The Inside Passage extends along the Alaskan panhandle for about 900 miles north of Vancouver, British Columbia. A labyrinth of jagged coastlines, fjords, islands, sounds, glaciers, protected bays and straits that were once home to the native Tlingit and Haida. As per local mythology, it is the Haida inhabitants, of what is now Queen Charlotte Islands, who were taught how to build a canoe by the Raven. Their northwestern neighbors, the Eskimos and Aleuts, probably influenced the use of a kayak in the southeast. The kayak is an amazing human invention, or possibly a supernatural creation, like the canoe. It has only evolved in building materials; from the usage of animal skin and bones, to stronger, reliable, available, and humane synthetics. The Eskimos have been known to traverse the entire Arctic Circle, and reach as far down south as California in these extremely nimble and seaworthy skin covered boats. The Passage is brimming with natural opulence. The land is carved by ancient tidal glaciers; reminders of the last ice age, as they mark their paths towards the coastal waters. The areas emancipated by the glaciers have since been carpeted by lush green rain forests. And then there is the ocean; the richest of them all.

We jump-started our experience in the recently formed township of Gustavus. It is the gateway to the Glacier Bay, a World Heritage site. Our itinerary and priorities could not accommodate a visit to the Glacier Bay National Park, but Gustavus was a perfect launch site for our journey.

Gustavus is almost a town. It is a community of less than 400 permanent year round residents; with its origins as a homestead. The transients describe the aggregate of dwellings and its dwellers as a place "where the ordinary are extraordinary". We were picked up from the surprisingly developed airstrip by the only cab company in town, in what was probably the only cab in town. In summer, the airport supports a daily fifteen minute jet hop from Juneau. This was notoriously advertised by the airline steward as the second shortest jet flight in the nation. The rest of the traffic comprises of bush planes and float planes. Since no roads lead to this gateway town, your only other mode of transportation is by water, along the Alaskan Marine Highway.

Our lodge was rumored to be built by the owner herself, a peppered hair alumnus from Berkeley. The interior was comparable to a well-equipped urban studio apartment. A room with a view, placed amongst grassy fields speckled with native wild flowers, Indian Paintbrush and Fireweed; stretching towards sand banks and the bay on one side, and a majestically parading snow capped mountain range on the other. The high peaks keeping their snow, even during the warmer summer when the temperature ranges from 50°F to 60°F or higher at sea level.

The quaint little town is literally at the crossroads of change. It is a scattering of dwellings and establishments around the crossroads, with its only gas station at the junction. Change is visible in the form of another building under construction at the junction; expected to house three small stores. This must be to promote fair trade, because the only existing store in town is a grocery store and deli, west of the junction, on the way to the dock. We walked east from the junction in search of dinner at the only bed-and-breakfast cafe open in town, on a Sunday.

Unfortunately, we had missed the daily reservation deadline at an inn famous for it's family style local cuisine, cooked by the chef and inn keeper whose culinary skills are mentioned in the book '1000 Places To Go Before You Die'; under the worthier listing for Glacier Bay / Inside Passage. Dinner at the bed-and-breakfast was the freshest Alaskan salmon you can get on land. Coincidentally we were prearranged to move to this lodging for our second night's stay, as our room with a view had been accidentally overbooked. The hostess at the bed-and-breakfast proved to be psychic in recognizing us at the dinner table. This wasn't the last of the psychic predictions made by the ladies of this town.

It rained that summer evening, as is typical for a rain forest region. We spent the evening in our cozy room, browsing through the library stacked with books on the region. Appropriately for the weather, the rest of the library was completed with mystery novels donated by our hostess' sister from Seattle. I caught a glimpse of the land's natural and social history. This was the pictorial history of the natives; and the Russians, who by all means possible coaxed the natives to hunt some of the land's natural gems close to extinction; to the Alaskan land sale; followed by the Klondike gold rush. I traveled back in time through the pictures on maritime history, and it's fight with natural forces on the high seas. I read about marine biologists tracking Orca for the last few decades, and recognizing them by their fins and saddle pad markings. These magnificent marine mammals too could be differentiated as transients or residents, akin to their mammalian human counterparts of the region.

