# Bikerafting Alaska's Lava Coast: Cold Bay to Meshik.



## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

Long before the Lost Coast trip was even a seed planted in my brain, Dave and I had had several conversations about where we might go exploring with bikes and boats. Potentially the most painful part of this entire journey was making the call on where and when to go. We batted around heaps of ideas including the Brooks Range, Southeast coast, Nunivak Island, even a variation on (and extension of) the Lost Coast. Potential partners came in and out of the plan, and each time that happened the plan changed.

It was not unlike herding cats.

Ultimately solid beta, pictures, and encouragement from Philip Tschersich swayed us to head southwest.

Eventually the plan became solid and with that the group did the same. Dave Gray, Pete Basinger, and myself would fly from Anchorage to the Alaska Peninsula village of Cold Bay with bikes and boats. We'd head north along the coast, eventually to Port Moller. Brian Blair would join us there, continuing northward to Meshik.

Dave and I went through the night-before packing/repacking/second guessing ritual in the back room at Speedway while Pete flitted about Anchorage doing last minute errands.


Always a good sign on the way to the airport, right? Right?!


Getting the big-bike-box stinkeye, and giving it right back.


I've spent little time in western AK and none on the peninsula, thus I was excited to see new country. Alas, we lifted off and went straight into the clouds, with few reprieves throughout the 2 hour flight. A few minutes before touchdown Pete got my attention when these came into view:

The Aghileen Pinnacles. I knew we'd be close (on the ground) but this aerial view was the only one we got.

Check weather for anywhere on the peninsula in August and you'll see fair temps, high humidity, more wind than you'd prefer, and a decent amount of rain. I was tickled to step off the plane into sunshine, and more than a little surprised when the flight crew told us this was the nicest day they'd seen all summer. 


We unboxed bikes, hung bags, answered questions asked by onlookers (_How fat *are* those tires? You're going *where*?_), heard our fair share of reasons why what we were here to do was, indeed, impossible, then finally bugged out.

The area surrounding the town of Cold Bay has a remnant network of WWII tank trails in various states of decline. We used these to cross from the east side of the peninsula to the west, where we hoped (gulp) to find rideable beach.




After the first hour we saw no one, and could slowly wheeze out the last of the city air and unwind into our new digs.






Eventually even the faintest of trails petered out and we simply picked due-north landmarks to head for. This blend of tundra/sponga was difficult to pedal through but delightful to walk and sleep on.








Pavlof and his Sister poked their volcanic heads out, briefly.






The pace was mellow and everyone rode with their heads up, savoring the foreign-to-us landscape. Temps were mild--mid 50's maybe, but the high humidity and onshore breeze made it seem cooler than that. At some point through the first day we all fiddled with gear--cinching loose straps, adjusting tire pressure, or simply finding better places for last minute purchases of food or fuel.


We were on and off the bikes every few minutes--anything slightly downhill we rode, but the sponga sucked too much energy to pedal uphill or even on the flats.




We consulted the map and adjusted our course to head more westerly, leaving tundra and finding this cottongrass meadow.


Err, cottongrass _marsh_. A few inches of water and less even footing taught us the first of many hard lessons. We splashed across a few before instinctively meandering back to the sponga.




I'd been conditioned (on the Lost Coast) to think of the ocean not as a means of transport, but as a last resort. At a snack break I glanced at the maps and noted a low spit just offshore, which would (in theory!) be knocking the energy off of any breakers. In other words, I thought we might be able to put in and paddle along the coastline instead of slogging our way just inside it. 


The guys were game to try, so we muscled our way over and bashed down to the shore.



And, among other things, we found a thin strip of rideable sand between water and veg.


We rode this strip for less than a mile before it morphed into a blend of organic mank, too soft to ride. Another glance at the map, confirmed by a quick peek at the GPS, revealed that we could deploy boats here and paddle the next several miles. It wasn't just the path of least resistance--it was the most direct route.


That aside, the wind was but a breeze and it happened to be in our favor. Once we were out and floating we could simply rest with paddles in laps and be pushed along at ~2-3mph.




We stopped to snack, stretch, and pee at the edge of Moffet Lagoon. Doing pre-trip mapwork I had hoped for fair weather to cross this constriction. I guessed that we had less than two hours of actual daylight left to work with, but with great visibility and a tailwind it seemed the time was right. I voted to cross _NOW, _with the incoming tide. Pete wasn't so sure and Dave didn't really have an opinion either way. Ultimately I pushed a little too hard, goading them into making the crossing.

It was a mistake.

No one was harmed, not even a little, but the far shore looked nothing like the maps/gps portrayed, so we ended up fighting current and swells while searching for a safe landing in near-dark. 


Not the best way to start a trip, and I apologized profusely to the guys for putting us in that place.

That drama over with, we repacked bikes and set about finding a place to call it a night. The first spot above the high tide line called loudly, where we set up tents and dove in.


Stick with me--much more to come.​


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## emu26 (Jun 23, 2008)

subscribed, again, thanks

:thumbsup:

Yet again a great adventure and beautiful photography, thank you


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## 2ridealot (Jun 15, 2004)

That picked up my morning almost 3 full notches. Thanks!


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## bear (Feb 3, 2004)

wonderful.


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## Brycentron (Apr 7, 2012)

Great shots. thanks. Looks like a blast


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## jacklikesbeans (Feb 18, 2011)

Looks like a great adventure! Thanks for sharing!


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## MRisme (Mar 22, 2010)

Always love these posts from you! Definitely subscribed!


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## cutthroat (Mar 2, 2004)

Not again!


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## pecsokak (Sep 23, 2010)

helmets are for sissies, and you guys clearly aren't sissies. 

for real though awesome pics and journey. can't wait for the rest


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## beagledadi (Jul 18, 2004)

Always inspiring :thumbsup:

Matt


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## steiny (Jul 8, 2004)

Now this is what passion is all about! Moar, plz.


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## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

*Glorious beach. Mostly.*

For the next few days we had heaps of good, solid beach to ride. Dark sands of volcanic origin prevailed, with very few stretches of cobbles to schlep through, and more beach booty than a sane man could ever know what to do with.







The sun was *gone*, departed for fairer climes. In its' place we got mostly overcast or light drizzle. Precip is never hoped for when sleeping multiple nights out, but I dare say the amount we got these days was just about right.







Midway through our second day out we'd not yet crossed any sweet water, so we humped it up over the dune line in search of a lake or pond.



Didn't take long to find what we needed. Throughout the trip Dave and Pete treated most of their water. I rolled the dice and drank it straight from the source.



Fauna.



Flora.



Megafauna.





Lobo, departing.



My everyday environs are most often clear, sunny, and (for many months of the year) downright hot. The somber light, laden air, and olfactory intensity (even if the smell was usually tidal mank) were a welcome change.











At some point in the depths of the afternoon I dare say I felt a bit of boredom, maybe even despair. The riding was easy. Too easy. We were covering ground at a ferocious clip, effortlessly, even with many breaks to snack, photogeek, and explore beach booty. Fearing the trip would end too soon, I suggested we stop. Just stop. Maybe build a fire, take a nap? To my surprise all were in agreement.

We sussed out this neat little cubby, protected from wind, then proceeded to lounge.





Dave discusses (then dismisses) the merits of various small instruments. You had to be there.



The break broke the back of the afternoon.







Once back riding it was easy to enjoy the pace and not worry too much about going too fast--we could simply take more breaks. And that we did. Dave was always happy to get the Angry Midget® off his back for a spell, and Pete usually welcomed a nap.









