Words by Mallory Duncan, Photos by Andy Cochrane
As I soared in on a small commercial prop plane, I snapped a few photos of the white peaks jutting between the clouds. This winter, storms had smacked the mountains on Baranof Island, coating them in feet of heavy powder. I’d soon learn the journey to the snow was more demanding than it appeared from the plane. I met Graeme on our layover. He owned “Dogbark,”, the sailboat we’d be living on for the next 10 days. His weathered grey beard and humble resolve couldn’t conceal the child-like excitement suggested by his sparkling blue eyes. He sat behind me on the plane, transfixed by the mountains as we descended into Sitka.
The scent of freshly caught fish and salt hung heavy in the air like laundry lines in Alabama. We dragged our bags across the cracked asphalt to a dock near the airport, where we were met by a grinning bearded man, Captain Ben, and his wide-eyed first mate, Shiyah. Captain Ben pulled me in with a bear hug, immediately snickering, “Sorry Mallory, I didn’t realize we had hired a chief engineer off a cruise liner.” I wore a pair of black Ripton coveralls, an orange beanie, and white Nike blazers. Minus the bright white Hyperlite pack I shouldered, I appeared every bit the city kid you’d expect from Oakland, California.
We tossed our bags into the belly of the dinghy and navigated between the rusty hulls and rotting nets to Dogbark—an elegant and pristine vessel, stark white with racing stripes. Its 90-foot mast dwarfed its 60-foot body. Somber fisherman observed us from their cabins; feet kicked up on the railing as they sipped smoke through Marlboro reds, likely wondering, “What’s this deal with these city slickers?”
We spent the night fisting foaming pints of beer and knocking pool balls at the local watering hole. I was starting to like this crusty little enclave. The next day, the rest of the crew trickled in, barring long duffels, puffy jackets, and knee-high Xtra Tuffs. By nightfall, all 10 of us were crammed into the cabin of the Dogbark, huddled around a large wooden dining table, excitedly anxious for the unknown journey ahead. Tomorrow’s objective was the conspicuous Volcano standing proudly across the strait, Edgecomb.
We motored over in the morning as whales swam to the surface trying to catch a glimpse of Dogbark. They sprayed salt into the air and splashed their tails as we approached. The journey to actually ski Edgecombe involved crossing 6 miles of forest and intermittent bogs, carrying skis on our backs. The rugged trek took nearly 4 hours but eventually brought us to the base of Edgecomb, where we dropped our shoes and slid dripping feet into ski boots. The snow was thick and heavy, threatening to liquefy at any moment. We climbed roughly 3,000 feet to the top of Edgecomb and ripped skins on the summit. The skiing was good, mushy, and heavy at times, but the terrain was reminiscent of the Oregon cascades where I had cut my teeth, and I felt comfortable slashing sagging cornices and windlips on the way down.
Next, we embarked on the long trudge back to Dogbark. It was an 11-hour day, all said and done, and a big lift for just 2k of skiing. The journey left me optimistic about the wilder terrain, short approaches, and lower snow lines that supposedly lay on the east side of Baranof Island. Little did I know this day would be the least rigorous of the trip.
That evening, we wrapped around the North side of Baranof, where Captain Ben, Graeme, and Shiyah navigated a narrow channel to the island's east side. We dropped anchor in a quiet cove and scurried below deck. The cabin was steamy and warm, and the scent of fresh veggies, buttered rice, and cooked chicken filled my nostrils as we squeezed into seats around the dinner table.
Our excitable trip leader, Andy Cochrane, who I’d met earlier this season, stated, “Okay, I have two rules: no phones at the dinner table, and everyone has to go around and say one thing they are grateful for from the day.” We practiced this ceremony every night to symbolize the passing of each day.
