonderful editor;
to Barbara Fitzsimmons,
inspired art director;
and to Josh Weiss,
managing editor extraordinaire
I WAS PUSHING THE LIMITS. My kayak was out inâ¦
LONG AFTER THE OTHERS HAD GONE to their tents, Iâ¦
THE ROAR WAS IN MY EARS as I bounded upâ¦
I KEPT THE BOW POINTED TOWARD LAND, kept paddling hard,â¦
ON MY HANDS AND KNEES, I clawed my way outâ¦
THE BEAR PAUSED TO SNIFF THE AIR. My heart wasâ¦
IN SIGHT OF THE CREEK, I found a hole inâ¦
FOR TWO MORE DAYS I shivered in the rain andâ¦
I SNAKED MY WAY THROUGH devil's club to the spotâ¦
WHEN I CAME TO, darkness engulfed me. It took aâ¦
AS I INSPECTED THE DOG'S EAR, he nuzzled the spearâ¦
THE NEWFOUNDLAND WAS FLANKING the broad, swampy meadow, keeping toâ¦
MORNING BROUGHT RAIN, cold, hunger, and reality. I hurt tooâ¦
I AWOKE TO A WILD WIND SWAYING the branches thatâ¦
WHAT WAS I DOING WRONG? I had the bowstring loopedâ¦
THE FACT THAT I WASN'T FOLLOWING a single footprint sentâ¦
I HEARD A FLUTE. I MUST BE DREAMING, I thought,â¦
I STAYED ALONG THE BACKBONE of the ridge. All theâ¦
IT WAS TIME FOR SHAYLA to follow with the kennelâ¦
“GRAB THE KENNEL CAGE, ANDY.”
THE DOG WHINED AND CRIED and yelped something awful. Beforeâ¦
“JUST KEEP PADDLING, WE'LL GET THERE.”
I STRUGGLED WITH MY PADDLE to meet a second wave.
THE SAILORS WERE AWFULLY HAPPY I was alive. My nameâ¦
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I
WAS PUSHING THE LIMITS.
My kayak was out in front of the others but still within shouting distance. So far they weren't calling me back.
It was the sixth day, the last full day of our trip, and this was the area where we were supposed to have the best chance of seeing the humpbacks. Gimme a whale, I thought. I'm ready for forty tons of breaching humpback whale just like on the postcards.
My eyes were locked on the horizon. The last thing I expected was action right under my nose.
Whooosh!
came a fountain of water and an explosion of breath as something huge burst out of the water only a few yards away. There, right next to me, was the head of what might have been a giant seal. Big eyes, little ears, long whiskersâI didn't know what it was. The animal looked me over for a second, snorted, then slipped back underwater.
“Wow!” I said under my breath. “Come back and give me another look, big fella.”
For a minute, nothing. I was sure it was gone for good when, suddenly, the sea erupted with fountains
and whooshes. This time
five
of the critters were bobbing up and down and snorting. Their large eyes were dark and mischievous. A furry water polo team with attitude, that's how they struck me.
I waved. In response, they swam straight at me. At the last second, point-blank and enormous, they slipped under my kayak.
When they popped up again, they were back where they had first appeared. Still checking me out, they snorted at me, almost comically. “Cool trick,” I called.
Two, three times, I whacked my paddle on the water, hoping they would repeat their stunt so I could get another close look at them.
Same as before, they headed straight for me. Same as before, they passed right under my kayak.
“Andy!” came a voice from behind, and there was Monica, paddling toward me like there was no tomorrow. A ski racer in the winters, Monica was the trip leader even though she was the younger of our two guides. I was basically in awe of her.
“Stop! Stop!” she cried, as she reached out and grabbed hold of my kayak.
“What's wrong? I wasn't doing anyâ”
“Those are Steller's sea lions, Andy. They can be dangerous! They weigh close to two thousand pounds. Did they snort at you?”
“It was amazing. They wanted to play.”
“Maybe,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “but they can play rough. They were more like charging you, challenging you. A couple of years ago one of them tipped over a
kayak. It happened to one of the other companâ”
Suddenly Monica's eyes went big, and I saw why. Not very far away, an immense whale was bursting out of the sea. Its enormous white flippers flailed as it rose twisting into the air.
For a second the whale seemed to hang suspended, water streaming off its sides. With a resounding splash, it fell on its back into the sea.
Behind us, cheers went up from the group, and someone hollered, “First whale!”
With a huge smile, Monica reached for my shoulder and gave me a forgiving pat. “Humpback whales, Andy! This is what we came for!”
With a sudden pivot, she sped toward the others.
