Alaska

Nov 10

With Stillness, Perspective Sharpens

Alaska

I close my eyes and inhale the silence. I'm standing upright—miraculously—on a paddleboard in Walker Cove, deep in Alaska’s Misty Fjords. Nature whispers an invitation to be still, to listen. Towering rock walls, 3,000 feet high, stretch around me like cathedral spires carved by glaciers. Ahead, the National Geographic Sea Bird looks like a toy boat set against a fantasy movie backdrop.

This is the wilderness I’ve dreamed about since I caught the first episode of Northern Exposure—dubbed in German and broadcast at an ungodly hour in the '90s. I was a broke student, saving every pfennig to buy my first VCR just to tape it. The quirky clash of cultures captivated me, and Alaska has held a place in my imagination ever since.

National Geographic Sea Bird, Walker Cove

Now, here I am, actually in Alaska, not just watching it from a couch in Hamburg. On our first night with Lindblad Expeditions, we traded city lights for Northern Lights—ribbons of green flowing like ghostly rivers across a velvet sky. We all watched in reverent awe, breathless, as if clapping might scare them away.

The next morning, we floated through Owl’s Pass, the mountains wrapped in fog like they were lingering in a dream, reluctant to rise with the sun. As the sun rose, the mist melted, revealing a mirror-perfect reflection of waterfalls, cliffs, and snow capped peaks on the glassy surface below. Rainforests clung to vertical rock faces with determination.

On the way to Grindall Island, Dall’s porpoises played in our wake like joyful, monochrome torpedoes. Zodiacs were lowered into the ocean like adventure-ready lifeboats, and soon, we were face to flipper with a gang of stellar sea lions. Their gruff roars echoed through the quiet, and every so often, one would gracelessly flop into the sea to grab a fishy snack.

Hiking through Grindall’s marshy meadows, I silently thanked the universe for my knee-high waterproof boots. I’d used them before on soggy DIB landings, but here, in the mud-slick marshlands, they were MVPs. Every step was a suspenseful test of gravity and faith.

Then, cruising through Ernest Sound, I sat cross-legged at the bow like a kid waiting for magic—and magic delivered. The water was silent, the horizon calm, and a misty plume shot into the air. Humpback whales! First a flash of fluke, then a spiral of rising bubbles as they performed their mysterious underwater choreography known as bubble-net feeding. It was like watching an underwater Cirque du Soleil.

As the sun dipped low, we dropped anchor near the Hump Island Oyster Company. We feasted on BBQ oysters with homemade kelp sauce, then poked around tide pools like overgrown kids, marveling at sea cucumbers, purple starfish, and spiky sea urchins.

In a drizzle so light it felt like sky confetti, we set out on kayaks and paddleboards through McHenry Inlet. Bald eagles swooped above, seals popped up like curious periscopes, and I paddled slowly, savoring the hush. Later, back aboard, the water glowed turquoise with a jellyfish bloom—like nature threw glitter in the ocean.

Now, if you don’t know what “bushwhacking” is, welcome to the club—I hadn’t either until we hacked through thick backcountry foliage like modern-day explorers. And salmon runs? Let’s just say it’s not a 5K. These fish run upstream, packed so tightly as if I were watching nature’s very own rush-hour subway platform.

Alaska Icebergs — On Motu Tapu, a private island

The cabins on the Sea Bird are outside-facing, which means that at 4 a.m. if an iceberg floats by, you’ll see it. And you will leap out of bed. In LeConte Bay, I caught a glimpse of glowing blue and white from our window, threw on my boots, and rushed to the bow just in time to see icebergs drift by like frozen sculptures escaping a museum.

We zipped out in zodiacs for a closer look. Waves lapped at the icy giants, sending up sparkly splashes like they were auditioning for a diamond commercial. Layers of glacier ice glowed from within—blue like the inside of dreams.

Calved-off icebergs from the LeConte Glacier

As we cruised north into Stephens Passage, a double rainbow appeared, sliding across the sky like something out of a Pixar movie. That’s when the expedition leader took our teens for a zodiac driving lesson. Naturally, they nailed it. Fast learners. Speed demons. Not afraid of blurred coastlines and wind-whipped hair.

Then came the real test of parental coolness: the polar plunge. My daughter dared me, so I leaped—dramatically—off the zodiac’s bow. The water was so cold it vacuumed the air right out of my lungs. As I swam to the ladder, I vowed next time I’d jump closer to it. It made my annual Coney Island New Year’s Day dip feel like a warm bath.

Later, bundled in dry clothes and sipping something hot, I sat at the bow in my favorite spot. Suddenly, another explosion of air—the whales were back. A whole group surfaced in a bubble circle, mouths wide open, devouring fish. Their flukes lifted once more before they vanished below.

I have only the faintest idea what wonders lie beneath the surface here - and even less idea where the whales will reappear — but I know one thing for sure:

This is the kind of place where time slows down, your soul gets quiet, and the world feels gloriously big again.

Until next time,