Jo stays warm in her arctic parka while viewing Exit Glacier in Seward.
Next to messing about in boats, there may be nothing quite so enjoyable as lingering by the banks of a river, watching fishermen casting for their fish. And it matters not whether the fish are there or choose not to take the bait. We sat by the side of the Russian River, on the Kenai Peninsula, watching this scene and transported by the dreams of all the fishers who lined the banks and who took to dories. This is the time the salmon will make their run upriver. The salmon are downriver in Soldotna, a fisherman told me. But they haven't found their way up the icy turquoise-colored glacier river yet.
We'd planned to stay the night alongside the river. There's a primitive cable ferry here that will haul you and your gear to the other side of the racing river – it flows at around 6-7 knots and the ferry is hauled back and forth on its cable while the skipper strains at the wheel to keep the boxy vessel pointed into the roaring stream.
We had come up from Anchor Point, the most westerly point in them North American continent that is serviced by a highway. The point is at longitude 151.83746 degrees west of Greenwich, England. We had come to that place not to check off the “most westerly point” but to spend time up close with Bald Eagles. We were not disappointed.
Jo and I first wandered through the underbrush, alongside the Anchor River. We rounded a bend and there was the river. More importantly, there were the eagles. They had caught their own salmon and they took turns tearing at it and gulping down the rich meat and roe. They were surrounding by a haranguing retinue of gulls and crows, all of them hollering and yakking trying to claim their piece of the action. The eagles were silent since they owned the salmon. And they had no intention of sharing their catch. I walked the bank and they watched me. I tried to get close so I could capture the moment. The eagles worked with me and I was able to capture the feeding frenzy.
After supper, we wandered to the beach and found a whole new batch of eagles cleaning up the halibut guts that fishermen had left on the shore.
I worked my way along the stony beach, closing with a particularly handsome bird. He just stood on the sand offering himself to me. It reminded me of years ago in Africa when a klipspringer, a small antelope, stood in the cleft of a red rock face. He waited for me to work my way up the rocks so I could photograph him in the cleft. When I showed that picture to one of the reporters later and told him how the klipspringer had awaited me, Christoff Maletsky looked at me and said simply, “He offered himself up to you, Robert.” Christoff, of the Damara tribe, had grown up in the area where I'd been photographing and he knew the animal life intimately. So I experienced the same sense while working with the eagle.
He permitted me to gently approach him. I had started out 50 yards away. I edged slowly up the beach, trying not to disturb him. He looked at me with those awesome eagle eyes. He projected the sense that he could see me from 50 miles away. When I stopped about 10 feet away, I sensed he was getting a little nervous. Perhaps I was pushing into his personal space. Ten feet, though, is close enough. When you are that close, you can see the enormous talons. You can see the hooked beak. You can sense the massive power of the bird. I never felt in danger. But I did sense he could do with me what he wished with those talons and beak.
He allowed me to photograph him so his entire head filled my viewfinder. And then he turned his back and waddled along the beach for about 10 feet before opening his wonderful wings and lifting off with the greatest of ease. Now that was a moment as close to perfection as I have ever experienced.
Sunday, July 11
We've moved again, this time to Seward. What a drive this was. You come south between jagged peaks that are part of the Harding Icefield. There are too many glaciers to count – and all of them receding at record rates.
We parked on the edge of Resurrection Bay, in the city of Seward, and immediately set out for Exit Glacier. This is one of the few that are reachable on foot. We hiked into the Kenai Fjords National Park, passing many Japanese tourists who seem to take great delight in always photographing themselves at every outlook area. There must be something in the national character that demands to record their presence. We watched a father endlessly shoot his wife and two precocious children. When I offered to take his camera and photograph him with the whole family, however, he said, “No thank you.” Whatever.
Because we do not expect to come this way again, we have booked passage on a boat tomorrow for a 9.5-hour journey to Northwestern Fjord.
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