We awoke in the morning and headed to a calm anchorage in Kelp Bay, with accessible terrain and fingers of snow reaching down to 600 ft. A few crew members went on an advanced scouting mission while the other hung back to fish. I sat on the deck fiddling with my K3 film camera, attempting to unlock the mystery of this heavy little machine. When the fishing crew returned, Zoe, a former Nordy with an unwavering broad smile and an unforgettable yet quiet demeanor, proudly brandished a massive king salmon. “Zoe, caught us dinner!” someone bellowed. The scouting party returned a few hours later, and we baked half the salmon with rice and veggies, sharing our “gratefuls” around the dinner table while we ate.
The next morning, we woke before the sun, pulled on our freshly dry, salt-scented outwear, slid on knee-high boots, and hopped into the dinghy. The tide had pulled back, revealing a vast, clam-covered shoreline. A matrix of braided streams twisted their way across the grey tidal flats and dumped into the bay. Shiyah dropped us on the bank and wished us good luck.
We walked and waded across the tidal flat to the foot of the towering Alaskan Peaks. The scouting party had warned us about rampant Devils Club, Alder, and nearly impenetrable forest, so we headed towards a patch of brush that looked less treacherous than the rest. There were no trails on this side of the island, so we ducked under branches and pushed our way through thick bushes. After two hours of combat with the grizzled Alaskan understory, I was hit with the stark realization that this would be a lot harder than navigating the long but pristine trail that led to Edgecomb.
Eventually, we hit snowline. A foot of thick cream cheese snow sat atop bending alders, making for more challenging travel conditions. With every step on the precarious snow surface, you’d either find a firm patch or post hole up to your hip, sending soggy snow and ice into your boots. My hands were saturated and freezing cold, and my brow was dripping in perspiration.
Finally, we reached a flat dry ledge at 900ft, and I squeezed what felt like 1 liter of water out of my socks and gloves. Above us, the snow was deep and supportable, but it took us 6 hours to get here. The exhaustion was setting in, and I could tell by the grunts of the crew members that surrender was on everyone’s mind. I glanced at Andy, “I have a feeling we might not make it much further.”
When the remaining climbers arrived at the ledge an hour or so later, we discussed what to do. Most folks wanted to turn back, but a few expressed a partial interest in continuing. After some debate, Andy, Graeme, and I continued onward while the rest of the crew turned back to warm their wet, weary bodies by the purring diesel engine of Dogbark.
From there, travel was much easier; we quickly ascended 1,000 more feet. By 2 pm, we hit 2.5K, promptly ripped skins, and surfed back downhill. I had spotted a white snow tendril that stretched further down the slope than the rest. If we could find our way to it, we’d bypass the ruthless downclimb we’d ascended.
After a spicy creek crossing, Andy would later describe as “Jalapeno rated,” some down-stepping over exposed alder branches, and a few desperate turns, we found ourselves at the end of the snow tendril. We clicked out of our skis and began our alder-filled descent back to sea level.
We discovered the fast way to descend was to cling to the long, spindly alder branches as you, more or less, fell face-first downhill. We implemented this controlled sliding method until we reached the tidal flats, hooting and hollering along the way to ensure we didn’t surprise any soggy grizzlies.
The shortcut was so successful that by the time we reached the base, the other crew had just arrived at sea level after downclimbing our heinous approach. We met them at the water’s edge, trying not to be too pleased with ourselves. We hopped on the last dinghy back to Dogbark, exhausted, wet, and satisfied with a successful day in the mountains.
By the time we arrived, Marlin, a soon-to-be father and exuberant angler with a sharp wit, had caught several rockfish he was now cleaning in preparation for dinner. I slipped below deck and cracked a book I’d been reading entitled The Curve of Time. It was about a single mother with a sailboat who dedicated her summers to exploring the mountainous Canadian coastline with her children. In first chapter, she talked about the rugged coast and the ominous mountains that hide amongst the billowing clouds. She philosophized about the inspiring landscape. We stayed at that anchorage for another night, and along with my “grateful” I shared an exert from the book:
“Time did not exist; or if it did it did not matter. Our world then was both wide and narrow - wide in the immensity of the sea and mountain; narrow in that the boat was very small, and we lived and camped, explored and swam in a little realm of our own making.”
