The Irresistibility of BearsAugust 15 – Lowe Inlet
It turns out, I can watch bears just being bears for hours and be perfectly happy. It is what I have been doing for the past several days. The weather is glorious; each day I awake to sunshine on blue water outside the big stern windows just beyond my pillow in our aft cabin. The first order of morning business is a trip to the deck to see what is happening at the waterfall. We are anchored just in front of it and can clearly see the rock platforms on each side of the falls and exactly what the bears are up to, After a couple of days, I can even begin to identify certain individual bears. On these hot afternoons, there is one who seems to have a penchant for soaking in a little pool at the side of the falls. It sits there by the hour in its own private 'cold tub,' watching other bears come and go. A small yearling bear is just learning how to fish and stands next to the falls, flailing his paws and watching the fish go by...we cheer when he gets a salmon! The big bears work fast--they walk down to the 'prime spot,' get in position and catch a fish, either by trapping one against the rock or literally snatching it out of the air as it jumps, usually in less than a minute. They seem to take one fish, carry it up to a flat spot on top of the rocks to eat it, then return to the falls for a second fish which is then carried back into the woods. When the bears leave, the bald eagles go after the carcasses, followed by the ravens. Nothing is wasted.
Francis’s feast
July 31 – Klemtu
It is close to 7:00 when dinner is announced. Chiefs, elders and out-of-town guests are invited to join the buffet line first. We wait, a little shy, until we see that other visitors are joining the line. Ahead of us is a group of village teenagers, giggling and cutting up, and the two young fishermen who gave us a freshly-caught coho salmon the day we came into the dock here. We thank them again. When we get to the Big House kitchen it is clear that the Robinson family has been cooking for days. There must be a dozen huge aluminum foil roasting pans of salmon alone, each proudly prepared in the favorite way of its contributor. Many more pans of halibut, baked or fried, tempt us. Huge bowls of potato salad and macaroni salad fill in the corners. There is one dish we do not recognize. It turns out to be boiled sea cucumber and we each try some. Patrick enjoys his, I find it tastes a bit like salted rubber bands … but I am glad to have had the experience. Later I learn that the sea cucumber was prepared by Francis’s mother. We carry our plates back to our seats and eat until we can hold no more. And then the dancing begins.
The Sea Monster Dance
The drummers and singers begin their song as the
dancer enters the big house from behind a screen. A black cape covers his body from mask to sand dance floor. Crouching low, he bends forward from the waist and moves from side to side on deeply bent knees; his movements mimic those of a sea creature from nightmares, undulating through the lightless depths, looking for an unwary fisherman or careless boater. The carved cedar mask of the sea monster glares out at the audience, seeking, hinged jaw snapping, seeking from one side to the other, tilting inquisitively, stretching forward to see in the dimness. The firelight gleams on the mask’s polished copper highlights. The sound of a carved cedar rattles guides the dancer around and around the central fire. The drumbeat quickens, the singer’s voices grow louder, slowly building to a crescendo. Suddenly, the sea monster spins around and disappears behind a screen as the song and drumming cease. We sit stunned for a moment, caught in the trance of the sea monster’s gaze and the hypnotic rhythm of the drums. Later, we learn that the dancer was our friend Francis’s son Gary, and this is only the second time this dance has ever been performed.
The Chiefs’ Dance is one we have seen before. They wear traditional ‘button blankets’ decorated with a clan crest made from appliquéd fabric and shell buttons. Underneath are dance aprons, also fancifully decorated, often with bells or jingles. Each chief wears a headdress of white fur with a carved frontpiece. Hanging down the back of the mask are dozens of whole white ermine skins. Later they return for the Uplifting of the Babies where each new baby and its parents are introduced to the band. Each chief carries one of the babies, followed by its parents, in a proud dance around the central fire.
The Killer Whale dance begins with a single dancer, masked and caped in black. She glides toward the central fire. Her hands are pressed together in front of her as if in prayer; they represent the Killer Whale’s proud black dorsal fin. She steps smoothly, gracefully to the drum beat as if through water, moving her hands up and down, up and down the way that a swimming orca’s dorsal fin first pierces the surface of the water and rises, then sinks below as it swims. Soon, another orca joins her, then a third and a fourth, moving together in timeless patterns around the fire. The Killer Whales are traveling, hunting together as they do in the sea just steps outside the door of the Big House. One by one they leave the fire circle.