Camps were simple but seemed luxurious. Given the drizzle, humidity, and lack of sun, all that was needed was a dry spot under a mid and _maybe_ a few minutes hovering over a fire. Anything beyond that--like the hot meals we ate twice a day--was gravy.







A sub-optimal discovery. Note to self: Commence salivating only after verifying.



Pete felt the tent needed 'a little something' to feel more homey. Plenty of Japanese glass balls around to do the job.

​


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## JimmyC (Dec 19, 2005)

Awesome!!!


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## giantbikeboy (Dec 3, 2004)

Another very cool post. Trippy pic here. What flora?


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## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

giantbikeboy said:


> Another very cool post. Trippy pic here. What flora?


That's cow parsnip, aka wild celery, aka pushki.

I've been told often that it secretes an oil, and if you get that oil on your skin *and* are in bright sunlight, that that spot will blister badly. Hasn't happened to me yet, though I've been in it (and sun) plenty. I've seen lots of scars (usually on lower legs or forearms--the spots most likely to be bare when outside) that are allegedly caused by it.

Perhaps it's like urushiol from poison ivy/oak/sumac, where only some are affected?

Could be. I react badly enough to urushiol that maybe I was spared the same from pushki.


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## Colonel Flagg (Jan 7, 2006)

Beautiful.


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## SuPrBuGmAn (Jun 20, 2009)

Mikesee - its your fault I even try to make semi-regular bikepacking trips. I'm constantly trying to pour over maps around my area to see where I can make it work. 



Thanks!


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## Funrover (Oct 4, 2006)

WOW!!! Great report!


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## Paul.C (Aug 13, 2011)

This is great! Very motivational.


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## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

*Lava: Four.*

An odd glow inside the tent caught my attention as I rolled from my side to my back, searching for increased comfort. I sat up, scooched toward the door, pulled back the flap and stared amazed at a blazing ball of sun already midway into a lightly clouded sky. I guessed it must have been after nine at least (almost ten!), and since neither Pete nor Dave yet stirred, I had to conclude that we really were on vacation.

Right on.

I wandered up the beach and into the dunes looking for anything interesting. This stretch of beach was surprisingly blank, so I concluded my wandering by joining the others in breakfast back at camp.


The bugs made us instinctively (and quickly) face upwind. Deploying hoods helped too, but they were rarely that bad.




Bellies full and stuff stowed we moved off down the beach, finding an even firmer surface than the average of the previous days. Each of us continually postulated reasons why certain sections felt firmer, or not, than others, including grain size, percentage of cobbles, pitch, proximity to crashing waves, nearness of bluffs, The Wind Factor, and current state of the tides. In reality we had no clear idea--our guessing game was merely a means of being attentive to the changing world beneath our wheels.




We passed the morning inspecting a hunk of ivory, exploring a shipwreck, then exchanged greetings with offshore travelers and covered a few bright, sunny miles.










Bikeboating tip #632d: Buy two sets of pedals, each a different color. Give one of each color to your buddy, keep one mismatched set for yourself. Days into a trip when you're dazed and rummy and it's time to reinstall pedals after floating or 'shwacking, you don't need to scrape through the grit and muck clinging to the axles to determine which goes where. For me, red went right, black went left.


Early afternoon we were surprised to find vehicle tracks. Probably not as surprised as they were, days later, when they stumbled onto ours.


The tracks could only mean that we'd have clearish sailing into the tiny village of Nelson Lagoon.


Mas lobo.






We guessed we were within a few miles of the village when an obvious road appeared cleaving the dune line. We stopped and examined maps, discussing our first potential route option. Pre-trip I'd pored over topos and pondered the possibility of island hopping from Nelson Lagoon Village out into the Kudobins, then, weather permitting, making the big leap and paddling 9 miles across to Port Moller. Sitting on the sand, 4 days in and feeling vulnerable as nature intended us to be, that distance seemed a lot to commit to. Even under hot, sunny, windless skies.

Pavlof, paintbrush, lupine, and Dave.


Perhaps in part due to my poor judgement back at Moffet Lagoon, Pete and Dave voted to cut south across Nelson Lagoon, opting to follow the shoreline around Herendeen Bay. This route would be scores of miles longer, but with little risk of being pushed out to sea by wind or tides. Given current weather I hemmed a bit--you couldn't ask for more perfect conditions to paddle big water. But ultimately I knew their prudent choice was right, so we cut inland, skipping the village, and headed for the lagoon.


Our first plot twist happened here, looking out over the lagoon. Our charts told that the tide had been slack an hour ago, but was emphatically dropping at the moment and for the next few hours. Knowing this, and wanting to use the power of the tidal current to move us east along the lagoon, we trod out through the muck, hesitantly at first, then faster as the consistency continued.






Just at waters edge we unpacked and inflated, focused on our task but unable to ignore the water deepening as we stood still. Not the quickest to adapt to change, my inner ostrich kept repeating; "But the chart says it's going out!"


Eventually I had to accept that the charts were inaccurate, or at least that we'd read them wrong. Not wanting to be pushed west by the inexorable incoming flow, we walked our laden boats east, happy at least to be in a more viscous medium.


Unwilling to paddle in the dark, we committed to the crossing, fighting wind and tide all the way across. We took out and packed up at sunset, then commenced walking our bikes up well-worn bear trails.


We pushed on, searching for any semblance of a campsite but finding nothing. None of us relished bumping into a bear in the gloom, thus we pushed faster until stumbling onto a well-used fishing shack in the darkness. We threw out bags and pads on the floor of its derelict tool shed, glad to have some semblance of walls between us and the maddening hordes of mosquitoes.​


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## Pea-Ta (Sep 13, 2011)

Such a great post!


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## pointerDixie214 (Feb 10, 2009)

Wow. Incredible. As usual.

Subscribed.


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## Plummit (Jan 14, 2004)

This thread is stellar.


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## radair (Dec 19, 2002)

Awesome adventure as usual, Mike. Your photography is so refreshing.

Footwear? I see Dave wearing some kind of (waterproof?) overboot and wondered what the boot of choice is, given the often soggy conditions.


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## NismoGriff (May 15, 2011)

Absolutely amazing....I was hoping this post would take up about, oh, 10 hours of my shift  Can't wait to read/see more!!


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## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

radair said:


> Awesome adventure as usual, Mike. Your photography is so refreshing.
> 
> Footwear? I see Dave wearing some kind of (waterproof?) overboot and wondered what the boot of choice is, given the often soggy conditions.


Two schools of thought on that.

One seeks to stay dry all the time--gore shoes, gore socks, NEOS overboots, wading pants, etc... I went this route on the Lost Coast. That I've seen, it just doesn't work because once the inners are wet there is NO WAY they're going to dry behind that much non-breathing fabric.

Second school uses light, airy trail runner type shoes, with regular wool or wool blend socks. The idea being that if they're easy to get wet, they're easy to dry.

Best I can tell, both camps spend about the same amount of time sodden. But if there's a day or two of sun, the latter camp has dry feet for most of it, while the former's feet fester, usually in their own juices.

An interesting addendum to the light/airy approach is to carry lightweight thigh-high waders, slipping them on for creek crossings. Haven't tried this yet, but Pete did it on the trip being recounted here. Seemed like a bit of a hassle--I could have my boat unstrapped and inflated in the time in took him to dig them out and put them on. He was definitely faster at repacking though. And there were lots of creeks where circumstances made it impossible (or at least highly undesirable) to float.

