Sunday 8/26
This morning we go to the Haines Info Center. Among other things, we check into information on taking a boat to Skagway. The cost of the ferry is reasonable, but the timing doesn’t work for us. That’s a shame. Since the cities are on neighboring fjords, the boat trip is only 18 miles…but the trip by road will add 150 miles to our journey.
We also learn where to see the bears. The destination is a short section of the Chilkoot River that connects the lake of the same name with the bay. Salmon are packed into this mile or so of river as they head upstream to spawn. This is the prime fishing spot for not only bears, but also people, so there are frequent conflicts of interest. As you would imagine, the bears prevail in most of these encounters. In fact, the Info-hostess warns us that her brother was forced to end his angling yesterday because the bears were so active. Sounds like the PERFECT place for us.
11 miles outside of town we come to the designated area. There’s a bridge over the river where it flows into the bay, and a number of people are standing on it watching something on the bayside. We park CJ, I head to the middle of the bridge--Nancy positions herself at the end where we are parked. I look downstream and spot a lone Grizzly boar working upstream along the bank. A brief aside: In most of coastal Alaska, Brown Bears are called “Brown Bears”. In the interior, essentially the same bears are called “Grizzlies”. Haines is an exception. Here, even though it’s coastal, they call them “Grizzlies”.
As the bear gets closer to the bridge, I am frantically signaling Nancy to join me and several other tourists at the center of the bridge. The route the bear is following could take him under the bridge, which would be no problem, but he could also go over the bridge, and that would put Nancy right in his path. The bear chooses the low road, and as he passes under the bridge, he’s only 10’ or so beneath us.
We can see that the bear is very noticeably limping. He’s essentially walking on three legs, avoiding any pressure on his right hind leg. In the Kodiak-tradition of naming bears, we decide to call this one Chester. For a few moments Chester disappears under the bridge, then reappears, and we watch his backside as he works up the river. Maybe because of his wounded foot, he’s more of a scavenger than fisherman. He searches along the shoreline or on the upstream side of rocks for dead fish or fish parts. This works pretty well for him, and he stops frequently to gnaw on his discoveries.
We jump in the Jeep and head upstream so that we can follow his progress. It’s an interesting scene. There are probably 20 or 30 bear-watchers standing on the bank within a hundred feet of Chester. Cameras are clicking and whirring. Old Chester has a bigger entourage of paparazzi than Britney Spears. In and along the stream are a couple dozen salmon fisher-people. As Chester nears them, they retreat and cede the fishing grounds—smart choice—particularly since the bear is wounded and potentially more unpredictable.
We watch and photograph Chester until he reaches a salmon weir that crosses the river about a half-mile from the bridge. I’m standing on the bank piling up megapixels, when a guy tugs on my arm and suggests I change locations. He’s one of the state “salmon counters” that works at this weir—he’s returning from his lunch break. The weir redirects the salmon through a narrow channel. There’s a little house over the channel, and the “salmon counters” sit in this house and count the salmon as they swim upstream. I nickname this guy Prince Waterhouse. He’s got one of the world’s unique jobs. Prince says that they’ve figured out that this is the only reliable way to count salmon. “Why count them at all”, I ask? Prince explains that the count is critical. The number of salmon going upstream ultimately determines the number of fry that return to the ocean AND the number of returning salmon in 3 years. Once they calculate this probable yield, they set the length of the season and the number of fish that can be taken commercially. Since salmon fishing is a BIG part of the local economy, this counting thing is really important. Spending his time at the weir, Prince is VERY familiar with the habits of the bears. He’s tugged on my arm, because I’m standing in the “exit lane”—a little dirt path between the river and the adjacent forest. Prince suggests that it’s not a good idea to be in this spot. Since part of Prince’s paraphernalia is a high-caliber rifle, I quickly deduce that he knows these bears are not always friendly, so I retreat.
The only bear we see is Chester. Conversations with the rest of the paparazzi are inevitable, and we learn that we’re most likely to see bears in the late afternoon/early evening. “Yesterday afternoon, there were 8 of them here”, says one guy. No wonder the Info-lady’s brother was nervous.
We return to town. By now, the sun is out. We are very happy with this turn of events. Nancy occupies a lawn chair on the small bluff in front of the Admiral, reads, and observes. I head to the library to connect to the internet. I could connect here in the RV park, but they charge by the KB, and I’ve done the calculations: three 3 MB pictures equal one frozen pizza—I have my priorities in order.
When I return, Nancy has a list of birds she’s seen while reading: A Great Blue Heron, Glaucous Gulls, Scoters, and several Bald Eagles. As advertised, Bald Eagles are abundant here. We watch two cruise ships slowly pass through the bay. Thankfully no cruise ships can dock here in Haines. These two boats have apparently been in Skagway and are on their way to their next beachhead.
In the late afternoon we head back to the river. A block or so before the bridge we see a couple of cars pulled of to the side of the road and a small group of people focused on something…could it be a bear? No, not a bear, but a Barred Owl, sitting nonchalantly on a fence rail…posing. “Thank you Mr. Owl!”
At the river, many of this morning’s paparazzi have reassembled for the evening performance, but there’s only one bear—Chester. He’s back near the bridge and again working his way upstream, though now more slowly than this morning. There’s too much competition for viewing space, so I decide to fish—grab my tackle, and head down to the water’s edge. I joyously discover that the salmon in THIS stream actually are feeding. I’m casting my Pixie w—a—y out in the river (Pixies are heavy metal spoons and easy to cast) and quickly retrieving it through the swirling current. On every other cast or so fish are attacking the Pixie. So far I’ve landed none, but my expectations are exploding—then…a tug on my sleeve…another fisherman…pssst, you’d better move up the bank…the bear’s getting close. I’ve been so intent on fishing, I haven’t been paying attention to Chester. He’s now my fishing buddy—about 30’ downstream and working resolutely toward me. I exercise discretion. Nuts! I was moments away from a true denizen of the deep.
We’re waiting for other bears to appear, the paparazzi are milling about, and it’s impossible to avoid the threads of conversation. “There were 8 of ‘em here last night.” “This wounded bear will have to hightail it when the BIG healthy bears get here—otherwise he’ll be somebody’s dinner”. “Nice camera, where’r’u from”. “Wife and I have been to Peoria, nice place.” “We’re from Keokuk”. Then, “Heard there’s a bear up by the lake, let’s go see”. So we sidle over to the CJ and head to the lake.
There are a dozen or so people fishing at the end of the lake where the river flows out toward the bay. They’re not fishing for salmon. Instead they’re fishing for Dolly Varden (a kind of trout). There is a bear nearby who is 100’ or so downstream, sitting or floating with just his head out of the water, munching on a fish. But our view is mostly blocked, and as he works downstream, he fades out of sight. We call this bear, The Preacher, because as he sat with his paws in front of his face eating the fish, he looked as if he were praying.
Dusk is upon us and the rich, warm light of the setting sun suffuses the distant hills. Pink clouds float in the still and silent sky. We head back to the Admiral. We are happy with the world.
