The Lost Coast of Alaska stands as one of the more remote regions of the state. The coast receives the brunt of storms rolling in from the Pacific and into the Gulf of Alaska, with no land in between to serve as a buffer. With its many bears, storms, and rugged terrain, the area remains infrequently visited. In the past, I’ve read of others who have done trips along this very coast (like Hig & Erin, Andrew Skurka and Roman Dial) and had planned to follow suit one day. Yet a trip of that magnitude didn’t seem to be within my repertoire of skills or expertise in terms of travelling solo, so it remained a distant plan. A few weeks ago, I received a message from a former coworker, Trevor Scott, who told me he had some free time and was thinking of doing the south portion of the coast, from Yakutat to Gustavus. With nothing but time on my own hands, I invited myself along and the trip was born.
After crossing the Situk River outside Yakutat, we found ourselves on the beach. Endless miles of ocean lay off to our right and a wide path of sand lay straight ahead. The sand was mostly firm and the walking was superb. The initial forecast when we were planning the trip called for 9 days of rain, but showers were nowhere to be found. The following day had close to no clouds in the sky, providing for a visual treat as we gained a greater view of the mountains in the distance. Mount Fairweather dominated the skyline and after paddling across Dry Bay in the last light of the day, we made camp with it looming not too far off in the distance.
The seemingly endless firm sand ceased halfway through the next day as we were introduced to the boulders along the coast. The area holds many glaciers, most of which have receded throughout the past 200 years, leaving in their wake an array of boulders in all shapes and sizes. Progress slowed further when we were forced to leave the coastline at the outlet stream of Grand Plateau Glacier. We attempted to follow bear trails through the thick, but not yet leafed out, brush. A short paddle among icebergs brought us to the other side and eventually back to the boulders. At the end of the boulders and the close of our day, we found ourselves back on firm sand. Here the trees towered much closer to the shoreline, leaving a much smaller beach. It was beginning to look like the Lost Coast that I had envisioned.
We awoke to earthquakes the next morning. Two shook the ground and the tent in the early hours and served as a prompt to get us moving. During the day, Trevor told me that he had a previous ankle injury that had a chance of flaring up again. Coupled with a blister and rain, we made much slower progress than the previous days. At Cape Fairweather, we found more boulders, which proved even more troublesome with the falling rain. Halfway through, Trevor slipped; moving from one boulder to the next and fell. There was no serious damage, but he wasn’t going to continue any further that day. I was visibly annoyed, there was plenty of light remaining and I was in go mode. My ego and this attitude would lead to further conflict in the coming days.
The clouds lingered, but there wasn’t much rain the following day as we made our way to Lituya Bay. Travel was becoming fairly routine. Miles of sand, both firm and soft, interspersed with patches of boulders, loose rock and water crossings. The route had provided great travel up to that point. There was minimal bushwhacking and any bushwhacking we did face wasn’t as severe as it could be due to the plants not having yet leafed out. That very day we witnessed the onset of leaves and the blooming of leafing vegetation like the alders.
We were protected from southeast winds before Lituya Bay, but as we approached we began to hear the beginnings of a storm raging on the other side. The forecast called for 35 mph winds and that seems to be what we found. Whitecaps and continuous waves filled the bay and large breakers rolled into the entrance from off shore. A crossing was out of the question and we made camp in a protected stand of trees on the spit.
We woke to lesser winds, 20-25 mph, but the bay remained rough and we were forced to do some more waiting. Rain was often intermingled with hail, pelting the tent periodically. Scaring off a brown bear that was grazing too close to camp provided the bulk of the excitement for the day. There wasn’t much to do and we alternated between lying in the tent, eating and watching the water. Trevor mentioned during the day that he wanted to go much slower from here on out and came up with a new itinerary. With my attitude of go, go, go this was not a pleasant alternative to our pre-established plan. Tough discussions ensued concerning communication and planning. We eventually came to somewhat of an agreement and left the tent to watch the waves at our own favorite viewing areas.
The morning brought much calmer winds and with it, our successful crossing of Lituya Bay. We met a couple, Ben and Stephanie, on the opposite beach, who were undertaking essentially the same trip. They were forced to call it short due to injury and would be flying out in the afternoon. After exchanging stories and gaining valuable route info, we continued on, following a continuous 2 mile bear trail, past a sea lion rookery, back to the beach. The storm had passed and we were treated to grand views of the ocean, forest and immense mountains. Travel was at a slower pace, but we still walked all day, leaving everyone pleased. A wolf and a bear sighting, plus an encounter with another hiking group from Arctic Wild, capped off an end to a great day.
Another clear day greeted us in the morning and we worked to move past La Perouse Glacier, less than a mile distant. This was one of the question marks of the route. A few years ago the glacier had surged, blocking off any travel on the beach. Some who had traveled at that time were forced to launch their boats into the surf and go around. We found a glacial face that received waves from the ocean, but we were easily able to skate on past at low tide. There was a continuation of travel like the previous days as we made our way to Icy point. Firm sand, clear skies and water crossings filled the day.