Bottom line? It's just wet feet. Who among us doesn't need a little exfoliation?!


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## Mellow Yellow (Sep 5, 2003)

Could very well be post of the year!!! Epic!!


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## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

*Lava: Five.*

We were all up early, largely because the incessant drone of bugs never let us get too deep into sleep, but also in hopes of catching a rising tide. The onshore stumbling was slow going, and high water would help us float further out/along the bay.




Working through (under) a set net that seemed to span the entire bay. The fog added a wonderful dimension of gloom to an already spooky, uncertain morning.


As the sun got higher the fog got thinner, occasionally even breaking enough to see blue above. This right here was about the high point of the day--floating in deep water, riding a receding tide in our intended direction of travel with light winds and no bugs.


Didn't last long--matter of minutes, maybe.

Then the water started to get shallower. And shallower. Before long we were in maybe a foot of water, still floating, still moving great. But then it was 8". Then 6"--and our butts started to drag. It happened so fast I assumed we'd just come up on a sandbar or similar. So we angled further offshore, not yet grasping that the tide was pouring off a giant shelf, and there was just no way to keep up with it.

In the span of a few minutes we went from smooth sailing to bumping the bottom, and in the time it took us to get out, stand up, and survey the scene, we went from about this:


To this:


We were starting to get it.

We dragged laden boats across the slick muck for better than a mile, aiming for a pool of water that seemed to remain static. The boats slid along better than you'd think.

When finally we made it to that pool it was maybe 9" deep. At that point we could see dry land less than a mile off. And though we didn't yet know if it was rideable, it seemed a foregone conclusion that it would be better than *this*. Pete worked his way around it while I made use of the boat. We ended up in the same place, but Pete got there a few minutes quicker.






We derigged and packed up the boats, had a snack, enjoyed some company, then moved along the headland--sometimes riding but mostly walking.






Shortly after rounding the headland we were harassed (lightly) by a fella on an ATV, telling us that we were about to enter private land, and were not welcome to do so.

Private _beach_? We explained that we wanted only to pass by and would be gone before they knew it. He hemmed and hawed and said he'd go ask the owner, then buzzed away. Seemed silly to us--they can't own the beach. So we just kept plodding along and when we arrived the 'owner' was genuinely interested in our bikes, boats and trip plans. We chatted a few before moving on.

Pete schlepping along with the private cannery behind.


We powwowwed and lunched, consulting the maps and deciding to alter our course to head over Cape Rozhnov at it's narrowest point. Our reasoning was that we needed to get to Deer Island regardless, and since riding and paddling seemed unlikely on this side of the cape, we might as well see how the other side looked. Worst case we'd end up walking through tidal mank in Mud Bay--but would at least save some miles along the way.

We followed bear trails when possible, but they rarely seemed to be going our direction.


Clear skies behind meant scorching temps and stunning views of Pavlof.


We swapped leads and fanned out when bogs halted progress, called to the others when wild berries presented themselves, and did our best to keep moving (however slowly) when it was so much easier to do anything else.

The low rise a ~half mile ahead of Pete is the "high" ridge of Rozhnov, the peaks beyond form the head of Herendeen Bay.


Late afternoon we made it across, having been assisted by a thick blanket of scud that blew in and cooled things down. The light breeze removed most of the bugs, too.

Alas this side looked no more promising to ride or float than where we'd come from.

Looks rideable. Isn't.


We did what we could--kept schlepping along the path of least resistance. Sometimes this was onshore, as much as it can be called 'shore', other times we pushed bikes as much as 1/2 mile out in the 'bay'.






We pushed on into the evening, circling the wagons when we found 2 uprooted trees that had floated here then been stranded in muck by the receding water. We broke limbs and dragged them to this small 'island', set up mids, had a brief fire with our dinners and light conversation. Truth is we were all too tired to talk much--sleep called and we answered.
​


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## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

*Lava: Six.*

I slept a little light with a lingering dual hope/fear that the tide would come up and inundate our camp. That'd be a crappy way to wake up and a great way to leave camp--by floating.

Alas the water never came within sight, so once up and moving it was back to schlepping through slop. Maybe 100 yards of every mile was actually ridden. Even when we were able to "float" atop the muck it was often tough to maintain traction--the rear tire would usually simply spin, and as it did so it would break through to the underlying (and more sticky) layers, immediately gumming up tire, then frame. So unless it felt really, really solid underfoot, we tried to resist the temptation to try.


And though this will sound like so much anathema to some, I don't mind walking--I get to keep my head up and look around more than when riding. The difference may seem subtle but even when riding non-tech beach and mank a certain level of focus is required, and as such you miss some of the subtleties underfoot.


A word about rim width, tire volume, and tread selection. Dave is one of the Big Brains at Surly, responsible for much of the R&D that happens behind those partially ajar doors. Not surprisingly, he rode one of the first Moonlanders ever to breathe ocean (or any) air, and he shod it with 100mm wide Clownshoe rims and Surly BFL 4.7" tires. That's the floatiest combo available now, though at the time they were unobtanium, and all of internet nerddom was outnerding itself trying to sleuth out their salient details. Pete rode a ti Fatback with choppahundy 100mm rims, Larry 3.8 up front, Endo 3.7 out back. At the time this was the floatiest combo that non-Surly employees (read: the rest of the world) could buy. I rode a stock Pugs frame and fork, with preproduction Marge Lite 65mm wide rims, and a set of preprod BFL 4.7 tires. Basically, my setup was my take on the best of both worlds--super light rims with massive air volume tires. It was also untested, and as such a decent gamble.


On days like today, with slick, sticky muck, no one setup was a clear winner. But there was *definitely* a clear loser: It was surprising to note how often Pete's rear Endomorph would spin out and force him to walk. Pete is world-class when it comes to coaxing traction and float out of fat tires on soft surfaces, and has a practical doctorate (perhaps subconsciously, but still) on body english and how to effect subtle weight shifts to maintain traction. That knowledge (along with his massive motor) have propelled him to more victories in the world's biggest and baddest winter ultramarathon than anyone else, living or dead. Point simply being that Pete knows how to ride soft stuff, but that confounded piece of Endo had him off and walking much, much more than Dave or I. Lesson learned.


When we were back on sandy, gravely, cobbly beach, as it got softer I'd usually be struggling to keep momentum first, the result of my narrower, rounder tires losing traction and/or sinking in. Pete would flounder next, and Dave would keep motoring ahead, blissfully unaware that anything had changed beneath his wheels. Until he looked around and realized he was riding alone--and then saw how far back we were, walking. No big surprise there--more air volume keeps you floating, wider rims give tires a more square footprint, helping to keep from breaking traction.


Dave riding more than us wasn't surprising--his rim/tire choices made it so. Pete slipping out most often was not surprising--his poor rear tire choice virtually guaranteed it. What was surprising was how well the blend of the new big tire and mid-width rim I was riding bridged the gap between the two. For beach riding it sure seemed like a great compromise. Nice when a gamble pays off.

/nerd out.

Mid-morning we turned a literal and figurative corner. At the NEsternmost point of Mud Bay we portaged a small river and on the far side found rideable gravel beach. First time in over a day that we'd been able to 'just pedal'. Zinging along the beach we made quick work of the last of Cape Rozhnof, arriving at Ross Point midday. There we found light winds, calm seas, and good visibility, and committed at once to the crossing to Deer Island. Within an hour we were across and packing up on more rideable beach. Slap, bang--things were looking up.