The next day was Independence Day, and our hostess predicted that the sun would break through the clouds, as it did every year to save the town parade. It did by parade time. What other option did the sun have in a town "where the ordinary are extraordinary". The epicenter of the parade was the bridge over Salmon River, and the park besides it. Almost every transient or resident, and visitor in Gustavus was here to cheer on the Hootchie-Cootchie band leading the town's fire engine with blaring sirens, followed by boisterously noisier kids and teenagers in honking jalopies. The parade culminated with a flyby salute by local pilots. A hot dog and burger lunch, games, a crab and halibut dinner, and finally an auction of donations by local artisans, writers and establishments followed this. It was during lunch that we were spotted and recognized again. This time by one of the owners of the excursion outfitters we were using for the next three days. We'd only exchanged emails and had phone conversations before. The world just gets smaller in this nascent town. In between these activities, we saddled up and peddled down in every direction the crossroads took us. By the time we got back for dinner, we had explored the town's beaches, dock, and what was it's waterfront nine hole golf course with overgrown weeds, wild strawberries for the picking, and an abandoned and rusty Chevy truck. This real estate was purchased a few years back, with plans for grandeur. But Mother Nature had other plans. The waterfront has since been receding along with the neighboring glaciers, leaving the golf course higher and drier. We returned for dinner, and then had to leave the festivities to get back to our lodging and keep an orientation appointment with our excursion guide, Spiritwalker Jon; and pack our dry bags for the ensuing expedition.

The day started early with a hearty breakfast, when Jon, an English teacher from Oregon and a summer transient in Gustavus, arrived with the van. All excited and packed, we were on our way to the docks. A few fishing boats were coming in with the early morning catch. The skies were cloudy, and the water was calm. Greeting us at the dock post was a magnificent bald eagle, perched on its throne, regally surveying the shallow waters for an edible opportunity. Jostling up and down the steel ramp with some industrious and some agitated fishermen, we formed a human chain and loaded our gear and kayaks onto our charter boat. Our boat captain was a friendly local charter fisherman, helped by his daughter, and a friendly little mutt in tow. With our rain gear on, we skimmed and bobbed over the seven nautical miles across the Icy Strait to Chichagof Island.

Chichagof Island has a unique coastline. It meanders in and out, creating a seemingly endless stretch of coves, beaches, inlets, bays, and peninsulas. This gives the island a coastline longer than all the Hawaiian Islands put together. Our premeditated destination was Eagles Beach, between Point Adolphus and Mud Bay. But the site was already occupied. Such popularity was a rarity. We simply chose the next beach over. The captain cut off the engines; carefully and deftly steering the boat ashore with the tide. Gently grounding the starboard side, we jumped overboard into the ankle deep icy water, but comfortably protected by our rubber boots. Using our well rehearsed human chain, our gear was quickly unloaded before the boat returned.

The strategy for our wilderness habitat was to follow a delta floor plan. Tent sites were at one point of a triangle, just behind the tree line; food storage straight across from the tents, on a potentially bear safe tree limb, more than ten feet above the ground; and a temporary kitchen at the triangle's apex, on an inter-tidal beach spot. The prime objective of this strategy was to avoid the habituation of the local grizzlies to humans as food providers. The unspoken cardinal rule was to avoid leaving human imprints on this pristine spot.

The spellbinding surroundings immediately welcomed you home. The spruce canopy was our roof, and the rocky and steep hillside our back wall. The spruce trunks were our doors, opening out onto a grassy doormat, with the pebbled beach as our yard with an outdoor kitchen. Just looking out onto the waters of the Icy Strait made one forget all connections to the civilized world. As far as the eye could see, we were in a water world, where the ocean, sky and land were all painted a similar shade that dissolved into each other at the horizon - like siblings embracing theirs mother's legs in a familial huddle. The ocean was a calm mercurial sheet, reflecting the ice-capped slopes and the cloudy gray sky. There was water everywhere, in one of its amazing forms or the other. This was Mother Nature's playground, and we felt privileged to be here, and overwhelmed by her affluence. The water, though calm, was teeming with life. The low tide divulged signs of a kelp forest under its surface. There were salmon playfully jumping in all directions around us. Sea lions bobbed their heads, curious and on the lookout for the sprightful fish. The orchestrated activity was joined in by the bald eagles, leaving their high tree top perch on frequent sorties and dives in search of food. Their mission was not complete until they successfully carried their catch back to their nesting and hungry eaglets; for they had to ward off attacks from other scavenging eagles and ravens. In avian contradiction, murrelets bobbed on the placid waters, pecking its surface for smaller prey like herring and krill. The currents from the open seas, weave their way between the islets, and churn the nutrient rich marine waters. This lures the humpback whales here to feed all summer. "Whoosh!" The jettison sound perked our ears, as our eyes scanned the waters. A few hundred yards away, a whale pod arched through the water, periodically surfacing and spouting plumes into the air at about three hundred miles per hour. White bottomed flukes and pectorals emerged and slammed the surface, followed by thunderous claps. The sensory indulgence was naturally aspirating to the mind and soul. The solitude was only broken by the odd fishing vessel, private yacht, magnetized tourist boat, or one of a couple of luxury behemoths allowed to navigate parts of the bay everyday.

