The Outer Coast of Alaska is a stormy mosaic—nature’s reshuffling puzzle.
The big, wide, silty Grand Wash River draining the Malaspina Glacier shifts constantly, like a whip in mid-crack, its moveable banks built up and eroding by kilometers from year to year. We located its mouth, in the end, by simply floating our pack rafts down the freezing current. In this way, we overshot the Milestone. After beaching my raft, I slogged back almost a kilometer to record it. Belatedly, I noticed bear signs everywhere. Huge tracks crisscrossing yet more giant tracks all over the riverbanks. A veritable bear dance floor imprinted on gray sand. And I’d forgotten my bear mace. That’s why there’s a pink finger in each lower left corner of the panorama photo: I was in a hurry.
“I don’t know what we could’ve done to help you from so far away,” walking partner Rowan Sharman later remarked archly. “I guess we could’ve tried just reasoning with the bear, like calling out, ‘Hey bear, don’t do that. No bear—don’t do that. Uh, please, bear, don’t do that.’”