An iceberg bobs in Prince William Sound. More than a decade after the most infamous oil spill in history, ecologists still register the effects of the Exxon Valdez. Photo © George Wuerthner.
Alaska’s Chugach National Forest
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A friend and I were in the middle of a six-week kayak journey in Alaska’s Prince William Sound. This was before Prince William Sound became synonymous with ecological disaster—before the Exxon Valdez disgorged its oily cargo into the sound’s teeming waters. We were paddling up twenty-mile-long Unakwik Inlet when we heard the faint sound of people pounding nails. We hadn’t seen anyone in days. We were surrounded by public land—the 5.8-million-acre Chugach National Forest—the second-largest in the country, just behind Alaska’s other national forest, the Tongass. We continued to paddle, puzzled. We drifted beyond an intervening point and beheld our first unbroken view to the head of the fjord. We paused momentarily, awed once more, perhaps for the hundredth time on this trip, by the overwhelming scenery. The snowcapped Chugach Mountains rose thousands of feet into the sky at the head of the inlet, framed by the ragged outline of spruce on nearby islands. Our reverie was broken by more hammering. We rounded another point and discovered the culprits—a raft of sea otters floating on their backs, pounding crab shells with rocks held in their paws. Suddenly, a whale arched its back out of the water just beyond the otters, announcing its presence with a breathy blow from its spout. We drifted, awed once again by the magnificence of the Chugach. Chugach refers to the Chugach Eskimos, who once plied these same waters in kayaks, hunting whales and sea otters, capturing the abundant salmon that still jam streams during spawning runs. When Alaska’s sea otters attracted the attention of Russians in the late 1700s, the Chugach, as well as other native hunters, joined them to hunt the sea otter to near extinction. Today, with protection from trapping, the otter is making a comeback in Alaska. Eventually, people began to realize that the true wealth of the Chugach lay in its scenery and wildlife. Among the first tourists to explore the area were members of the 1899 Harriman Expedition, which boasted a number of noted turn-of-the-century naturalists—John Muir, George Bird Grinnell, William Dall, John Burroughs and others. They were so impressed that they successfully lobbied for the creation of the Chugach National Forest as part of the fledgling national forest system. The Chugach Mountains rise directly from the sea, presenting a wall of peaks that culminates in 13,176-foot Mount Marcus Baker. These mountains are a huge barrier, preventing the often frigid air of interior Alaska from reaching the coast. At the same time, the mountains wring massive amounts of snow and rain from the storms that roll in from the Gulf of Alaska nearly continuously in the winter. During the winter of 1952㫍, more than 974 inches of snow fell on Thompson Pass just north of Valdez. In 1976, MacLeod Harbor recorded more than 320 inches of precipitation—nearly an inch a day. That precipitation feeds one of the most spectacular glacial systems in Alaska. Hundreds, if not thousands, of glaciers cloak the mountains of the Chugach. Not surprisingly, a glacier—the Portage Glacier—is the most heavily visited site on the forest. Just forty miles south of Anchorage, and a short drive off the main highway, the Portage attracts tour buses and motoring sightseers. Nearby, the Kenai Mountains—also on the Chugach—serve as the city’s playground. Every weekend, an endless parade of RVs and campers races south on the Seward Highway to the Kenai Peninsula. Despite the increasing popularity, the Chugach is still a place where it’s possible to witness many of those things that have become so rare elsewhere—wildlife, untouched seashore, miles of unsullied mountain wilderness. And it’s a place that offers the promise of magical moments that are never forgotten, such as the spectacle of a whale cleaving the clear water between a raft of sea otters and the towering, glaciated mountains beyond. George Wuerthner is a frequent contributor to Forest Magazine. |