I used the GPS to determine that we could head a short distance west along the beach to the narrowest point of the island. The overland crossing from there to the south shore looked to be a literal stones throw, and then we would paddle across Hague Channel and be back on the mainland. We could have ridden clear to the SEsternmost end of the island (Doe Point) and shortened our paddle from 3.2 miles to 1.3 miles--that's worth over an hour of paddling. But starting there would have us putting in to considerable tidal current immediately, and we'd be swept miles out into the greater bay no matter how hard we paddled. As brilliant as packrafts are, their ability to fight currents (wet or dry) is nonexistent.

Thus, as we readied to paddle the 3+ miles across the Hague, I used the GPS, our tide tables, considerable pre-trip map geeking, and a tiny bit of experience to plot a course. I'm comfortable with the use of a GPS to navigate in the backcountry (i.e. on the ground) but less comfortable when wind, tides, and channeled water are part of the equation. I knew that when we hit the ~midpoint of the channel we'd be in heavy outgoing current, and I made sure that Pete and Dave understood this as well. What none of us could know was how that current would manifest itself--as a hard eddy line or a more gradual fade in. With that uncertainty we agreed that staying close to each other was mandatory--the better to help each other if needed. To an extent, I was guessing on the heading we'd need to take, and as such was justifiably anxious about making the call. There was an obvious eroded headland visible from water level that seemed a safe bet to aim for, leaving some margin for error (maybe 1/3 to 1/2 mile) before getting sucked out of the bay. We all looked at the headland, agreed it made the most sense to head for the upcurrent end of it, then went back to rigging the boats.


A minute or two later, boat packed and ready to go, I made a point, potentially one time too many, of asking for verbal verification from both of the guys on where we were headed and what our protocol was while working our way there. I was nervous as hell--I figured this was the crux point of the whole trip and it seemed like it could go smoothly if we had a solid plan and stuck to it. The flip side is that a simple mistake--an error in heading, a gear malfunction that forced us to stop paddling to attend to it, or, worst case, a capsize for one or all--could be disastrous. What I hadn't accounted for is what stats geeks like to call the human factor. No one can say for sure why what happened next happened.

Pete was packed and ready to go a few minutes before Dave. Pete had been slower paddling his smaller boat than either Dave or I on each of our previous crossings. I can't recall if Pete suggested taking off first or if I recommended it, but it seemed like a good idea regardless--he could get a head start, paddle easy for a bit, and we'd catch him long before the channel. So as Dave fit the last puzzle pieces into place and cinched 'em all down, Pete tempered his boat and shoved off.


I took the opportunity to walk up to the veg line and snap a few flora pics, and when I turned back around Pete was being pulled out of the bay.

I whistled loudly to get his attention--thinking it not too late to ferry back to our side. But he was already out of earshot. I assumed that he'd hit heavy current much sooner than planned, but staring hard at him revealed a confusing truth: He was being pulled out because he wasn't ferrying at all--his paddle lay inert across his lap.

Dave and I were in the boats and paddling hard moments later. It quickly became obvious that we were not going to catch him, and that he was going to be pulled out of the bay. Left unsaid but dominating my thoughts was the fact that once he left the bay he'd be getting further from reachable land by the minute, and there wasn't a thing that Dave or I could do for him. The word triage sat acidic on the tip of my tongue. We did the only thing we could do-- paddled hard for the agreed-upon headland, staring hard in his direction and willing him to ferry. And hoped like hell it might not be too late. When the wind and bowspray weren't in my eyes I could still see him--well enough to see that he was, at best, still lazily paddling and not making any headway.

Sorry, I'm making this more dramatic than it needs to be...

Maybe 90 minutes later we were all back on dry land, safe and unharmed. Pete finally snapped to when the tidal current whipped him past a channel marker at better than 7mph. All along he'd assumed he was mostly sitting still, just waiting for us to catch up. With the realization of where he was headed he dug hard on that paddle. Better than a mile out of the bay the current released him to an eddy, and he used the overflow of adrenaline in his system to move along that eddy, back to where we stood anxiously watching and waiting.

I coulda knocked his block off if I hadn't been so happy to see him still with us.

But why--how did this happen? Did he really not notice our agreed upon headland sliding past at an alarming rate? Was I somehow unclear on the reasons behind heading for that spot? Could he not see Dave and I moving in a very different direction? Did he not encounter either of the eddy fences that we crossed (while puckered due to the speed differential between sides), indicating the start of real current?

There weren't really any answers, just questions that formed more questions.

The scare seemed to light a fire beneath Pete. Throughout the afternoon and evening he was out in front scouting for the firmest surface as we traversed a ~14 mile E-]W stretch of coastline. Often rocky, sometimes mucky, the further we went the more fun the actual riding became. There were sections of slick bedrock canted into tidal pools, requiring balance, timing, and precise shifts of weight to maintain traction. Often line choice was made on the fly, dealing with each additional choice as they presented themselves rapidfire. The wildness of the place (fresh bear sign everywhere, whale bones on the beach), a freshening wind, a persistent but increasing drizzle, and our brakeless bikes all upped the challenge, and we each found a place of concentrated bliss as those moments bled into hours.


At the onset of evening we arrived at a dilapidated shack poised above a steaming hot spring pool. The chill drizzle made the shack and pool oh-so-inviting. But we were a day behind schedule, low on food, and still had a full day, maybe more, to get to Port Moller. There we would meet Brian and resupply on food, maybe even dry out some of our sodden gear. So we faced a choice--stay the night here, availing ourselves of the roof, walls, and hot water. That sounded dreamy. But our low food situation and the possibility of the freshening wind pinning us here was reason enough to move on. Without so much as dipping a toe in the rock pool we headed down to water's edge and began rigging the boats.

Alas, 15 minutes offshore the GPS showed we were being blown 120* off our intended course. I did quick sums in my head and deduced that not only would we end up further from Port Moller despite our best efforts, fighting the wind meant we'd likely not make landfall until well after dark. With that we turned and cut an angling course back toward the hot spring, catching the edge of the bay and walking the rocky beach back to the shack as the last light faded.​


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## Haggis (Jan 21, 2004)

Both photos and story are finely crafted. Thanks so much for sharing.


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## tg (Feb 1, 2006)

*Wow !!!*

Thats some flippin cool pics.


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## socal_jack (Dec 30, 2008)

Epicness overload! Don't know that I could deal with skeeters anymore on that level.


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## big terry (Apr 22, 2012)

ahh man im jonesing for the next update! great stuff!


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## HoseBeats (Apr 30, 2012)

Please sir, can I have some more?!?


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## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

*Lava: Seven.*

Although it was wonderful to have walls and a roof sheltering us from the rain that drummed down all night, I slept poorly on the hard floor of the shack. My current iteration of a bikerafting sleep system worked well on soft (beach!) surfaces, but was a poor substitute for padding on the hard floor.


Yet another lesson learned.

We were up early so as to be paddling while the last of the tide was still coming in, hoping that we'd be able to make most of our crossing on the slack. We savored the roof over our heads while packing, Pete let the world know we'd been here, then we walked down to the water in drizzle.


The wind seemed calmer than the night before, but we all knew that here, in the protected cove, what we were feeling had little bearing on what was happening further out. We battened down the hatches as much as possible--double drybagging anything important, triple checking all cinched straps, knowing that we were likely to have a few hours of wind and waves to contend with.