By this time, Trevor’s foot was feeling better, but he wanted to stick around Icy Point for a few days and explore the area. I was not interested in doing so, and with that we decided to split amicably. I wanted to see how fast I could reach Gustavus, estimating about 3 days if conditions and terrain went my way. Goodbyes were exchanged and I set off down the beach at a fast clip. My first obstacles were two separate headlands that I’d have to navigate before leaving the coast and heading inland. Skurka had described them as ardous. But I figured without budding leaves and solid bear trails they couldn’t be that bad. A rougher than comfortable ocean forced my hand, keeping me onshore, and off I went into the woods, attempting to find a clean route to the other side. I think that arduous could be an understatement. What I found was a mess of disappearing bear trails, thick alder, windfalls, steep slopes, plenty of devils club and rolling terrain. The section was about 2 miles and took me 2.5 hours to complete it going at a hard pace. Upon reaching the other side, I was exhausted and drenched with sweat. And there was still one more to go. Suddenly, lounging about for a few days didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
The second headland was difficult, but nowhere near as grueling as the first. A bear trail led me from one end, up, over and through the brush and down to the boulders before the beach on the other side. After 5 hours of being separated, I had managed to cover only 7 miles. My overestimation of my abilities and underestimation of the land was starkly apparent. I made camp, scaring off a closely wandering brown bear before dozing off.
The agenda called for more bushwhacking as I had to make my way to the Dixon River. At Lituya Bay, Ben pointed out a route he saw that looked like it had a lot of muskeg, which could make for much easier travel than reports of elsewhere. Brush was thick, but the terrain was flat. With patches of muskeg, I found myself making good time. About halfway through, I reached back to make my standard check to ensure everything was still in its place. Water bottle? Check. PFD? Check. Poles for my paddle? Gone. I was soon filled with a sense of despair. I raced back a short distance but was unable to find them. Having lost them in the past half hour, a search seemed futile in the thick brush. I trudged back to the beach to what I was sure would end up being a flight out. Another mistake causing a shortened trip and more $$$ down the drain. Before hitting the beach, a pack of wolves darted in front of me, offering a small consolation prize.
Meanwhile, Trevor had decided he didn’t want to linger around Icy Point after all. He took advantage of the good weather to paddle around the headlands and continue on. We were able to get in contact, and after making a surf landing, we linked up once more. We would attempt to make a wood shaft and move our final destination to Elfin Cove, which lay closer than Gustavus thus requiring less paddling. A day of rough travel and bushwhacking ensued as we made it to the Dixon River, up to North Deception Lake and after slipping and stumbling down a creek in the dark, found ourselves camped at the base of North Trick Lake.
During a break along the Dixon River, I had found a shaft for the new improvised paddle. With Trevor’s superior lashing and knot skills, a respectable paddle was formed. It was put to the test the following day on a crossing of the lakes. And much more extensively later on as we navigated much of the outlet stream towards and through the tidal flats that lay before Brady Glacier. It was heavy, but held up reasonably well for what it was and achieved its purpose. Rain pelted us all day long and after being treated to a view of another wolf, we left the boats and walked quickly across the flats and found a protected camp near Taylor Island.
The walking section of our trip was essentially complete. We lay 10 miles distant from Elfin Cove and were now waiting for decent conditions to embark. Rain and wind continued the following day, with less than ideal conditions we were provided with another day of forced rest. Staring at the green wall of the tent for much of the day can’t be good for the soul. The crossings would be the crux of the trip and with rain, an improvised paddle and low confidence, my mood sunk.
Both conditions and my mood improved the following day and seemed to be good enough for an attempt. We set off with the intention of hitting our first crossing at slack tide. With favorable conditions, we traveled quickly and made the decision to cross earlier than planned. Midway, we found ourselves caught in a riptide and being pushed up the channel, away from our target, towards Gustavus. We retreated towards where we originally planned to launch, eventually making another attempt much closer to slack tide, this time without issue.
4 miles out from Elfin Cove, I called to book a flight for later that afternoon. Shortly thereafter, we came across The Hobbit Hole, a local bed and breakfast that apparently had some history attached to it. Trevor was interested in checking it out. I didn’t want to risk missing my flight. In disagreement once again, we parted ways. I was left with ~3 miles of travel, with one smaller crossing along the way.
It wasn’t anywhere near slack tide as I started the crossing but conditions appeared favorable. The sea was calm, the distance relatively short and the wind was in a position where it wouldn’t cause stacked waves. I took what I considered to be a conservative line and set off. All was going well until I reached the midpoint of the crossing. Beyond protection of land, I found myself in the main current and being sucked out to sea. I was aware of how serious my predicament had become and tried to remain calm. I paddled furiously, attempting sharper angles to get across more effectively. But my boat continued to drift past my intended safety net and out towards open sea. Unable to return to a safe point, I felt my fate was somewhat sealed and became more anxious. But with continued paddling, I found myself a few moments later out of the current into an eddy and ultimately back to safety along the shore. A half mile further, Trevor arrived with Greg (resident of The Hobbit Hole) in his boat and provided a ride for the rest of the way. Another hard lesson that would round out the trip.
The Lost Coast proved to be spectacular, nothing short of the hype that others have generated. Some have called it the best trip in Alaska. I’m in no position to take a firm stance on that statement but it certainly is an exceptional route. The trip was another step in my learning experience, in physical, mental and interrelationship skills. It was filled with lessons concerning communication, group dynamics, subjective risks and ocean travel among others. I had been to Southeast Alaska once before, but this trip allowed me to get a glimpse of its core. I’d like to return for the north section at some point, but for now I’m content to flee north to the sunny and dry lands of Interior and Northern Alaska.s
