climbing up through the alders, tall grasses, and spruce trees, making our way past mossy hills and smelling the fresh salty air that always made me smile. Ah, this was nature at its best! Not to be duplicated in any room spray, candle, or potpourri, that’s for sure. I inhaled a deep long breath and let it out slowly.
We continued to climb for about half an hour. Close to the top, we stepped out onto a grassy ledge and gazed at the breathtaking scenery. The entire view was a picture-perfect painting of sparkling blue water, clear blue sky and varied shades of green mountains that seem sculpted like Japanese topiary trees. The closest one appeared to be in the shape of a large whale, aptly named Whale Island.
There were fourteen main islands and a few small stubs that make up the Kodiak Archipelago, formed millions of years ago by volcanoes and glacial erosions. Gradually, vegetation took over; animals arrived by crossing the ancient land bridge from other continents or brought ashore by ancient settlers or Russian hunters and missionaries who began arriving in the late 1700s. Trees were nonexistent on southern parts of the islands. The north side of Kodiak and Afognak Island were covered with Sitka spruce, cottonwoods and dense thickets of willow, alder, and elderberry.
We stood at the edge of the cliff gazing at the sheer beauty of the uninhabited wilderness and vast expanse of blue ocean, drinking in a sight made for memories—one of those that you gaze at for a long time, taking in as much as you can, so you never forget the beauty of the moment. I soaked in the vibrant colors, the tangy smells and the wonders of nature and heartily agreed with John Muir and the early naturalists, who proclaimed that nature filled one’s spirit and cleansed the soul.
The three of us silently scanned the azure horizon of ocean-meets-sky, enjoying the beauty, when George’s neck suddenly jerked forward and one hand shot to his forehead to shade the sun. He peered intensely at a dot of orange and white—a boat drifting out towards the channel. A boat that looked a lot like the one we’d just come out of.
George whipped around to Matt. “Hey, isn’t that your boat drifting out there? Out there, to the left of that outcropping.” He pointed his arm straight out at the small colorful dot moving farther away inch by inch.
“Nah, it can’t be my boat, it’s anchored over there somewhere,” said Matt with a careless flick of his hand. We followed the flick to the east where the sandy beach lay and the boat used to be. We turned our heads at the same time back towards the boat, which we could just barely see as it drifted farther and farther out to sea. Judging by the direction it was heading, figuring in the tides and wind current, the boat should reach Russia in about two days.
“George! We gotta get down there now!” yelled Matt. “That’s my boat headed out there! Run, George!” The three of us scrambled back down the hillside, dodging trees, leaping logs and stumps, and running as fast as we could down, down, down to the shore. The faster we ran, the more we stumbled, fell, and got back up and ran again. Branches, bushes, and thorns tore at our clothes and painfully scratched bare skin, until finally we reached the shore.
Standing together, with our hands up to our brows and heaving great gulps of air back into our lungs, we watched anxiously as the boat, dragging the line and with the branch still attached, rode the outgoing tide, slowly but surely, in the direction of Russia.
“Go, George, go! Get out there now! Swim out to the boat, quick, before it gets out of the channel!” Matt flapped his arms up and down and stomped back and forth in anxious fits. We both turned to Matt, blinked our eyes a couple of times, trying to decide if he was serious. Apparently, he was. He kept shouting and pointing and finally pushed George on the shoulder. “Go get the boat, go get the boat, George!”
Now, despite being an expert swimmer back in high school, neither George nor anybody in his right mind would swim out there to catch that boat. The boat was now at least two hundred yards from the beach. And this was Kodiak. By the time a person swam half that distance without protective suit and gear, he would be hypothermic from the frigid thirty-four-degree water and then die, sink to the bottom, and become crab food.
“No way, Matt, I’m not doing that. You go for it, if you think you can make it. I’ll watch from here,” said George.
“Me? Are you crazy? I can’t even swim, let alone get that far!” Matt stammered and stomped his feet while George and I exchanged a look of raised eyebrows.
The fact that he couldn’t swim was a big surprise. He claimed to be the big fishing king of Kodiak, said he wrestled bears with his bare hands, caught more fish than anyone on earth, and swum with the whales since he was a kid. So he claimed. Jeez. Great. Just spiffy. Lesson number 985: when people brag so much that they can do stuff, you can pretty well figure that they can’t do it at all.
George and I turned around and started back up towards the edge of the woods. We stopped at a large pale log, worn clean and smooth from years of weathering saltwater tides and harsh winter storms. We sat down, opened our backpacks and took out sandwiches and water. Matt finally noticed we weren’t still standing next him and trudged back up the sandy beach and stopped in front of us.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
George looked up as he chewed, swallowed, then answered. “Eatin’ lunch.”
Several seconds passed before Matt brought himself to ask. “Got anything for me?”
“Where’s your pack, Matt?”
“On the boat. I guess I forgot it.” Matt sighed.
“Bummer.”
We continued chewing our thick slices of whole wheat bread stuffed with ham and pepper jack cheese, my favorite. Matt’s head twitched from George to me and back to George trying to figure out which of us would be the generous one, who would be the easiest to talk out of a sandwich. We leisurely finished eating and stuffed the wrappers back in the packs.
Matt’s hangdog face was getting pathetic but George stalled a bit longer, enjoying the moment. He fiddled with his boot cuffs, then smoothed out his shirtsleeves, then repositioned his ball cap. Finally, he fumbled around inside his pack and pulled out another sandwich.
“Here.” George held out the sandwich to Matt. “You won’t be any good to us if you starve to death out here. Eat it and let’s get going.”
Matt grabbed the sandwich, tore off the plastic wrap, and took two large bites. “Going where?” Matt garbled from one side of his mouth, most of the sandwich still in his cheek.
“Well, I don’t know about you, Matt, but I’m planning on making camp.” George stood up and hoisted the pack onto his shoulders.
“Making camp? Why are you doing that? The boat will come back; all we have to do is wait for the next tide.”
“OK, you wait for the next tide, we’re gonna make camp. It’s getting cold and the sun will be gone in about two hours.” It was Matt’s turn to blink his eyes, caught between his usual cockiness about everything being just peachy, and wondering if it really was.
George quickly scanned the area, and then moved toward a clump of trees. The roots of a huge fallen tree stuck out over the sand. “This’ll do. Gather some of those big branches over there and start stacking them up next to this stump.”
I reached around to the pack stuck to my back, pulled out a pair of gloves from the side pouch, and slipped them on. I walked into the woods, grabbed two long spruce branches off the ground—conveniently discarded by the friendly giant trees—and dragged them over to the stump.
George
