Wednesday 8/8
Blaat! Blaat! Blaat! For the second time on the trip, we awoke to an alarm. We’ve got a plane to catch!
How many times have I awakened to an alarm with a plane to catch to Minneapolis, or Richmond, or Bentonville? Too many to count. Fight the traffic, park the car, take the bus, pass security, hope for an upgrade, fly, work, land, work. This is way different…drive 10 minutes, wait on the pier of the Kodiak Seaplane Terminal, throw sticks for the dock dog to retrieve from the mirrored water, meet our flying companions and captain, fly, sightsee, land, view the bears.
This is my first flight in over 3 months—we cannot remember a longer hiatus. This is Nancy’s FIRST seaplane flight and my first in about 30 years.
It’s a gloriously sunny, virtually windless day. We’re flying on a DeHavilland Beaver single engine seaplane—the dowager queen of bush planes. The capacity is the pilot plus six passengers, and it’s VERY cozy…pilot and one passenger up front, three intimate passengers in the center, and two in the back. We take the back seat so we each have a window behind the wing—which is good—but the actual seat is a sling so it’s sort of like sitting side-by-side in a hammock. We don’t care.
Our fellow passengers are Mike & Sive (feminine family name that rhymes with five or dive, but not give or live) from San Francisco, and John & Julie from Texas. Both are very nice, young couples. Our pilot is Keller. He just graduated from college, says he’s 24, but looks like he’s 12. He turns out to be knowledgeable, sensitive, funny, and competent. We could tell he was competent because we returned safely. The competent part was important in light of Muncho Lake.
In the flat water our takeoff was silken—one second we’re on the water, the next second we’re not—no sensation of lift off.
We’re heading west-south-west to the far end of Kodiak Island, about 75 miles as the crow flies, but we can’t exactly emulate the “crow” since we have to fly around a couple of mountain peaks and do a little “flight-seeing” as we go, so flight time is about an hour. It’s magnificent. To our right, across the 25-mile sound that separates Kodiak from the mainland are the snow-covered-Katmai mountains (part of the Alaska Range). On our left are the Gulf of Alaska and the Pacific Ocean. Beneath us are verdant valleys, azure streams, snow capped mountains, rocky slopes, and glaciers. In this light plane, on a short hop, we’re close to the terrain—REALLY close as we scoot between mountain peaks, stealthily circling some so that we can surprise the wary mountain goats that graze there. As we fly, Keller is a rich fount of geographical, biological, and historical information. Among many other things, we learn that Kodiak Bears are a subspecies of Brown Bears that were cut off from the other populations by the last ice age. Experts disagree on whether Kodiaks of Polar Bears are the largest bears in the world, but by far the heaviest bear ever recorded was a Kodiak Brown Bear. The reason their so large and so much larger than other Brown Bears is their diet which consists almost exclusive of protein rich salmon.
Our reconnection with earth is as smooth as the take off—no sensation of landing at all. We’ve alit on Fraser Lake, also the destination for thousands of spawning salmon swimming up the O'Hara river. Until recently most of these crazed fish were defeated by a series of waterfalls—much more daunting than rapids—and it’s astounding that ANY fish made it. Then in 1980’s a local biologist decided to build a fish ladder. The first one he built was too steep and many salmon still were thwarted, so he built a second, more gradual incline. The salmon loved it, and it didn‘t take long for the bears to develop a fondness as well. Fish are funneled into the ladder by a weir that’s angled across the stream and leads them to the entrance of the ladder. The ladder itself is covered, so the bears can’t just pluck salmon from the stairs. The bears are also prevented from getting fish at some of the upstream pools where the fish are particularly vulnerable, but as the fish approach the ladder, they’re fair game. According to Keller, there are ALWAYS bears at this spot.
To get to the stream we walk about ¾ of a mile from the lake. “Bears could be anywhere along this trail”, warns Keller, so we stay close together. Being the proud owner of a multifaceted, sub-nuclear bear protection arsenal, I ask Keller what he’s brought along to ward off any of these curious predators: a gun, pepper spray, an air horn? “Oh”, says Keller, “Sometimes I bring a gun, and sometimes I bring pepper spray, but you know, today, I forgot to bring anything. But, don’t worry; the bears won’t bother us. We’ve never had a problem.” I’m immediately thinking about the bear joke we’ve heard several times up here, about Joe who’s hiking with his friend. The friend asks what Joe brought for bear protection, and Joe points to his feet and says, “These running shoes”. The friend says, “Joe, you know there’s no way in the world you can outrun a bear!” And Joe says, “I know, but I don’t have to outrun the bear, I just have to outrun you!” In the great bear race, Nancy & I will definitely finish last (or first from the bear’s point of view).