In truth, the next few hours were a lot worse than I expected. Once out of the protected cove we were fully at the mercy of the wind. And of that there was aplenty.

Our plan had been for Pete and Dave to stay ahead of me in the water. Since we'd have no view of land and would therefore have no landmarks to navigate by, I hoped to keep tabs on the GPS whenever possible, and to shout needed deviations to the guys.

In practice the waterproof bag holding the GPS fogged immediately, but it was superfluous anyway--the gale came at us from the NW, so we had no choice but to keep the bows pointed just a tick or two off of that.

That, and the driven waves were big enough to capsize us easily. Point your bow anywhere other than straight into the waves and you'd be swimming in under a minute. It was as close to survival paddling as I ever hope to be. The swells were 4 to 5 footers--easy enough for our buoyant boats as long as the waves were rounded and rhythmic. But every minute or so the wind would gust and blow the top off of an approaching wave: The effect was the same as the wave breaking just before hitting us. This forced us to make a last second correction and then hunker and brace as they crashed into and through the bike on the bow. Before the wave was done washing over you it was straight back to paddling. Stop paddling for a few brief seconds--to wipe your nose or scratch an itch--and you'd spend the next five minutes working hard to catch back up. Eating, drinking, peeing--all were out of the question.

Although we kept our bows pointed NNW for the bulk of this 2.5 hour crossing, we made zero progress to the NNW. Once we left the cove the wind pushed us almost due E. 


Only when we were within spitting distance of Egg Island, where for some reason the wind was slightly diminished, did we turn and run with it.

Finally back on shore we took our time collecting ourselves and repacking, sharing close calls from moments before that, despite our proximity, had gone unnoticed by the others in the heat of it.


We picked our way along--walking--for much of the next mile, hoping for a rideable surface but knowing from the topos that for at least a few hours that was unlikely. 








Cliffs came right down into the water at several points, forcing us to wade out with the bikes looking for a way around, and even to inflate and paddle thrice against the ever-rising gale. There is a certain mental state required for transitioning between bike and boat and back, weather be damned, and if your head isn't in the right place it quickly becomes a chore that you'd rather not bother with.




Highlights from this afternoon were largely of the geological sort. 




While chimping this picture it occurred to me that we hadn't smiled or laughed much on this day. Type 2 fun I guess. I hoped that once we recharged in Port Moller we'd be able to regain the easygoing vibe of the first few days.


A few miles out from Port Moller a solitary figure could be seen in the mist ahead. We'd just passed a bedraggled looking sow with three cubs, and were still on high alert. As we closed in it resolved to be a person riding the beach on a fat tire bike. Brian! He'd had almost as much of an adventure as we had in getting to this point, and had been lucky to log onto a computer to follow our SPOT points along the beach. When he figured we were within a few hours he headed out to meet us. We gratefully accepted candy bars from his overflowing food bag, then collectively rode a lovely stretch of black sand beach into Port Moller.


Francisco the Fisherman, on being deported way-back-when: "I do not know why they bother--I'll just come back tomorrow..."


We found the store and loaded bags with food. Brian--clean, dry, rested--was game to head out into the evening drizzle to find a place to camp. After the last few days I sensed that Dave and Pete wanted to find someplace *right here*--dry and warm--to spend the night. I know I did. But it's always odd in places like this--there are no motels, nor signs pointing the way to any services. So you just have to ask around. But asking got us no closer--it was almost like Big Brother was watching and we'd touched on a verboten subject. They didn't just not answer--they'd either end the conversation by walking away, or change the subject while averting their eyes. So strange. Eventually we lucked out and found the right person (or he found us?!) and were able to rent a bunkhouse room for the night.


Four guys plus packs and gear was a little tight, but it beat climbing into a wet sleeping bag in the rain.

We ate, laughed, ate, joked, ate, drank a little, ate some more, then passed out, warm and dry.​


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## MotoX33 (Nov 8, 2011)

Is that a Predator skull???


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## cutthroat (Mar 2, 2004)

you guys have big balls.


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## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

*Lava: Eight.*

It's tough to appreciate the simple act of waking up dry until you haven't.

We were in great spirits this morning, largely because we had.

Pete sniffed out some coffee and drank it while we all struggled to stuff the pile of food we'd bought (at village prices!) into our incredible shrinking packs. We stuffed and ate and stuffed and ate, and when there was no possible way to squeeze more food onto bikes or into bodies there was still a pile of food left in the room.

We rolled out into drizzle, and for the few minutes it took us to find our way past the airstrip and down to the beach that was fine. But the grayness of the day, closeness of the clouds, and back-to-wetness of our clothes seemed to bring the mood right back down. There was chatter as we rolled along, but not much.


I can't speak for anyone but myself but my thoughts were heading in the direction of 'this is gonna be miserable if we don't get a dry day soon'. I knew better than to hope for sun, I just wanted a little less rain. A tall order out here.

Wheel geeks can argue brass vs. alloy nips all they want in these conditions. I say use what's cheapest and/or most plentiful on your shelves. You'll be cutting them out shortly regardless.



The mood seemed to lighten a bit as we reached that indeterminate distance from town--past the point where it seems you could easily turn around and head back. Commitment has a way of removing inconsequential variables from the equation. But still it rained.

And then a funny thing happened. Pete has a history of finding some of the, um, oddest items when out riding. I'll not list the highlights here--those are his stories to tell. But today he found this just laying on the sand:


Maybe 2, 3 minutes later the rain stopped and the skies brightened. Condom as omen? It happened just (snap!) *like that*.


The wet sand was fast, the breeze was light, and the sky was suddenly tearing itself apart to reveal (wait for it)...

Blue.


Bam! Spirits rose almost as fast as the pace. What started glum was turning into a brilliant day--how could we ask for more?

We didn't have to--Brian offered. Homemade cookie dough. BAM!




Just like that the vibe was reset to buzz. 




We even pulled over and stopped for a hot lunch--largely (it seemed) to lighten our packs of some food weight. No one was going hungry on this stretch.














Pete checked the maps and announced our longest water crossing of the day was likely less than 5 minutes. There was much rejoicing.


SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEECH...

...went the sound of EVERYTHING as we approached the Bear River. Not one, not a handful, but a pile of coastal browns were congregated here to fish. A couple of larger males snacked on their catch across the river on a wide spit. A sow and two awkward cubs seemed agitated at something (guess what) and continually approached and retreated. Then a subadult and a bigger male came over the dune line not far away. The sub saw us and fled at a dead run, really stretching it out to put distance between us. But the boar did not--he angled past us and ambled over to the agitated sow as if to apologize for nappin' on the job. 




We threw out suggestions on how to cross the river yet stay safe and mobile all the while. No plan seemed sound--there were just too many bears, in too many places, to feel comfortable with the ~10 stationary minutes it would take to unpack, rig boats, cross, then pack up. We considered heading inland but there were bears there too--some sleeping, some ambling, others distant but approaching. Breakers were much too big to punch out and paddle past. In a word, it was tense. There was no clear 'right action' to take.

We kept edging closer to the river, hoping for an advantageous realignment of circumstances, but none came. The agitated sow was every bit as testy, and getting braver about ambling close before wheeling to shoo her cubs back.

