A challenging tour of Alaska’s Inside Passage
FERRY TALE: Some stops favour insomniacs, but it’s an adventure along the final frontier’s marine highway
At the Bellingham terminal, a crew member ushered me toward the elevator on the lower car deck of the MV Columbia. Because I was roughing it, though, I chose the more challenging route instead.
Slowly, I ascended eight flights of stairs, my camping gear shifting on my back like an unhinged tortoise shell. At the top, beneath burnished silver clouds, I scanned the deck for an open campsite. Tents occupied both corners. I eyed an available patch in the centre, against a railing with unbridled vistas of the Washington state port. I claimed my land in true Alaska state ferry fashion, slapping a piece of duct tape on the steel deck.
The ferry system is the first frontier for travellers wishing to explore the last frontier in the maritime version of the public bus. Established in 1963, the year-round commuter service is a workhorse, transporting Alaskans along the 5,600-kilometre Alaska Marine Highway.
And yet, during warmer months, the system is also a recreational pony and an alternative to the traditional cruise as its 11 ships deliver adventure-seeking tourists to more than 30 points along the Alaska seaboard.
The six main line ships offer multiberth staterooms, but four walls and a private bath are overrated. Cruisers who either short on funds or long on excitement can rest their sleepy heads on any available surface: cafeteria bench, plastic poolside chair, movie-theatre seat or carpeted floor space. They can also pitch a tent on an open-air deck.
In late August, I joined the ferry camping community on the 600-passenger flag ship. The ship would shimmy through the narrow channels of the Inside Passage, sailing from Bellingham to Haines and back.
For my week on board, I packed as though I were camping in the unforgiving outdoors — sleeping bag, a tent, an air pad, a headlamp and a fleece blanket. But I also made a few adaptations based on the unusual environment: rain boots instead of hiking boots, a giant roll of industrial-strength duct tape instead of tent pegs. Plus a pair of scissors. I didn’t need to ruin four years of orthodontics by ripping tape with my teeth.
I set off to roam the ship. The Columbia departed at 6 p.m., which meant I had less than two hours before my land legs would start to wobble. I was inclined to run — the vessel is just over 125 metres long — but Mother Hen was watching.
“No running allowed,” the purser repeatedly announced over the intercom.
After several loops around the boat, I felt confident enough to toss my map. Not long after, I was faced with my first challenge.
“On the starboard side, you will see a humpback whale,” a crew member stated over the intercom.
I headed straight for the right side of the ship, walked toward the exit near the vending machines and pushed open the doors to Alaska.
For onshore sightseeing, the ferry occasionally followed an insomniac’s clock. The Columbia docked at all hours. We pulled into Juneau, for example, at 4:45 a.m. (northbound) and 12:45 a.m. (southward).
The longest layovers at the most convenient times occurred in Ketchikan (three hours, 7 a.m. and 2:15 p.m.), Sitka (three hours, 12:45 p.m.) and Haines (11:15 a.m. to 8 p.m.). At all but two of the ports, the ferries tied up several miles from downtown, so I had to factor cab/bus/fast-walking travel time into my schedule.
In Sitka, a school bus shuttles visitors into town, 10 kilometres south, for $10.
Ketchikan’s commercial area is fairly close to the ferry terminal. From the deck, I could see the squat skyline of the dynamic centre, plus the white wall of cruise ships. On my first visit to the so-called Salmon Capital of the World, I squeezed into the pickup truck of Eric, a genial kitchen staff member, and his wife, Susan who took me on a driving tour of their hometown.
We started at Cape Fox Lodge, a hilltop hotel set in the Tongass National Forest that displays Native American artworks. A funicular carries guests to the boardwalk of Creek Street, the former red-light district that’s now a rainbow-coloured strip of art galleries. On our way to the Saxman Native Village, we passed two bald eagles perched patriotically on high evergreen branches.
Back on ship, my bright orange tent braved heavy rains, strong winds and flocks of seagulls. As for me — well, I was a bit more fragile. On the first two nights, the weather traded off between clear skies and showers.
I’d avoided leaks, but puddles started to form through the bottom lining. Hours before dawn on the second night, I sleepily dragged my luggage to a sun chair so that it could dry under the heat lamps.