It’s time, for real, to get our sweet bippies out of the wild.
Snowline descends from no longer naked peaks. We wake to ice on the overhead. The stove warms cabin…boils coffee. We relish the thermal rush a hot mug imparts to cold hands. We blow steam till we can drink it down.
First we have to cross Icy Strait at its widest and perhaps most difficult point. We wait out a storm. We wait for a window. We get a fair forecast. We hop and go.
Well, the forecasts falls short around here, often as not. We take what we’re offered. We pay the toll in muscle and make the crossing.
We ratchet our way along Chichagof’s shore until fair wind finds us. All too soon, we round the corner that rounds the voyage.
Yet we dawdle, reluctant to end our venture.