It was going to take me a while to recover from the sting of Monica's reprimand. I was fourteen, as young as Adventure Alaska would allow on these trips, and the only kid in the group. For six days, I'd been trying so hard.
As I paddled on, I thought about what Monica had just said, that we'd come for the whales. In my case, that was only partly true.
Mostly I had come all the way from Colorado to Baranof Island to make a pilgrimage. My father had died on Baranof. Of course, Monica didn't know anything about that.
A few minutes later, with all seven kayaks paddling together, the group witnessed a second breach, and then a third. A little while after that, two humpbacks at once rocketed out of the sea.
“Okay, guys, let's quit paddling,” Monica instructed. “We're about as close as we should get. Let's raft up. Grab on to the kayak next to you.”
She began to tap on the hull of her kayak. “Let's let them know where we are, so they can steer clear. I'd rather not go airborne on a whale, or find myself underneath one when it falls, thank you very much.”
I started tapping on my hull, and so did the paddlers in the four tandem kayaks. Our other guide, Julia, pointed excitedly to the right, where the seagulls were all worked up about something. Julia was my mother's age and our naturalist. We watched as the gulls circled, screaming, over a spot suddenly churning with fish. By the hundreds, small silvery herring were leaping out of the water, frantically it seemed, and we soon found out why. “Bubble net!” Julia cried, as four feeding humpbacks in a tight ring, jaws wide open, exploded through the surface.
I was mesmerized. My father had seen this up close, had told my mother all about it. It was on account of my father that
Alaska
had always been a magic word for me, a powerful magnet. The older I got, the more strongly I'd felt Alaska's pull.
My father had been convinced that the islands of southeast Alaska were hiding deep, dark secrets from the past. When I was five years old, he died trying to find those secrets.
Flanked by whales breaching in the strait, we paddled across the narrow mouth of Cosmos Cove. Our last campsite was in sight at the foot of the cliff. All my feelings
about losing my father, growing up without him, were breaking through the surface.
Two miles. Tonight I would be two miles from Hidden Falls, the place where my father had slipped and fallen. It was less than an hour's paddle to the south.
My mother and I had thought I would come within twenty miles, not two.
When the group assembled in Sitka I'd found out that our itinerary had changed slightly, on account of the whales. When Monica said that our last camp would be at Cosmos Cove, her words hit me like a thunderbolt. I had known that name for years. It's where my father should have met the floatplane for the first leg of his journey home.
This close, I would never feel right about it unless I visited the place where my father died. I needed to get to Hidden Falls.
My mother had gone there. A year after it happened, she went to Baranof Island and Hidden Falls. She left a small carving there. My father had made it from soapstone.
For six days now, I'd been picturing myself finding that little carving of a boat and leaving a token of my own inside it. I'd whittled a tiny cedar paddle and was wearing it around my neck. If I could leave something of myself there, it would be a very good thing. I might be able to finally shake the feeling that part of me was missing.
I looked at my watch: 5:20
P.M.
It was late July in Alaska, and there were hours of daylight left. The problem
was, there wasn't the slightest chance Monica would let me go alone.
There was no chance, either, that Monica would let Julia go with me, or anyone else for that matter. Monica's first rule was, “The group never splits up. Never, ever.” It was the first thing she'd told us back in Sitka. The second was, “The inside waters of these islands might have looked calm and protected from the airplane. Take my word for it, they are among the most dangerous in the world.”
After six days, we hadn't seen any danger. Most of the time we'd been in Peril Strait, and it never looked perilous.
We paddled in formation across the cove to our last campsite. The bows of all seven kayaks hit the beach gravel at the same time, and a cheer went up. The trip was all but over. The floatplanes would pick us up in the morning.
I should have let it go. I should have figured I would find a way to get back sometime later in my life. But I'd been saving up money for a year and a half for this trip, and I knew once I got home to Colorado, Baranof Island would seem as far away as the moon.
We set up our tents along a grassy strip backed by high mossy cliffs. Along with the solo kayak, I'd drawn the one-man tent. As I pitched it, I kept my eyes on the whales. All the while, humpbacks cruised back and forth in front of camp. The tide was coming in, and the whales were breaching barely more than a stone's throw from the beach.
Suddenly it occurred to me. The tides weren't going to be right this evening. Hidden Falls might be only two miles away, but I'd be fighting the current all the way.
When
would
the tides be right? I started to do the math in my head. The answer came quickly. At first light, between two and three in the morning, that's when they'd be in my favor.
All during dinner, all during Julia's last campfire and nature talk, I couldn't stop thinking about it. It would be so easy. I could picture it clear as day, paddling to the falls alone.