I slapped my forehead when I realized our oversight: We'd edged our way to the river hoping to cross, but where we stood was the last bend with current before the river met the breakers. Translation: Salmon. We were standing on the most coveted fishing spot. Once we realized our error we edged away, up onto a dune for better 360* visibility, then slowly worked up the river's edge, stopping to scan the perimeter constantly. Point man Brian would take a few steps, we'd shuffle behind, then we'd all stop and stare, gauging the reaction of any bear in sight. At first there wasn't much to go on, but as we got further from the catbird spot several bears visibly relaxed--laying back down to eat on their catch. The agitated sow waddled into the water--precisely where we'd been standing--and began scrambling after fish to feed her cubs.

When collectively we felt as though the situation had stabilized, the guys scrambled down the bank and began hurriedly inflating boats. I stood sentry on the dune, able to keep tabs on ~10 bears that weren't visible from water level. Once Dave was across and could see a wide sweep of real estate, I shuffled down and hurriedly blew up my boat, then motored to the other side to repack.


There were several more streams to cross throughout the afternoon, with plenty of ursine company at each, but none approached the scene at the Bear River.

Brian's 'magic gear' ran out of pixie dust, so he stopped to install a tensioner.


Can't take a break without plowing down more food while enjoying the world beneath your feet.






In a pointed departure from our habits of the previous few nights, we called it a day and set up camp with the sun still high in the sky. Back to vacation mode. 

(^^^Note the well defined bear trail running along the left edge of the frame.)

This guy was positively manic bebopping around these blossoms, until passing out (as pictured) with what seemed like a sugar crash. Amped. Then, faceplant, and out.


Dave seemed to be enjoying all aspects of the trip, but he positively came alive when it was time for campcraft. Give the man a task (here, lining the tent with dry grasses) and he'd just go to work until the job was done, then look for something else, tackle that, and on, and on, and on.


Dave shown here, 'malleting'. No cause for alarm, just stay out of his way.


And fire? Well, anyone can cobble something together that burns, but it wasn't done right (really) until Dave had put things in order.




And then we unwound into the evening. Cooked and ate. Did dishes and relaxed. Collected more wood while the light persisted--we were far too buzzed from a 5-star day to dream of sleeping yet.












First Pete faded, then Brian wandered off to bed. Dave and I fed the fire late into the night talking, solving the problems of the worlds we knew. That done we talked of family at home, plans for how we'd spend time with them upon returning. Then it was early morning and still we kept at it, plotting out future adventures with bikes and boats--the way you do when all is well on the current trip. Then it was after 3 and Dave seemed to be just getting going. I bade him goodnight and could hear him rambling around and feeding the fire--sticks breaking, embers popping--every time I shifted in the night. I doubt he slept, and I can't say I blame him: I didn't want the day to end either.




​


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## SJKevin (Nov 30, 2011)

At some point can you take the time to post a little about your backgrounds? I'm curious as to who takes on an adventure of this kind without the Discovery Channel filming it.


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## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

SJKevin said:


> At some point can you take the time to post a little about your backgrounds? I'm curious as to who takes on an adventure of this kind without the Discovery Channel filming it.


Brian's the guy at your local bike shop that talks you out of bling for the sake of it, and into riding more to get faster. And the guy that practices what he preaches--he'll tear your legs off without getting his heart rate up.

Pete's the guy that lives in that sketchy warehouse on the other side of the tracks, collecting shoddy old bikes in piles inside the fencing and rarely seen outside during daylight hours.

I'm the crotchety guy with the eyebrows who yells at them damn neighborhood kids to get off my lawn.

Dave's the guy that'd rather go in for back-to-back root canals than drive *anywhere*. Whether by uni, muni, cross, fat, mountain or cargo bike, Dave lives to explore his world by bike, and does so en route to and from work daily.


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## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

*Lava: Intermission*

I posted the words/clip below shortly after returning home from the Lava Coast trip last August. Now that you've seen most of what we did on a daily basis, it seems apropos to share the 'other side' of things.

* * *

All too often I'm accused of painting a slightly-too-rosy picture of the trips I've done. People tell me that I underestimate the amount of hike-a-bike or other foot slogging when bikes were supposed to be ridden. They tell me I underexaggerate times and distances. They accuse me of doing these things deliberately, in an effort to sucker people ("them") into joining, just so that I can watch them writhe in misery.

They're wrong.

I think it's a simple misunderstanding. I don't enjoy watching people suffer--neither friends nor strangers. It's just that a long time ago my idea of fun somehow got intertwined (chemically, I think) with my idea of ridonkulous.

An example: On my 2010 traverse of the Iditarod Trail I crossed paths with a pair of rookies near the top of Rainy Pass. The snow was bottomless, the wind was strong, the trail was gone, and when we weren't wallowing and wading through the unconsolidated fluff we actually had to leave our bikes and *swim* forward through the snow to create a trough. After a few exhausting minutes we'd turn around and wade backward to where the bikes lay. Then we'd waddle forward once more. Then back. In so doing we'd create a 'trail' that would allow us to drag the bikes forward maybe 50 yards every 15 minutes.

This lasted hours.

While taking a much-needed breather one of the others quipped, "At some point it gets so ridiculous you just have to laugh...!" She said it with a tone of incredulity, a look of befuddled amusement on her windburned face. I smiled as the wisdom of her statement sunk in: She couldn't have been more right.

Traveling to or through difficult-to-access places is rarely easy or straightforward. At some point it's going to get downright difficult, if not seemingly impossible. I relish these moments more now than ever before: I can't google the answer; Can't call information and ask them what to do; Can't call 'time out', can't push a button and be transported elsewhere. I have to put the brakes on, slow down 'til I am here and nowhere else, and figure out a solution. Often that means grin and bear it, and move a few feet every few minutes. Sometimes it means retreat and find a better way. Occasionally it means sit down and wait for something to change.

Any one of the above is priceless. We've become so conditioned to being ants-in-the-pants go-go-go now-now-now with the world at our fingertips that we rarely process what's happening right now. We're always thinking three steps (or hours, or days) ahead while glancing, uncomprehending, at the scenery and talking over the music in our ears. Putting myself into ridonkulous situations has become an 'out' of sorts, where I have no choice but to embrace whatever is happening at this precise moment.

And once you've gotten yourself back to 'now', there's just no sense complaining when you're the cause of your own situation. Is there?

So it's not that I try to dupe people into doing miserable stuff. I'm actually trying to enable them to have some reptilian fun!

Which is which depends purely on perspective. Are they looking at it from here?

* * *

On this last trip up Alaska's Lava Coast I didn't document much of the adversity that we encountered. It seemed that usually when our fun meters were pegged it was also raining and blowing, and I try to keep my cameras holstered when it's like that. Either that or my hands were busy with the handlebars, or paddle, such that I couldn't stop what I was doing to shoot. So I can't show you the defining moments: The uncertain crossing of Moffet Lagoon at dark. The terrifying-for-all-of-us realization, while crossing Hague Channel, when Pete finally understood he was being sucked out with the tide. The white knuckle crossing to Egg Island in 4' whitecaps with 30 knot winds. The tension of the Bear River incident, when we were outnumbered, surrounded, and unsure if any direction was safe.

Can't show you any of it, nor can I explain in such a way that you'd 'get it'.

But I *can* show you this:






And after watching that, maybe you'll understand on some level that it wasn't all peaches and cream.

Or...

...you might just see that it *was* all peaches and cream.

There is, to some extent, a choice.

There *is*.

Last few days of this story coming up soon--stay tuned.

MC​


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## slow2go (May 5, 2007)

Magnificent.
Thank you.