In finest potlatch tradition, there is a jokester. Early in the evening, a handsome young man had announced the he was the “lost and found” and if anyone misplaced any item, they should come to see him. He appears now on the sand dance floor after the crest dances, holding up a jacket and announcing that the owner of said article will have to dance in order to get it back. Everyone looks around to check on their belongings, now scattered over the seats. Above us we hear someone say, “Hey—that’s mine – I’m sure I left it right here!” and those who are in the know start to smile. The jokester and his assistants have staged this to tease a guest, who good-naturedly makes his way down toward the fire. The singers and drummers begin a chant and the jokester starts to dance, his movements aping those of the real dancers, exaggerating and parodying them. He dances backwards, holding the jacket high out in front of the poor victim, waving it temptingly and indicating that he must earn the jacket back by doing the same dance. The whole audience roars with laughter at the amusing movements of the jokester, and the pitiful attempt at imitation by the jacket’s owner. This scenario is played out several times throughout the evening, much to everyone’s delight.
Sea Otter Suprise
We leave our snug anchorage in Mary Cove and set our course westward to the First Nations village of Klemtu on Swindle Island. They have an excellent and abundant supply of fresh water so Patrick and I take advantage of the coming bounty by taking showers and starting a load of laundry in our little washing machine. Patrick is in the shower down below; I am on watch, navigating across the channel and watching out for floating logs, common on this coast. I spot a small-ish one and note that it is not in our path, not a danger to our hull. I turn and continue to scan the surface of the water for half-sunken dangers. I catch myself idly wondering, “Why is that log rolling over?” when it hits me—that's no log -- it is a sea otter! Instantly I drop the boat into neutral and scramble down the companionway steps in search of the video camera, calling “Sea otter! Sea otter!” to Patrick. Seconds later I’m back on the foredeck filming the otter as he floats on his back off our bow. He lifts a paw in what seems like a wave of greeting, and returns to his rolling, grooming air bubbles into his thick fur with his clawed forepaws, insulating himself from the cold water. The otter does a back flip and dives for moment, so I turn to see if Patrick is out of the shower. And there he is at the cockpit door, dripping wet and wearing nothing but a pair of binoculars. This particular moment will not make it into the video …
We are invited to a celebration at the Big House in Klemtu! 
We have been here before, the first time was several years ago on a tour by one of the village elders, Francis Robinson, an elder of this village and a delightful, kind, funny man who was Klemtu’s unofficial ambassador for many years. He died in 2010. Last year we met one of his sons, a nephew and a grandson, and exchanged letters with them over the winter. This year we meet more relatives, and are invited to the feast commemorating the unveiling of Francis’s tombstone. Francis's son Gary tells us he has been preparing for this event since his father’s passing, almost three years. The ‘doings’ begin at 3:00 in the afternoon. We find a place near some acquaintances from the village and settle in on the wide bleacher-like seats in the big house. We are surrounded by cedar. Cedar, along with salmon, is the core of life on this coast. It provides everything from building materials like the truly colossal house posts, beams, walls and seats of the Big House, to the medium for the carved dance masks we will see, to the bark from which is woven the traditional hats and headbands worn by many members of the community. At the front of the Big House, a huge cedar log, carefully peeled and shaped, lies prone behind the seats set up for the chiefs and elders. Long cedar benches on either side of the log are for the dozen or so drummers, who will strike the log with large carved cedar drumsticks that look small clubs. Even the large stone fire-pit in the center of the huge sand dance area is fed throughout the night with chunks of it. The sharp perfume of freshly-cut cedar fills the air and its smoke drifts slowly upward to the opening in the roof, high above. Francis’s son George tells me that the smoke of the cedar fire embraces the ancestors. He says his father is with us in the smoke.