We packed lunch, and paddled south towards Point Adolphus, cutting through the timid shore currents and calm wind with ease. With whales on our port side, we were finally satisfying our aspirations. It was tough resisting the urge to break the rules, and get closer than the stipulated hundred yards from these amazing mammals. The curious sea lions, not bothering to keep their distance, bobbed their heads and barked, and at times seemed to mimic the spouting and arching humpbacks. After lunch and a respite at Point Adolphus, we paddled back to camp, with the whales and sea lions for company. We had dinner watching the nature channel, live, as a nonchalant scraggly mink walked across the beach, scouting for tidal food in between the rocks. After dinner, we absorbed the tunes of the humpback orchestra, as their foghorns and splashes cut through the silence, like a marching percussion and trumpet band. The sun set over the horizon and beyond the Fairweather range, but the strait was still abuzz in the prolonged hours of summer twilight. We were sipping our wine, swatting away Noseeums, and giving up on preventing Beach Hopper protein from diving into our cups, when it started drizzling. As soon as we managed to get into our tents and sleeping bags, it started pouring. The operatic performance reached a crescendo that night, with the rain drumming on our tents as drops plummeted from the canopy, intermingled with the sixteen foot tide almost lapping at our feet, and the resounding humpback bass above and beyond them all.

The storm had passed over by breakfast time, leaving behind a totally different vista. The entire land was basking in an invigorating splash of sunshine, and the playground was abuzz with renewed energy. We decided to warm up with a short hike. Jon led us up the rocks and into the forest on what turned out to be a bear trail starting right behind our tent. This revelation added more substance to our anxiety levels the previous night, when each one of us had our ears perked like guard dogs, before the rhythm of the night coaxed us into a deep slumber. We ducked under broken branches that indicated the grizzly's stature, tracing its route; and dodged the animal's scat and prey bones, since cleansed dry. We continued on, suppressing the thorny Devil's Club leaves in our path, with our elbows. A few eagle feathers lay strewn on the rain forest floor, shed from the elevated roof nests. The trail led along a cliff that gave us an eagle eye view of the ocean and beach below. We descended, watching our step, down to the beach and walked back to base camp. It was time to pack lunch and paddle further south beyond Point Adolphus, towards Pinta Point. The tide was low and we had to skim our paddles over the kelp. The marine playground activities were at their peak, and were joined by sea otters, feeding and basking in the sunshine. We seemed to follow the whale pod everywhere. It was on the way back that we had our closest visual contact with these amazing and gentle leviathans. These gigantic mammals, averaging more than fifty tons and an equivalent number of feet in length, travel through the waters at unexpected speeds. They seemed to have avoided the tourist boats in the distance, and appeared about a whale's length from starboard. We stopped paddling and sat there in the water, transfixed by the sight. To see such a being lift itself out of the water and breach was spectacular and bewildering. The crashing of the flukes and pectorals, their lateral twists, the sight of their dorsals as they arched up and down through the water, the grace, the agility; it was music in motion. We were spiritually touched. Our eyes followed them as they distanced themselves, leaving us humbled.

Back at camp, we had acquired neighbors at the far southern end of the beach, who were paddling from Pelican to Hoonah, en route for the last two weeks. Our social exchanges included a freshly caught halibut for some wine and brownies. After skinning the fish and washing it in the nearby stream, Jon whipped up a hearty meal. Dinner was accompanied by an encore performance by our marine neighbors, amidst a spectacular sunset over the golden blue horizon. We woke up to a breezy morning, watching our neighbors fight the tide and head wind as they paddled south. We decided to brave the elements too, and then realized that it was quite an exertion. It took us a couple of hours to paddle a short distance, and less than half the time for the return. Having the tide and wind behind us, we explored the coast northwards towards Mud Bay. This was our last experience with the humpbacks of Point Adolphus and the Icy Strait, before we broke camp and headed back to the corporeal mainland.

The sun, rain and the wind made our stay memorable, but it was the humpbacks that left an eternal imprint when they touched our spirits.