Tenakee Inlet, Pavlof Harbor
This morning, there was a suspicious silence aboard the Sea Bird. The engines were quiet, we were not traveling; rather, the captain was moving slowly along the shore of Freshwater Bay with a few humpback whales in view. So what? the jaded traveler might ask. We had, after all, seen more humpbacks than anyone might ever expect. What more could there be? Luckily, no one so blasé was at the helm. When the humpbacks began moving with purpose out around the point toward Tenakee, we followed.
A few spouts could be seen over the rocky headland, and when we rounded the corner, the water exploded with spray and mass: a group of humpback whales were cooperatively herding herring, lunging together up through the surface with their mouths agape. When we dropped the hydrophone into the water, we were able to get a sense of the drama and orchestration taking place beneath the surface. For the most part, one whale made a series of low ululations, then began a series of high cries that rose to climax in a sound that was nearly a shriek. Then we would look for the ring of bubbles in the water and the explosion of seven whales that we knew would follow. The sight of these animals moving and working so closely together is drama enough, but paired with the sound of their hunt, the effect was at once chilling and exhilarating, reducing us all to shouts of “There! Over there!”
We know from researchers that the division of labor between animals hunting this way is fairly distinct: one sounds the trumpet, so to speak, while others blow bubbles or flash their long pectorals to herd the herring in a triumvirate of fear. Today, however, we heard two voices overlapping one another under water—could the second be a younger animal learning the ropes? Another whale assisting the leader? While we can’t answer these questions, it’s exciting to be here, listening and asking.
After lunch, we dropped the hook in Pavlof Harbor and set off by foot, kayak, and Zodiac to explore an active salmon stream. Pink, dog, and silver salmon swarmed at the foot of the wide falls, wriggling and thrashing their way upstream. Gulls scavenged the scraps left by bears, and then a bear himself waded into the stream from the far shore. He stood at the top of the falls, scenting, walked across and down, caught a fish in the whirling water, then took it into the woods, crossing a trail that hikers had stood on just moments before.
This has been a week of superlatives, and to have our final day be graced with such wild abundance seems almost too much for anyone to ask of Alaska—yet here we are. Tired and grateful.
This morning, there was a suspicious silence aboard the Sea Bird. The engines were quiet, we were not traveling; rather, the captain was moving slowly along the shore of Freshwater Bay with a few humpback whales in view. So what? the jaded traveler might ask. We had, after all, seen more humpbacks than anyone might ever expect. What more could there be? Luckily, no one so blasé was at the helm. When the humpbacks began moving with purpose out around the point toward Tenakee, we followed.
A few spouts could be seen over the rocky headland, and when we rounded the corner, the water exploded with spray and mass: a group of humpback whales were cooperatively herding herring, lunging together up through the surface with their mouths agape. When we dropped the hydrophone into the water, we were able to get a sense of the drama and orchestration taking place beneath the surface. For the most part, one whale made a series of low ululations, then began a series of high cries that rose to climax in a sound that was nearly a shriek. Then we would look for the ring of bubbles in the water and the explosion of seven whales that we knew would follow. The sight of these animals moving and working so closely together is drama enough, but paired with the sound of their hunt, the effect was at once chilling and exhilarating, reducing us all to shouts of “There! Over there!”
We know from researchers that the division of labor between animals hunting this way is fairly distinct: one sounds the trumpet, so to speak, while others blow bubbles or flash their long pectorals to herd the herring in a triumvirate of fear. Today, however, we heard two voices overlapping one another under water—could the second be a younger animal learning the ropes? Another whale assisting the leader? While we can’t answer these questions, it’s exciting to be here, listening and asking.
After lunch, we dropped the hook in Pavlof Harbor and set off by foot, kayak, and Zodiac to explore an active salmon stream. Pink, dog, and silver salmon swarmed at the foot of the wide falls, wriggling and thrashing their way upstream. Gulls scavenged the scraps left by bears, and then a bear himself waded into the stream from the far shore. He stood at the top of the falls, scenting, walked across and down, caught a fish in the whirling water, then took it into the woods, crossing a trail that hikers had stood on just moments before.
This has been a week of superlatives, and to have our final day be graced with such wild abundance seems almost too much for anyone to ask of Alaska—yet here we are. Tired and grateful.
