AdventuresNW
The first words from our very first passenger as she stepped aboard my tour boat, the David B in Juneau, Alaska, were, “I don’t know why you would want to do this; the general public is atrocious!”
I laughed nervously, wondering if her remark might prove true. It was early July in the summer of 2006. My husband Jeffrey and I were already on edge, standing on the cusp of something thrilling and uncertain: the beginning of our journey into entrepreneurship and the wilderness of southeast Alaska.
Our word for “nature” comes from the Latin natura meaning “birth” or “the process of being born.”
When we cast off the lines and began our first trip, we embarked not just on a voyage through Alaska’s wilderness but into the heart of something much larger. Now, 20 years later, I look back on that moment with profound gratitude. This landscape—rugged, wild, and humbling—has become an inseparable part of me, offering richness I could never have imagined, and immersing the people we’ve traveled with in the wilderness has made them anything but atrocious.
The vastness of southeast Alaska’s Tongass National Forest, where we operate, is more than “just a rainforest.” Ancient conifers in dark emerald hues and luminous golden-green mosses teem with life. Glacier Bay National Park, where we also explore, is far more than “just a playground.” Its rugged mountain peaks rise and disappear into ocean-heavy clouds, and its land, newly freed from glacial ice, is ecologically and physically rebounding. The water in these places presents itself in surreal shades of turquoise, a vivid reminder of the icefields feeding them.
Water and Connection
In Alaska, especially southeast Alaska, water connects everything. The tidewater glaciers bring minerals and nutrients from immense ice fields, linking the mountain realm to saltwater. Much like a spawning salmon returning to its natal stream, this connection bridges ocean and forest, creating an unparalleled wealth of biomass.
Most days when we are underway, I reflect on water in all its forms—rain, ice, mist—and how it sculpts the landscape. Fog and clouds often transform the surrounding wilderness into something ephemeral and mystical. I’ve come to really love the rain, though it took patience to get there, and while many guests hope for clear skies during their week aboard, the rain reveals the area’s true beauty. It brings waterfalls to life and releases the earthy scents of the forest with notes of watermelon mingled with the deep, humic aroma. That scent, faint yet primal, stirs something deep in me and draws me to the shore and into the forest.
Wood Spit: A Gateway to the Forest
Over the twenty years I’ve spent in Alaska, one of my favorite places has become a small, unassuming point of land at the mouth of Endicott Arm in the Tracy Arm/Fords Terror Wilderness named Wood Spit. Thousands of cruise ship passengers pass it by without a second glance. The large ships glide past Wood Spit on their tightly scheduled route to the glacier. I wonder how often their passengers catch glimpses of humpback whales or see the occasional bear along the shoreline. Do they ever even notice the David B anchored nearby or see us exploring ashore—or if, for them, the wilderness is merely a beautiful but fleeting backdrop on their way to the next port?
Wood Spit isn’t striking at first glance. It’s what’s known as a terminal moraine, a mound of debris left by glaciers during the last ice age. Once, a millennia ago, Dawes Glacier’s towering ice wall loomed here; now, the glacier’s face sits some 27 miles deeper in a fjord of its own making. Where the ice once dominated, Wood Spit blends seamlessly into the old-growth landscape. For me, it is a vital place of connection.
Each time I step out of the skiff and stand at the water’s edge, I am reminded of my relationship with this place. The round rocks and large angular “erratic” rocks left by the glacier are now home to barnacles, snails, limpets, chitons, and others. When I look up at the line of trees, I imagine ancient Dawes in place of the towering spruce and hemlock trees. It’s difficult for me to grasp the long shadow of geologic time, but occasionally an iceberg that has made its way from the face of the modern Dawes Glacier comes to rest on the beach – a silent ghostly reminder of the glacier’s more robust past.
From the water, the forest at Wood Spit looks impenetrable, a low, tangled barrier of devil’s club, salmonberries, and alder that appears to bar anyone seeking to enter. When I bring people here, it’s not for an iconic view of Alaska found on postcards or social media. The forest itself is the destination.
