The water was quiet now, empty; there were no waves lapping, no breeze.  I gazed up into the inlet in the fading light, drawn by the deathly still water, almost liquid silver.  Part of me always needed to know what’s beyond every bend.  I wanted to get into the boat and head out that way, darkness be damned.  What was up there?  I’d never know - we weren’t going that way.  Sometimes it’s better not to run down every hole; leave a few un-explored, let the pictures remain haunting and mysterious.

I rejoined the others and took care of a chore that was long overdue – we renamed the five Steve’s.  Each was assigned a nickname that stuck.  Actually, we renamed only four.  Steve ‘The Guide’ got to keep his name.

Next morning, I drew a different Steve (aka ‘Ice Pick’), who wanted the front.  The group would be crossing the bay and heading northeast toward McBride Glacier, where we’d be spending the night.  Crossing was a long haul into the wind, where every break resulted in a long drift backward.  I could see that Steve was having difficulty with his paddle, and I suggested he ‘feather’ it.  A feathered paddle has the blades offset from each other, and most paddles are adjustable to accommodate it.  To use a feathered paddle requires a twist of the wrist, an easy transition that requires no skill.  It allows the exposed blade to slice the air and be less of an issue in stiff winds.

After crossing over, the boat slid into the lee of high ridges, cutting off the wind.  A mid day climb up onto one of the sunny ridges was a welcome relief – a chance to get out and stretch.  We followed a stream up through alpine meadows filled with Alaska Cotton Grass, Forget-me-nots and other less familiar vegetation.  It was a breathtaking experience, with stunning views of the empty bay, ‘Baldies’ gliding below us, and mountain goats perched on impossible ledges; and yet it was the isolation more than anything else, that got to me.  Today, over four hundred thousand tourists visit Glacier Bay each year, in cruise ships, charters, or individual excursions. I don’t know the number of visitors in 1989 but we saw no one – ever, no ships or planes or fellow kayakers. (6)

Back in the boats, and continuing north, there was a field of icebergs to navigate, and after rounding a headland, we could see and hear McBride Glacier across a long mud spit.  McBride sits at the end of its own small cove, entered after a stiff paddle through a narrow channel.  We were forced to dodge icebergs and push through some icy mush - the castoffs from McBride.  Our boats were pulled out on a sheltered beach above the tide line; while we camped on a small rocky hill that projected into the sound.  Memories of that night at McBride haunt me still.  It was hard to sleep with the noise from the Glacier; my wild dreams, a reminder that nature doesn’t have an ‘off switch’.