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## *Matt* (Sep 24, 2008)

Amazing. Thanks for sharing.


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## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

*Lava: Nine.*

As weather for riding goes, you could do a lot worse than what we woke to and traveled through all of this day. Cerulean skies, light breezes, packed sand.


While making breakfast and packing up I tried to dredge up a quotation from a book I'd read last spring. It had been on my mind since leaving the Bear River, but I wasn't able to remember it in sufficient enough detail to share it with the gang.

But here, now, I can open the book and quote it verbatim:
Half of our population considers grizzlies to be serial killers and the other half considers them a cross between Yogi Bear and Winnie the Pooh. But they are not serial killers, they are not harmless, and they are not our friends. They are wild beings, with all that connotes. For reasons I don't understand, many people have a hard time accepting that fact. As Aldo Leopold put it: "Only those able to see the pageant of evolution can be expected to value its theater, the wilderness, and its outstanding achievement, the grizzly."

We had a river crossing a short distance out of camp. Someone thought they saw a bear as we approached, but when we arrived the river was vacant. I enjoy spectating wildlife going about their doings, but in their absence I can enjoy distant views instead.


Then we crossed another river--just splashed on through--and another, neither with any bears present, and had to wonder why there were so many yesterday and so few today. Lack of salmon running up these to spawn? Full from yesterday's gorge-a-thon? Late night party left them all hungover?

Arriving at the Muddy River the on-the-ground scene bore little resemblance to what the maps showed. We found a single 1/3 mile wide braid with no clear indication on where, or how, to best cross. Pete did what Pete does and just plowed straight in from where we stood. He wallowed at first, strode easily through the middle, then wallowed deep on the far side. 


The water lacked clarity so riffles were the only means for gauging approximate depth, and that wasn't quite enough to go on. Brian headed upstream to try a different line.


He too had good luck early on but then stumbled and nearly fell, catching himself before losing his footing but ending up way past balls deep in the process. Then it looked like he was struggling through quicksand through the middle section, before wallowing deep again at the far side.

Veniaminoff, venting.


Dave and I talked it over a bit. I voted to head closer to the breakers where the braids came together, blow up the boats, and paddle a short distance in fast current. Dave hemmed and hawed and ultimately plowed in on a derivative of Pete's line. I followed shortly, using his missteps to clue me in to what was happening below. 


We ended up wallowing about as much as the others, then once on the far side turned our attention to Cape Seniavin.

Anyone and everyone familiar with this coast had told us that we'd need to head inland to get past Cape Seniavin (rhymes with cinnamon). That detour was partially to avoid the cliffy cape, but mostly to keep from spooking the heaps of walrus hauled out in its shadow. We smelled their acrid ammonia-rich presence before we could see or hear them, using that cue to head off the beach and into the hills.








We lunched there, spectating and speculating on the activities of the herd. Back on the bikes we found a rideable bear trail over the top.






A gorgeous section of beach followed, then another cape with an obvious-even-from-this-distance bear trail cutting the corner.






Then more booty, more great riding, and increasing amounts of avian company.






The mother lode?

This was a mere portion of the quantity we found in one ~100 square meter spot. I dropped a waypoint on the GPS and plan to sell the location of that waypoint on eBay...


Glance at a map for this part of the peninsula and you'll see the names of several wildlife refuge units that we passed through--some administered by the feds, some by the state, and some merely by common sense.

Needing water, we peered over the dune line to see Ilnik Lake angling our way.






Around about that time we circled the wagons and called it a night. 


Comfy evening temps had us lingering in the warm sand for hours, feeding the fire, cooking our dinners, alternately enjoying conversation, jokes, and silence, then drifting off for more quality sleep.
​


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## dirtmistress (Sep 2, 2005)

Please sir, may I have some more. 
So sorry the read is over. It was beautiful.


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## MotoX33 (Nov 8, 2011)

I may have missed it but what are those glass balls?


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## donkey (Jan 14, 2004)

dirtmistress said:


> Please sir, may I have some more.
> So sorry the read is over. It was beautiful.


Oh...it isn't over. There's still 4 days or soo left!


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## big terry (Apr 22, 2012)

MotoX33 said:


> I may have missed it but what are those glass balls?


they are fishing net floats from japanese nets. you can find em all along the coast, but usually not in concentrations like that.


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## She&I (Jan 4, 2010)

Awesome run down! Sorry to admit it, but I kind of like when mikesee gets injured. Keep up the inspirational posts, and get well soon!

someotherMike


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## tim208 (Apr 23, 2010)

totally badass, good for you.


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## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

*Lava: Ten, eleven, twelve.*


On tap for the morning: 5 water crossings traversing the Seal Islands. The continuance of blue skies and light breezes kept us upbeat as the route edged back into a marine phase.


Don't think we're in Kansas anymore...


I dare say this was the most subtly memorable day of the trip. The riding was good--largely hardpacked but requiring you to pay attention and choose lines, often dancing right along water's edge to get the most glide per stroke. But it never went on for long before we'd be unpacking, inflating and paddling a brief bit of fun water. Then pack up, ride another interesting bit before floating, and repeat.


By 'fun' water I mean that we were crossing short constrictions where a large bay filled and drained. So there was substantial current to factor in, increasing toward the midpoint of each reach before falling off again near the far shore. Plus breakers to skirt the edges of, as well as an increasing amount of wind to confound and confuse. All in all, it was just enough to call it enjoyable and challenging, but, perhaps because we'd learned so much a ~week before, it never became exciting or anxious.




On into afternoon the crossings ended and we got back to pure beach riding. And although I doubt any of us could say for sure when it happened, the wind was now up enough that any further paddling would be questionable to commit to.


Fortunately there was no more water to cross today. Somewhere near the base of the Stroganof spit we were able to find a bluff big enough to hide under. Protected from the brunt of the wind, we made camp for the night. Flapping tents made conversation difficult, but it also made plain that what we'd planned the next day--a 6+ mile crossing of Port Heiden--was not going to be possible until the wind died.


I was too fixated on the wind to get much sleep that night. Each time it dropped, usually for mere seconds, I was alert and straining to hear through my bag: How big were the waves, and what direction were they coming from?

As is often my habit, I finally fell off exhausted seemingly minutes before daybreak. Which is when Pete rousted us to get moving. As much open water as we had to cross, we wanted to time our put-in for the very last bit of outflow going to slack, giving us as much buffer as possible to paddle with the incoming flow. We packed quickly and rode the ~5 miles out to Stroganof Point.


And the wind was every bit as strong out there, driving waves into the shore where we stood. We discussed options, but it seemed clear that putting in with that amount of wind and what we assumed were much bigger waves in the channels was a terrible idea. Wanting to stay close to keep tabs on the conditions *right here*, we tried to erect a tent to crash in for a bit, but the wind kept that from happening. A brief powwow then we headed back toward the base of the spit.

There we raised a tent and climbed in, napping off and on, snacking here and there, mostly just waiting for the other shoe to drop. If anything the wind increased through the afternoon, bringing rain with it. Brian and I did some high-stakes food trading, wherein each obviously felt that the other was clearly a sucka for coming out of the deal as they did.




When it became obvious that no further consideration would be given to attempting the crossing today, we erected the other tent, bolstered both with added guyouts and sand dams along the base of each wall, then tried to get some sleep.