We Enter the Forest
As we approach the forest, I like to take my time. I want to give any unseen animals behind the tangle barrier a chance to observe our presence and avoid us. Here is where the conversation often turns to bears. In my twenty years of coming to this place, I’ve noted that this beach is home to bears, predominantly black bears, and I have occasionally watched wolves, moose, porcupines, and even rough-skinned newts. With this familiarity, I find myself asking permission to enter. It’s a habit born of respect for the interconnected lives that make up this forest – plants, animals, and fungi, all thriving together. Abruptly forcing my way in feels intrusive and impolite.
Over time, I’ve guided lots of people into this forest community, from great-great-grandmothers to young children. Many have never experienced an ancient forest, and I love watching their faces as they step into this world for the first time. I’m warmed to hear that familiar gasp as they recognize the synergistic magic of an old forest.
Beyond the dense edge, the forest opens into a cathedral-like space. Towering Sitka spruce and hemlock stand their ancient watches, their massive trunks spaced respectfully apart. Fallen trees, blanketed in moss, have become nurse logs, nurturing a new generation of seedlings, tiny shade-loving wildflowers, and fungi. These decaying giants are the essence of the circular nature of life and death in the forest. Everywhere, piles of nibbled spruce cones signal the underground networks of red squirrels.
I’ve come to know this bit of forest well. Once inside, it’s hard not to notice the game trail that runs along the inside edge. Trails like this form a crisscross network of what I like to describe as a bear highway system. I’ve walked this trail a hundred or more times, yet it’s always interesting and is always different. Along the way, we discuss everything from bears to banana slugs. I often pause to share my appreciation for how this scene plays out over and over in southeast Alaska. Yes, the forest looks like a uniform landscape from the water’s edge, but behind the tangled edge, it’s different. Some time ago, a bear left its claw marks on a tree; I call this spot The Crossroads. At this intersection, the trail turns deeper into the woods or continues to a clearing a short distance away, filled with ferns, fireweed, and wildflowers.
Sitting in Silence
One of my most cherished practices happens at the crossroads. Here, I ask my guests to stop and sit down. We sit in silence. At first, people fidget and squirm, unsure of what to do with themselves. We all feel awkward, but as the minutes pass, they begin to soften. Some close their eyes, while others lie down or stare at the canopy. Sometimes, people softly touch the moss as if petting a beloved cat or dog. On rainy days, the canopy muffles the raindrops’ descent, creating a sense of being misted. As we sit longer, birds begin to call, squirrels return to their chatter, and on rare occasions, we’ve heard the wingbeats of ravens and bald eagles cutting through the stillness.
I started this practice years ago during a time when I felt disconnected from nature. Sitting in silence, surrounded by the forest, helped me find my place within it. It’s a deeply grounding experience, a reminder that we are not separate from nature but part of it.
Our word for “nature” comes from the Latin natura, meaning “birth” or “the process of being born.” Sitting beneath the trees on this mossy carpet, free from push notifications and leaf blowers, I feel as though I am being born back into nature.
Visiting Glaciers
Glaciers hold a particular fascination for me. They are among nature’s most powerful forces, shaping the landscape in dramatic, nearly incomprehensible ways. Their true power lies hidden, veiled by the vast time scales in which they work. Standing before these spellbinding blue walls induces a kind of humility that only nature can provide. Glaciers command respect.
Tidewater glaciers calve ice from their towering faces in breathtaking displays. Some of the glaciers we visit rise 200 to 300 feet high from the waterline, with more below the water. When they calve, the ice might crumble like a collapsing wall, or immense pillars of it might sheer off, thundering into the water below. The sound is not only heard but is felt like a blast that reverberates through your entire being. The waves born of these calvings roll outward, coming high and sharp, then smoothing into long, low swells that bounce between the steep fjord walls. We go to these glaciers to witness them, to be awed by the immense power they hold.