We have been here before, the first time was several years ago on a tour by one of the village elders, Francis Robinson, an elder of this village and a delightful, kind, funny man who was Klemtu’s unofficial ambassador for many years. He died in 2010. Last year we met one of his sons, a nephew and a grandson, and exchanged letters with them over the winter. This year we meet more relatives, and are invited to the feast commemorating the unveiling of Francis’s tombstone. Francis's son Gary tells us he has been preparing for this event since his father’s passing, almost three years. The ‘doings’ begin at 3:00 in the afternoon. We find a place near some acquaintances from the village and settle in on the wide bleacher-like seats in the big house. We are surrounded by cedar. Cedar, along with salmon, is the core of life on this coast. It provides everything from building materials like the truly colossal house posts, beams, walls and seats of the Big House, to the medium for the carved dance masks we will see, to the bark from which is woven the traditional hats and headbands worn by many members of the community. At the front of the Big House, a huge cedar log, carefully peeled and shaped, lies prone behind the seats set up for the chiefs and elders. Long cedar benches on either side of the log are for the dozen or so drummers, who will strike the log with large carved cedar drumsticks that look small clubs. Even the large stone fire-pit in the center of the huge sand dance area is fed throughout the night with chunks of it. The sharp perfume of freshly-cut cedar fills the air and its smoke drifts slowly upward to the opening in the roof, high above. Francis’s son George tells me that the smoke of the cedar fire embraces the ancestors. He says his father is with us in the smoke.
The Feast
We are welcomed to the celebration by Francis’s eldest son . Francis's tombstone is in a place of honor between the seated chiefs and elders and the central fire. Tomorrow it will be taken by boat and placed on his grave on this village’s burial island. Tonight, this good man is memorialized by those who
knew him best and the speeches are very moving. At one point, many large containers are carried out and placed in the sand on the far side of the fire. Giant plastic storage tubs, laundry baskets and boxes are stacked in a large display. We realize that this is not just a feast, but a true potlatch. I have been studying the potlatch tradition this summer, so I know that the giving of gifts bestows honor on the giver. In this culture, the more a leader gives away, the greater his status, the greater the honor to Francis. Family members and friends of Francis are called to the front and given gifts of household goods and even cash. The distribution of gifts takes place at several different times during the celebration.
We are welcomed to the celebration by Francis’s eldest son . Francis's tombstone is in a place of honor between the seated chiefs and elders and the central fire. Tomorrow it will be taken by boat and placed on his grave on this village’s burial island. Tonight, this good man is memorialized by those who
knew him best and the speeches are very moving. At one point, many large containers are carried out and placed in the sand on the far side of the fire. Giant plastic storage tubs, laundry baskets and boxes are stacked in a large display. We realize that this is not just a feast, but a true potlatch. I have been studying the potlatch tradition this summer, so I know that the giving of gifts bestows honor on the giver. In this culture, the more a leader gives away, the greater his status, the greater the honor to Francis. Family members and friends of Francis are called to the front and given gifts of household goods and even cash. The distribution of gifts takes place at several different times during the celebration.It is close to 7:00 when dinner is announced. Chiefs, elders and out-of-town guests are invited to join the buffet line first. We wait, a little shy, until we see that other visitors are joining the line. Ahead of us is a group of village teenagers, giggling and cutting up, and the two young fishermen who gave us a freshly-caught coho salmon the day we came into the dock here. We thank them again. When we get to the Big House kitchen it is clear that the Robinson family has been cooking for days. There must be a dozen huge aluminum foil roasting pans of salmon alone, each proudly prepared in the favorite way of its contributor. Many more pans of halibut, baked or fried, tempt us. Huge bowls of potato salad and macaroni salad fill in the corners. There is one dish we do not recognize. It turns out to be boiled sea cucumber and we each try some. Patrick enjoys his, I find it tastes a bit like salted rubber bands … but I am glad to have had the experience. Later I learn that the sea cucumber was prepared by Francis’s mother. We carry our plates back to our seats and eat until we can hold no more. And then the dancing begins.
