We pulled away from the dock in Seward one Friday afternoon, excited to begin our adventure in the Kenai Fjords and see the famous glaciers and icebergs – all the cold, icy stuff that had filled our daydreams during scorching, sweat-drenched days in Mexico and French Polynesia. We had wisely predicted that we would be leaving too late in the day to make it all the way out of Resurrection Bay and that we might need a closer and tamer place to anchor than the wilds of the fjords on our first night at anchor together since late January. How well we knew ourselves.
We were giddy as we pulled into the absolutely magnificent Thumb Cove, seeing the grandeur of this coast for the first time (the mountains having been mostly covered by fog, rain, and clouds when we passed this way two weeks prior). We picked a spot to drop our anchor, following the directions of our awesome guidebook and giving an appropriately respectful distance from the one other boat in the cove.
But as we neared the shore and the depth-sounder continued to read well above 100 feet, we began to get nervous. By the time we reached 70 feet of depth (the deepest we would have ever anchored) we were awfully close to shore. We dropped the anchor and chain, but as we backed up on it to set it, our stern was already in 10 feet of water. Far too shallow with the tide fluctuations of 10-15 feet here. And we didn’t even have a full 3:1 scope out yet (this is an acceptable minimum in a situation when you’re anchoring really deep and have an all chain rode, but it’s still not ideal).
I should include for the boaters out there that we have an 85-pound Mantus Anchor (which we love!) that is attached to 300 feet of 3/8-inch chain. We estimate that we have at least 1000 nights at anchor and can boast that we have never dragged anchor. I attribute that to Tom’s conservative anchoring practices (7:1 scope when possible, 10:1 in high winds, use of a range finder to gauge safe distance, etc), unwavering commitment to make absolutely sure that the anchor is set, and – in the difficult conditions we encountered up here – simply having the patience of Job.
We motored around the bay to check out two other suggested spots, neither of which would give us a shallow enough option to be able to have a decent amount of scope. We motored grudgingly back to the original spot and decided to try dropping the anchor in 80 feet to see if that did any good. It may have, but the anchor didn’t set immediately in the loose gravel, and as we reversed to try to set it, our stern again found its way into shallow water far beyond our comfort zone. So, I pulled it up again, only to see the windlass’s solenoid beginning to smoke. Awesome. I still have 250 more feet of chain and an 85 pound anchor to pull up and our windlass is about to fry itself (Tom measured the temperature at 425 degrees). I pull it up slowly, a few seconds at a time, waiting for the smoke to start then pausing to let it cool, a process sped up by the fact that a cold rain was beginning to fall on top of it. Lucky for us, Tom had asked me to order a new solenoid while I was back in Washington. Unlucky for us, this meant a two hour motor back to Seward in the now-pouring rain and a call of shame to the marina to ask if we could come back to the same slip that we had just vacated. And so went our first anchoring attempt in Alaska.
With a new solenoid and renewed motivation, our next anchoring attempts were more successful. Well, successful in that we got the anchor to set, but it took no less than three attempts each time before we got the anchor to set properly. It wasn’t until our tenth (and last) night in the fjords that we got our anchor to set in less than three attempts. So, feeling humbled by our experience, we thought we’d share a little about what we learned about anchoring up here:
- Anchorages can be really deep. For safety, having A LOT of anchor rode is vital. We thought our 300 feet of chain would be plenty up here, but Tom said he won’t return to the fjords without a full 600 feet next time. We didn’t have to try our backup plan of attaching our 300 foot anchor rope to our 300 foot chain, but we were ready to do so if we needed to. We like to anchor with 7:1 scope, but up here we generally couldn’t get more than 4:1 out. That’s still safe, especially with all chain, but we wouldn’t have wanted to sit out a 50-knot williwaw with that scope. (A williwaw is a katabatic wind that whips down the steep hillsides and into the funnel-shaped coves. We were lucky we did not encounter any williwaws during our ten days in the fjords.) We ended up choosing anchorages where we were most likely to be successful anchoring and skipped the ones where we knew we did not have enough rode.
- Have multiple ways to check your depth. We have two depth-sounders, one near the bow and one near midships, but because anchorages are so “steep-to,” anchoring in the Kenai Fjords required knowing what our depth was at the stern below the rudder. On numerous occasions, we took out our handy dandy lead line and measured our depth the old school way.
- Back down on your anchor well. This is always a good idea, of course, but in the Fjords, most bottoms are rocky and covered in thick kelp, both of which are notorious for making you think you set your anchor, but the minute the wind picks up, off it comes. There are no anchors that are great on such rocky bottoms; it just requires skill and patience. We backed down hard, with me on the bow watching and listening for the anchor chain to stop vibrating (indicating the anchor and chain skipping along the bottom), and Tom at the helm watching our numbers to confirm when we stopped moving.
- In sum, be choosy about where you anchor, be smart, be patient, and don’t be afraid to pick up and move to a new location if one isn’t working.
Ironically, even though we were always excited to get the anchor set so we could go explore, a lot of our exploring happened on the boat, rather than off it. On the boat is how we were able to see so many icebergs, growlers, and brash ice. It’s how we could get up close(ish) to glaciers to see and hear them calve and rumble. It’s how we saw most of the animals out there: Minke and Humpback whales, harbor seals, sea otters, and all kinds of birds that make these rugged capes their homes. It’s how we collected bits of ice with a net to melt and drink and how we got to see views down steep and stunning valleys filled with ice rivers and hidden waterfalls.
It’s how we got to go investigate a white-ish discoloration in the water only to find out that it was a massive swarm of baby moon jellies! It’s how we got to see animals sunning themselves on icebergs and how we saw animal shapes in the icebergs themselves: That one looks like a dragon! A whale! A walrus!
Of course, with so much time aboard the boat, the kids did have to find a way to entertain themselves when there wasn’t something immediately available to ogle at. They discovered the joys of swinging on the staysail sheets up on the bow (only intermittently paying attention to our rule to keep feet flat on the deck). I wish I could say that this is what took up most of their time, but it didn’t. They were just as often glued to their tablets or occupied with Legos down below, but at least they generally came up top when we had a whale, a puffin, or a particularly interesting iceberg to report.
When we did make it off the boat, life ashore was beautiful but did not leave a lot of room for exploration. The sheer cliffs, steep valleys, and dense shrubs left us little room for movement, especially movement that a reluctant 5-year-old was be up for. Additionally, there’s that little problem of the bears. Every walk included bear spray, and our watchful eyes became even more vigilant when we watched a black bear in Abra Cove swim from one side of the cove to the other, then meander up and down the beach all afternoon.
I haven’t found the right words yet to describe the Kenai Fjords; for now, I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves. I can say that the experience was phenomenal. I had thought we would need a month to explore this area and was worried when our time constraints would only allow us a week or two. But the thing is, it is so intense, so beautiful, and so awe-inspiring, that ten days (and perhaps much less) is plenty to experience the intensity and the power of this remote, rugged, steep, deep place that works its way into the depths of your soul.
Informational addendum: I’m a little behind on posts, which has not been helped by the fact that my computer is trying to break, cracking and making horrifying sounds every time I open or close it. But there’s lots to share about Prince William Sound, Cordova, and Valdez, and I’ll get updates out as my ailing laptop will allow. For now, we’re in Sitka, enjoying neither the rain nor the transmission trouble that just cropped up. But we’re enjoying the boat-watching, the meandering, and just being in Southeast Alaska, which feels so much closer to home. The rest of the week will include a few educational field trips for the kids and me and hopefully some positive progress on the engine front for Tom. All good vibes and crossed fingers would be appreciated.
Just another awesome post! Please keep them coming!