Optimistically, we motored into a bay just south of us the following morning. The diesel engine purred loudly as I drifted in and out of sleep. This day would prove to be more successful than yesterday. We exchanged heinous boot packing conditions for a painfully circuitous approach around waterfalls and pine stands. Again, it took 6 hours to get to snowline, but the journey was far less physically and mentally taxing.
As we skinned, a few crew members pointed out Bear tracks that ascended high up on the mountain. We followed them as long as we could, and by the time our turnaround time hit, we were perched on the broad mountain shoulder at around 3,000 ft. We ripped skins and, one by one skied back down the slope. The line was long and mellow, and everyone was ecstatic that our hard work had finally paid off. On our way down, we found the bear trail again. The trail meandered down a seemingly unnavigable embankment, making the journey back to the ocean much quicker. We thanked the motivated grizzly for silently guiding us home, jumped into the dinghy, and motored back to Dogbark, soaked in sweat and peppered in pine needles. That night, I cracked my book and drifted to sleep, reading about grizzlies and wild adventures.
The following day we floated around the corner to a small town nestled halfway down Baranof’s east coast. The Sitka locals had told us about a pristine hot spring there. The sun finally crested the ridgeline, and we spent the morning drying our saturated bodies under the high Alaskan sun. Later, I folded my bones in a small blue tub by the dock, where warm water trickled in from a hot spring hidden beyond a green curtain of trees. The rest of the crew searched for the storied hot spring carved into the mountainside. I split the pages of my book and read:
“Enjoyment is always greatest when you have enough contrast to measure it by.”
It was an apt assessment of our experience on Baranof. We’d battled some of the most harrowing approaches I’d ever dealt with, all in pursuit of substandard ski conditions. Still, the experience had been life-changing. The grit of the struggle led to a depth of enjoyment one can’t get from riding deep powder in Japan or slashing down Alaskan spines. We were immersed in this rugged terrain, perched on a boat at the foot of these mighty mountains. There was no beta to tell us where to go or how to be, only a book of lessons we’d yet to learn. To begin to understand this immense landscape, all we could do was put one foot in front of the other until we found ourselves on a faint bear trail, a supportable foothold, or a forgiving grove of alders.
On the whispers of the wind, we’d glide blindly into the unknown, carrying a torch of hope and an irrefutable passion for adventure. Every day, regardless of success, failure, or both, our fearless leader, Andy, would ask us, “What are you grateful for today?” When the trip was over five days later, Andy asked us a different question: “What did you learn from this?”
I sat in the prop plane heading back to civilization and considered what I was grateful for and what I had learned. I leaned my head against the seat back in front of me and compiled all my thoughts. They flowed out of me like a poem. It read:
We found that the easiest place to get lost is between the sea and snow, where the understory tells long tales of alder and moss so dense, clouds crowd the mount tops trying to catch a glimpse.
We learned that when the ocean throws tall walls of water, find shelter in coves where you can rock yourself to sleep; and that the cut of one’s jib is most important when the wind blows.
We learned to follow the whales, sea otters taught us to embrace the space between adventures, and eagles showed us that even when the sky’s within reach, the bounties lie beneath it.
We discovered you should bathe in hot springs exactly as often as you dunk in frozen pools, and were reminded that you might not recall how to play a few tunes on the guitar.
We learned to still reach for the summit when the trail ends at the deck; and that rain only constitutes bad weather if you’re scared to get wet.
We were taught to be flexible but always believe in a passionate vision, because even when awake you should still remember to dream.
We found that the fear of the unknown should never discourage discovery but instead fuel curiosity; and that turning around is just another reason to come back.
But more than anything…Baranof taught us how to be grateful all along the way, because oftentimes the best adventures end right where they began.