The Sea Monster Dance
The drummers and singers begin their song as the
dancer enters the big house from behind a screen. A black cape covers his body from mask to sand dance floor. Crouching low, he bends forward from the waist and moves from side to side on deeply bent knees; his movements mimic those of a sea creature from nightmares, undulating through the lightless depths, looking for an unwary fisherman or careless boater. The carved cedar mask of the sea monster glares out at the audience, seeking, hinged jaw snapping, seeking from one side to the other, tilting inquisitively, stretching forward to see in the dimness. The firelight gleams on the mask’s polished copper highlights. The sound of a carved cedar rattles guides the dancer around and around the central fire. The drumbeat quickens, the singer’s voices grow louder, slowly building to a crescendo. Suddenly, the sea monster spins around and disappears behind a screen as the song and drumming cease. We sit stunned for a moment, caught in the trance of the sea monster’s gaze and the hypnotic rhythm of the drums. Later, we learn that the dancer was our friend Francis’s son Gary, and this is only the second time this dance has ever been performed. 
The Chiefs’ Dance is one we have seen before. They wear traditional ‘button blankets’ decorated with a clan crest made from appliquéd fabric and shell buttons. Underneath are dance aprons, also fancifully decorated, often with bells or jingles. Each chief wears a headdress of white fur with a carved frontpiece. Hanging down the back of the mask are dozens of whole white ermine skins. Later they return for the Uplifting of the Babies where each new baby and its parents are introduced to the band. Each chief carries one of the babies, followed by its parents, in a proud dance around the central fire.
There is a dance for each of the clan crests: the Killer Whale, the Eagle, the Raven and the Wolf, each accompanied by the drummers and singers. The songs are simple ancient melodies with words in a language unknown to us. Around us, some of the villagers are singing along. We are asked not to record these dances.Each one is owned by someone here, perhaps passed down through many generations, and only performed with his or her permission.
The Killer Whale dance begins with a single dancer, masked and caped in black. She glides toward the central fire. Her hands are pressed together in front of her as if in prayer; they represent the Killer Whale’s proud black dorsal fin. She steps smoothly, gracefully to the drum beat as if through water, moving her hands up and down, up and down the way that a swimming orca’s dorsal fin first pierces the surface of the water and rises, then sinks below as it swims. Soon, another orca joins her, then a third and a fourth, moving together in timeless patterns around the fire. The Killer Whales are traveling, hunting together as they do in the sea just steps outside the door of the Big House. One by one they leave the fire circle.
Next the Eagles surround the fire, their carved cedar masks have piercing eyes and yellow hooked beaks; white heads and white tails at the end of their black capes make them easily recognizable. The swoop and soar around the flames, arms outstretched, stooping to dive, stretching high to ascend. The chittering high-pitched cry of the eagle is woven into the singers’ chant. Wheeling and diving, the eagles leave the dance floor all too soon.
They are followed by the lone Wolf, who stalks around the fire, slinking stealthily, large carnivore eyes ever-watchful. She circles the fire, always counterclockwise, to the rhythm the drummers pound out, the compelling, almost hypnotic lub-DUB, lub-DUB of a heartbeat, felt through the cavernous space, felt through the core of my body. Suddenly the beat changes to a rapid staccato. The lone wolf stops, raises her head and howls. She is answered by one of the singers, howling to her in return. The lonely sound echoes through the huge big house, eerie, almost heartbreaking.
In finest potlatch tradition, there is a jokester. Early in the evening, a handsome young man had announced the he was the “lost and found” and if anyone misplaced any item, they should come to see him. He appears now on the sand dance floor after the crest dances, holding up a jacket and announcing that the owner of said article will have to dance in order to get it back. Everyone looks around to check on their belongings, now scattered over the seats. Above us we hear someone say, “Hey—that’s mine – I’m sure I left it right here!” and those who are in the know start to smile. The jokester and his assistants have staged this to tease a guest, who good-naturedly makes his way down toward the fire. The singers and drummers begin a chant and the jokester starts to dance, his movements aping those of the real dancers, exaggerating and parodying them. He dances backwards, holding the jacket high out in front of the poor victim, waving it temptingly and indicating that he must earn the jacket back by doing the same dance. The whole audience roars with laughter at the amusing movements of the jokester, and the pitiful attempt at imitation by the jacket’s owner. This scenario is played out several times throughout the evening, much to everyone’s delight.