A few years ago—though I can’t recall exactly when or whose story this was—we were on our way to one of the many tidewater glaciers we visit. A passenger recounted a visit to another glacier on a different boat. She told me how the captain had stopped at the glacier’s face, blasted the ship’s horn, and encouraged everyone aboard to shout obscenities at the ice in hopes of triggering calving. Unimaginably disrespectful.
The relationship I’ve developed with these glaciers couldn’t be more different. Visiting them is an act of care and reverence. There’s a delicate skill in navigating the labyrinth of floating ice and in holding the boat steady amidst swirling currents laden with icebergs. I’ve come to know the glaciers and their distinct “personalities.” Some display vibrant blue ice, while others are lighter and layered with rubble. Some calve often, others rarely. Some feel approachable, while others possess an undercurrent of danger.
I approach each glacier with respect, much like when I enter the forest; I often ask permission to visit. They are ancient forces of nature, deserving of awe and reverence.
Reflections After 20 Years
Reflecting on my time in Alaska and what it taught me, I find it nearly impossible to pinpoint one place or experience that encapsulates it all. Instead, it’s an accumulation of places and moments that have shaped not only how I present myself to nature but also what I seek from it in return. Heart-stopping beauty—calving glaciers, bubble-net feeding humpback whales, courting brown bears, and auroras dancing across the sky fill Southeast Alaska. Still, places like Wood Spit, with its quiet forest trails and unassuming beauty, hold the deepest meaning for me.
That first guest aboard the David B asked, “Why would you do this? The general public is atrocious.” Twenty years later, I have my answer. People aren’t inherently atrocious—they are simply deprived of nature. Something as simple as watching a glacier or sitting still in a forest, letting the quiet beauty of the natural world seep into the soul, can heal that deprivation.
Through guiding I’ve come to understand the profound importance of connection. Connections to nature, to each other, and to ourselves, and for that, I am endlessly grateful.
Following John Muir
By Jeffrey Smith
In the unimaginable time before the internet, going into the wilderness meant researching using books and magazines. It meant pouring over topo sheets and nautical charts. If you were lucky, there might be photos and stories from others to inspire you. If you were really lucky, there might be beautiful prose describing the place you wanted to explore, such as the wonderful romantic writings of John Muir, the grandfather of travel and adventure writing about the wilderness.
Library, University of California, Berkeley.
Where the government publication blandly but factually states, “Dawes Glacier, at the head of the arm, extends to the water’s edge,” Muir enthusiastically penned, “It shows grandly from where it broke on our sight, sweeping boldly forward and downward in its majestic channel, swaying from side to side in graceful lines around stern unflinching rock.” It pulls at your emotions. Muir was inspired by these places, and his words inspired those who read his descriptions. The outdoor world was something to be experienced and valued, an idea contrary to the mentality of his day. Others explored those places he wrote about, and they began to care for them. His writings formed the beginning of the conservation movement, but they are also the original travel guide.
I’ve spent the last 20 summers following Muir as he explored by native canoe. He visited Alaska seven times, documenting what he found in the romantic language of his day, inspiring others to seek out the same beauty and solitude for themselves. I take people to those same places on the tour boat I run, and to give them context for what we’re seeing, I read aloud to them from his Travels in Alaska, published in 1915. We drift quietly through Fords Terror, sometimes the only boat for miles, as I read his description:
“Gliding on and on, the scenery seemed at every turn to become more lavishly fruitful in forms as well as more sublime in dimensions—snowy falls booming in splendid dress; colossal domes and battlements and sculptured arches of a fine neutral-gray tint, their bases laved by blue fjord water; green ferny dells; bits of flower-bloom on ledges; fringes of willow and birch; and glaciers above all.”
It’s very emotional stuff, hard to resist. You must go there, and his eloquent words can be your guide.
Christine Smith is the owner/operator of Northwest Navigation/David B Cruises, expressing her love for adventure and nature by guiding others on unforgettable journeys in Alaska. An author and dedicated naturalist, she lives in Bellingham with her husband, Jeffrey, and three cats.