By morning the wind hadn't dropped a bit--had merely changed direction 180*. Was that good? Bad? Did it make our planned attempt any more possible? We vacillated wildly while packing up. I was game to go back to the point and have a look, but figured we'd be back here shortly thereafter. Pete didn't seem game to try, Dave was too busy packing the Angry Midget to comment. And Brian? He said little but his look seemed amused, perhaps wondering why we were even having this conversation: We had water, and boats, so why not put in? At least that was how I read it.

Ultimately the decision to abort the crossing and start heading *around* Port Heiden was made. I guessed we were in for at least a day and a half, maybe two days of tidal mank slogging. Nasty as that sounded, I couldn't get my head around paddling a tiny, overladen packraft in the wind and waves present.

It was about as bad as we expected.






We were on the move for better than 12 hours this day, riding for the first 30 minutes and then not again. At all. We skirted the shore of the bay, heading inland when the mank became too deep, heading back out when the mush started to swallow us. We saw birds and bugs, grasses, water, and goop, but nary a rock nor tree blighted our view all day. 


We were all soaked through from the inside out and outside in. We had hoped to cross the Meshik River mouth and work our way toward the first contour lines we'd cross all day--all in hopes of finding a dry spot to camp. In the last bit of wan twilight we admitted defeat, opting not to wander aimlessly in the dark. We pulled up bunches of grass and piled them deep in our tents, laid the boats out atop that, then heaped sleeping gear atop that. ​


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## radair (Dec 19, 2002)

I'm loving this thread. Makes me want to take the Pugs to the beach... You must get very efficient at transitions between bike & raft on days like this.


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## Yeti1973 (May 11, 2012)

Great story and photos.


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## Yeti1973 (May 11, 2012)

Inspirational


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## MSU Alum (Aug 8, 2009)

Absolutely amazing!


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## mikesee (Aug 25, 2003)

*Lava: Thirteen.*

By morning our bedsteads of heaped grass with auxiliary boat lift had sunk to within millimeters of the waterline. Lean a bit too far to pull something out of your pack and you'd be elbow deep in soup. So it was a grim progress we made in packing up and getting going.


Once you accept that you're going to be sodden and filthy for the foreseeable future, then the struggle to stay clean/dry can end. The sooner the better--not even a duck's ass could stay dry out here.


We crossed the Meshik, even getting a tiny bit of current-assist before grounding out. We chased the receding tide to some avail, but at some point you just have to accept your fate and get back to the shoreline. We'd been stranded 1/2 mile out a few times in the past ~week, unable to reach floatable water, and scarcely capable of making it back through the muck to semi-solid earth. Truly no-man's-land.


There wasn't often a clear 'right answer' with respect to line choice--and as such we'd rarely be on the same line. 4 guys fanned out and searching for the firmest surface gets to be comical when there's no good line to be found. Dave and Brian floated better than Pete or I, and as such could make some pedal progress in places where we didn't bother swinging a leg over our bikes to try. Trudging along behind, we could see when their tracks rode high or cut deep, and would be able to adjust our course from that--where to be and where emphatically not to.

The wind had vanished, replaced by drizzle that morphed into a full-on cold rain, causing us to wonder if our foot-slogging could have been avoided with a bit more patience out at Point Stroganof.


At Birthday Creek the outflow was strong enough to dip a bottle and drink--our first sweet water in better than 3 days. Not that drinking had been critical--I felt like just breathing was nearly adequate hydration.

Early afternoon we found rideable stretches of black sand beach, often interspersed with muck of some sort, but the balance had shifted to mostly riding. Derelict structures and abandoned boats began to appear, signaling a certain proximity to the village. We popped up off the beach and found a rough ATV track, that may or may not have been any better than what we'd left behind.


Maybe an hour of increasingly frustrating travel popped us out here.


And then, yes Virginia, the rain came down hard. With less than a mile to go to "town" Pete flatted his rear tire. And the rest of us pulled full on bastard moves in an effort to save our own hypothermic hides: We just kept riding. He needs to tell that story from his perspective--here or elsewhere.

Moments later we found the hub of All That Is and Will Be in Meshik: Jack's New Meshik Mall.


Inside Betty tended to us like the needy kids we were, feeding us hot ramen and White Castles, loaning us the phone and coming up with any and every number needed to make flight reservations to get back home, even interpreting byzantine airline rules and regs. While this was happening a steady stream of locals darkened the doorway in search of processed white sugar in liquid, solid, and even gel form. (Licorice is not a big seller, Monster is).




We made friends at the school with teachers and administration, crashing there for the few days it took to get all of us and our gear out on the tiny planes that touch down briefly when the weather allows.


Brian won big on many levels, selling his bike, paddle, and PFD to some stoked locals, then getting a seat on the first flight out in order to make it back to work *almost* on time. B--you need to tell, at minimum, the story of your flights in and out, and all the shenanigans along the way.


Pete, Dave and I stayed another ~2 days in the quiet of the school, decompressing before re-entry by napping, reading books (remember books?!) and magazines, checking and answering some email, and using the gym to play round after round of H-O-R-S-E, floor hockey, and dodgeball.


In sum, we rode, paddled, pushed, and dragged for roughly 280 miles in the span of 13 days.

The photos above were shot primarily on a Canon T1i with a 60mm macro and 8-16mm UWA. Supplementary shots/clips came from a Canon SX230 IS, and a Contour POV with waterproof case. Read between the lines here and you can safely assume that yes, there is a full-on video to accompany all of the above stills and text.

Dave is currently working on his writeup and pics. Keep an eye on the Surly blog for that sometime in the next few weeks.​


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## big terry (Apr 22, 2012)

thanks for the amazing adventure story, and accompanying photography. look forward to hearing what the rest of the guys have to say, and seeing video


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## The Sagebrush Slug (Jan 12, 2004)

That was a trip report full of awesome sauce! 

Thanks!

Rolland


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## MattC555 (Mar 24, 2011)

Thank you for sharing this. I greatly enjoyed every post.


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## thorkild (Jul 22, 2008)

mikesee said:


> Two schools of thought on that.
> 
> One seeks to stay dry all the time--gore shoes, gore socks, NEOS overboots, wading pants, etc... I went this route on the Lost Coast. That I've seen, it just doesn't work because once the inners are wet there is NO WAY they're going to dry behind that much non-breathing fabric.
> 
> ...


Mike. I have always been very firmly in the second camp. I take 2 pair of socks total on my trips. One for travel, which stays wet. One in the dry bag which only comes out in camp. Wet socks are miserable in the morning, but I get used to it after a minute.


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## Pine Cone (May 14, 2012)

Stunning pictures and stories!

For most of us that is more than the adventure of a lifetime, but I suspect you have more of them in store for you.


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## Grizzly900 (Jun 24, 2010)

Wow! What amazing scenery and adventure!!! Thanks for sharing.


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## MSU Alum (Aug 8, 2009)

My apologies for resurrecting an almost 4 year old thread, but this is the epitome of passion.


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## DIRTJUNKIE (Oct 18, 2000)

MSU Alum said:


> My apologies for resurrecting an almost 4 year old thread, but this is the epitome of passion.


I remember this one. No apologies necessary it's quite an adventure and inspiring for all.


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## bmf032 (Sep 8, 2010)

I agree! It helped put my lazy rear end on the bike in questionable weather the last two days.


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## jncarpenter (Dec 20, 2003)

Mike...never saw this one before, but incredible! I would love to do this!


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## Rojo Grande (Oct 23, 2012)

Wow, what an incredible adventure. Thanks for sharing Mike!


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