Our
mission was closer to geocaching than scientific data collection. Each of the
research plots completed over the last two summers has a pair of digital
loggers that record air and soil temperature. We simply have to paddle our
kayaks to the closest access point, hike into the forest and follow our GPS
units to the survey site, scrutinize the trees to see which one has the climate
sensor tacked to it, and grab the sensor before paddling back. The sites are
temporally stratified to represent various lengths of time that have passed
since the cedars began to die off. A forest that died in 1895 is considered
old, and the layers go up through healthy forests that exist in Glacier Bay National
Park. A cluster of these sites lies six miles southeast of camp at the very
bottom of Slocum Arm, a mile-wide glacially carved inlet separated from the
Pacific Ocean by the jagged Khaz Penninsula.
A
fishing boat was wrecked right across from this campsite 11 months ago, a
seiner, which stretches a long net across the width of the channel and then
closes it like a purse around masses of fish. A young captain at the helm, the
ballast tanks in the hull of the Evening Star were only partly full of water
when she cinched up a full load of fish. The outlying weight caused the water
in the tanks to slosh violently, and the failure to top off the tanks became a
crucial mistake. "You would think that would be the first thing they would
tell them, to keep those tanks full," says Charlie, our intrepid water
taxi conductor, who at around age 70 has survived a variety of capsizings,
accidental firearms discharges, and an epic trainwreck on the Skagway to
Whitehorse line. "With how many boats have gone down that way." The
Evening Star sunk down onto a shelf with the bow under ten feet of water and
the stern below 90. Then she slid off the shelf while the sein net clung there,
leaving the vessel tethered and swaying in the current. I never heard what
happened to the wreck after that. The whole crew of six was taken off safely.
Rumor said that the cash payroll for the crew went down with the ship.
Our
2012 research crew missed witnessing the incident
by mere hours. We had paddled down to the base of the arm to collect data at
the six sites. Which is exactly what we had to do now, one year later. The
original plan called for breaking up camp on the morning of the July 10th, loading
tents and all into our boats, paddling down, collecting one or two sensors en
route, setting up a new campsite for the night, collect sensors on the 11th,
and then determine whether to head back to Waterfall or stay in Hidden Cove for
one more night. We were scheduled to meet with Scott on the 13th to load our large
and unwieldy bearproof food boxes onto the Alacrity
and move the whole show north to Ford Arm.
I
was worried that so much shuffling would leave us mentally and physically
ragged. Why not just make a long day of it instead, collect sensors from the
Hidden Cove sites and then paddle back to basecamp? Since the sites themselves
weren't taking very long, it seemed doable, and way more efficient. I said as
much on the evening of the 9th as we picked bones from our fish. Opinion about
the change in plans was mixed but supportive. Jen agreed that a day trip would
greatly increase efficiency. Jaime, taciturn and measured as ever, pointed out
that moving camp merely to fill time was a questionable strategy. No firm
decision was made, though, and we tabled it until morning.
2012
was one of the wettest summers on record in Southeast Alaska. New marks were
set for precipitation in June in Glacier Bay, and July was more of the same.
Our trips were cold, wet, and demoralizing at times. So the relatively warm and
dry conditions we found in 2013 were a welcome change. The morning of the 10th
saw the sun dawn on Waterfall Cove, and the water looked placid. Conditions
seemed auspicious for a full day of paddling and a return to basecamp, and we
decided to go with that plan. What could go wrong on such a beautiful day?
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