It is almost midnight and a 'night lunch' of sandwiches and desserts is served. Now more big plastic tubs are carried out onto the sand. Francis’s family come and open them, first pulling out dozens and dozens of t-shirts and hats commemorating tonight’s celebration. They roam throughout the bleachers, distributing them to the guests. We are surprised and honored to be given these potlatch gifts. More tubs and baskets come out. These are filled with kitchen and household items. Someone lays out many mixing bowls on the ground. Others randomly fill the bowls with differing assortments of hand towels, pairs of socks, kitchen utensils, dish cloths hand-crocheted doilies and potholders, and more. Once again we are each given a bowl full of potlatch gifts. The potlatch is ending. Hearts full, we thank our hosts, and bid our new friends in this village goodnight. We fall asleep, cedar smoke wafting through our dreams. This is an experience we will never forget, as we will never forget our friend Francis Robinson and our many friends in Klemtu.
Sea Otter Suprise
July 30 - Finlayson Channel
We leave our snug anchorage in Mary Cove and set our course westward to the First Nations village of Klemtu on Swindle Island. They have an excellent and abundant supply of fresh water so Patrick and I take advantage of the coming bounty by taking showers and starting a load of laundry in our little washing machine. Patrick is in the shower down below; I am on watch, navigating across the channel and watching out for floating logs, common on this coast. I spot a small-ish one and note that it is not in our path, not a danger to our hull. I turn and continue to scan the surface of the water for half-sunken dangers. I catch myself idly wondering, “Why is that log rolling over?” when it hits me—that's no log -- it is a sea otter! Instantly I drop the boat into neutral and scramble down the companionway steps in search of the video camera, calling “Sea otter! Sea otter!” to Patrick. Seconds later I’m back on the foredeck filming the otter as he floats on his back off our bow. He lifts a paw in what seems like a wave of greeting, and returns to his rolling, grooming air bubbles into his thick fur with his clawed forepaws, insulating himself from the cold water. The otter does a back flip and dives for moment, so I turn to see if Patrick is out of the shower. And there he is at the cockpit door, dripping wet and wearing nothing but a pair of binoculars. This particular moment will not make it into the video …
Grizzly at Khutze Waterfall 
Khutze Inlet has been a favorite stop for us since we came in for the first time several years ago. The long narrow inlet leads several miles up into the interior. At the head, a huge grassy river delta and several waterfalls drain the surrounding 4000 – 5000 foot peaks. We anchor just in front of the largest waterfall. It is really many waterfalls that start in the snow fields high above us. When the late morning sun strikes at the right angle, they appear as glowing strands of molten silver, gathered one by one and braided together by a giant, invisible hand.
Today Patrick spots a grizzly bear strolling across the flats near the base of the big fall at the bottom of the valley. We watch the bear stride across grass, rocks and small creeks before he takes to the water of the inlet and swims several hundred yards along the rock wall. We imagine he seeks to cool off (the temperature today is in the 70s) and escape from the horse flies we can see circling his head. He occasionally lifts his head and sniffs the air while swimming. Finally he scents what he is looking for and confidently climbs the steep, rocky shoreline to disappear into the woods.
Khutze Inlet has been a favorite stop for us since we came in for the first time several years ago. The long narrow inlet leads several miles up into the interior. At the head, a huge grassy river delta and several waterfalls drain the surrounding 4000 – 5000 foot peaks. We anchor just in front of the largest waterfall. It is really many waterfalls that start in the snow fields high above us. When the late morning sun strikes at the right angle, they appear as glowing strands of molten silver, gathered one by one and braided together by a giant, invisible hand.
Today Patrick spots a grizzly bear strolling across the flats near the base of the big fall at the bottom of the valley. We watch the bear stride across grass, rocks and small creeks before he takes to the water of the inlet and swims several hundred yards along the rock wall. We imagine he seeks to cool off (the temperature today is in the 70s) and escape from the horse flies we can see circling his head. He occasionally lifts his head and sniffs the air while swimming. Finally he scents what he is looking for and confidently climbs the steep, rocky shoreline to disappear into the woods.