There are signs of bears everywhere: scat, prints, broken brush, so we know they’re around. We go up one small hill, down into a small valley, up and down again and then up the third hill. As we come to the top, we’re looking down at the very wide, shallow stream, and there are 5 bears fishing: 2 sows, and 3 yearlings. We continue down hill until we’re on a small bluff above the bears—actually more of a hump than a bluff. We’re probably 50’ to the edge of the stream. A couple of times during our stay bears walk on the bank between us and the stream and are less than 50’ away. Some bears arrive at this spot by working their way up the stream—these come into view about ½ mile from us. Some bears arrive on a trail on the opposite side of the stream. Keller tells us that it’s not unusual for bears to arrive on the trail we’ve taken, so we shouldn’t be surprised if one walks right by us. He also relates that occasionally bears will charge up the hill. “If that happens”, he says, “We should all stand up and put our hands in the air. We’ll look REALLY BIG and intimidating. If he keeps on coming, then slowly step aside, he’ll probably just run right between us.” If any of this sounds scary, I can tell you that none of us were afraid. Nancy and I have had several experiences scuba diving with sharks. A couple of times it was clear that the sharks were interested in us--possibly in a comestible way, but most of the time it’s equally clear that the sharks aren’t threatening. That’s the way it was today with the bears. They had fishing on their minds and couldn’t have cared less about the peanut gallery.
We spent 2 ½ hours watching the bears fish, play, and rest. In addition to the original 5 bears, another 2 (both boars) came and went, so we saw a total of 7. Keller turns out to have a nearly perfect sense of when and when not to talk. He answered our questions and occasionally interjected bits of lore and knowledge, but mostly, he was quiet and lets us absorb the experience.
In all the nature films I’ve seen, the bears are always catching fish, so I had this preconception that they were highly efficient, fish-killing machines. This turns out to not be generally true. One of the sows seemed able to move into the water, stalk, and catch a fish at will. This was true of one boar as well. But, the others had to work VERY hard for their sushi. There seem to be two primary fishing strategies: “splashing” and “snorkeling”.
The “splashers” move back and forth watching the salmon through the water (they look a little cat-like as they track the fish). Then they charge forward with a tremendous burst of energy and speed splashing water as if a pickup truck had been dropped into the stream. They chase the fish for up to 20 or 30 feet then sort of pounce. Most of the time they come up wet, but sans fish. In this splash-fishing mode you can see how strong and agile these animals are. They move quickly and effortlessly through water that’s sometimes shoulder deep.
The “snorkelers” dunk their faces and watch the fish underwater. They walk resolutely forward sometimes weaving as they appear to track a certain fish. When the moment is right, they lurch forward and bob their heads. We guess they’re hoping to trap a fish with their foot. Again, most of the time they come up wet and empty.
When the bears catch fish, they move quickly to the shore or very shallow water. They are gourmets and only eat the filets, which they artfully and quickly strip from the body. They leave the head and tail for the cubs or the gulls and magpies. As the bears are eating, the birds are close at hand, sneaking in to grab a tidbit whenever they can and then screaming over the carcass when the bear leaves.
Keller relates that most of these bears are regulars and that the guides have given some of them names. I suggest that the guides are missing a great income opportunity--they should offer to let any of the guests name a bear for $50. Who would ever know the same bear had a dozen or so aliases? The bear that spawns this discussion is a boar that the guides have named “Special Ed” (some Alaskans are not wholly politically correct) because of his inept fishing performance. In fact, Keller says he’s never seen Special Ed catch a fish. Ed approaches from down stream, and we watch him wend his way fruitlessly towards us. Several times en route, he stops in the shallow water, splashes with great vigor, and comes up empty. When he gets to us, he climbs over the fish ladder and into the deep water under the falls. Keller says that this area is filled with “Jack” salmon, somehow genetically deficient, and small enough to get through the weir. He also says that fishing in this deep water is very difficult because the salmon have so much room to maneuver. Ed is behind a rock and out of view for a while. Then we see him sitting in the deep water, only his head showing, chomping away at a salmon he’s caught as if he’s eating an ice cream cone. “Way to go, Ed!”
The yearlings fish, but mostly they keep a sharp eye on mom. When a sow catches a fish, the yearlings dash in to share it. Sometimes the sow shares openly, sometimes not. In one case, the sow roars her disapproval as if to say, “GET YOUR OWN FISH!” and aggressively chases the cub away.
We see only one of the yearlings catch a fish. He/she is the most entertaining of the bears—the class cutup. It spends much of its time on the platform above the weir, looking down at the salmon gathered on either side, but always distracted by something…a butterfly or a magpie or a leaf. At one point it approaches the other two yearlings, who are siblings, and they begin teasing each other. When the teasing gets out of hand, the two sows get involved, and there’s a tense moment while they growl protectively at each other. Cut-up bear finally decides it’s time to fish and backs down over the weir. Moments later it appears with a fish in its mouth—triumphant.
Near the end, a second boar works his way up to the stream. When he gets to our area, he wades resolutely to the weir, dips his head and surfaces with a fish in his mouth…the fisher king. I immediately dub him “Bwana” and hand my $50 to Keller.
Since we’re behind schedule, the flight back includes less “flight-seeing”, but is still spectacular. We see Sitka Black-Tailed Deer, more mountain goats, and endless idyllic scenery. We land in a state of sustained euphoria, head to the posh Comfort Inn, and collapse.
