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Duncan Murrell - A Whale of a Time

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Duncan Murrell - A Whale of a Time

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  • I paddled onto the town of Mananara, whilst nursing my painful foot injury and infected sores. I had to make a long detour around the next point to avoid the minefield of fringing coral reefs and faced the prospect of trying to find a way through the maze of threatening coral in the fading light of the day, and was relieved when I eventually found a clear passage through to the shore. I received treatment for my injuries, in Mananara, and then shared a ride to Maroantsetra, the gateway town to the Masoala Peninsula, in the back of a pickup truck with other foreigners. I was glad that I was able to experience that road journey through the beautiful, biodiverse vegetation of Mananara National Park. I then explored the amazing island of Nosey Mangabe in Antongil Bay, where I had my first encounter with an incredible leaf-tailed gecko, which was love at first sight.<br />
I then paddled from Maroantsetra to the Masoala Peninsula. The sea was flat calm when I passed Nosy Mangabe but just after midday the wind started to pick up as it often did at that time of day. It was coming in from the entrance to the bay, which opens out onto the Indian Ocean, and in a very short time I found myself battling into winds gusting over 30 mph. Once again I had to keep stopping to pump out water whilst trying to hold my position facing into the oncoming waves. Progress was painfully slow and with every laboured stroke I felt as if my shoulders were dislocating. I was getting drenched with spray every time I ploughed into a wave and the salt was building up on my skin. As my body gyrated with each paddle stroke my back was getting rubbed raw by my backrest and the salt aggravated the sores. My throat was parched and I didn’t have enough water to quench my thirst; I was beginning to feel like a galley slave! My arms and shoulders screamed with the exertion, the salt was burning my flesh, and I had to overcome exhaustion; by the time I eventually reached my destination I was completely drained.
    Kayaking-Madagascar-journey33.jpg
  • Tenakee Inlet penetrates deep into Chichagof Island, and at the far end there is an old portage with a rail-track and cart to get across to Port Frederick, which leads to the native town of Hoonah. Nearly every September my summer kayaking trips ended up in Tenakee Inlet, when humpback whales usually arrive to feed on herring cooperatively using bubble nets. They often followed the herring up and down the inlet with me in tow in my kayak. This photo was taken over half-way up the inlet.
    Alaska-camping-kayaking17.jpg
  • Kayaking-Madagascar-journey36.jpg
  • Kayak-Madagascar-invertebrateInverte...tif
  • Kayak-Madagascar-invertebrateNew-Mad...jpg
  • The brightly coloured mottled anemone was one of my favourite creatures in the intertidal zone of Southeast Alaska. The red streaks on its flanks are like flames of luminous wet red paint.
    Southeast-Alaska-coast-anemone14.jpg
  • Apart from ascending An Sgurr, the other essential thing that I had to do during my first time on the Isle of Eigg was to visit the infamous Massacre Cave. During the sixteenth century there was a lengthy feud between the Macleod and MacDonald clans. According to traditional accounts, in 1577 a party of MacLeods staying on the island became too amorous and caused trouble with the local girls. They were subsequently rounded up, bound and cast adrift in The Minch, but were rescued by some clansmen. A party of MacLeods subsequently landed on Eigg with revenge in mind. Their approach had been spotted by the islanders who had hidden in a secret cave called the Cave of Frances (Gaelic: Uamh Fhraing). The entrance to this cave was tiny and covered by moss, undergrowth and a small waterfall. After a thorough but fruitless search lasting for three to five days, the MacLeods set sail again but a MacDonald carelessly climbed onto a promontory to watch their departure and was spotted. The MacLeods returned and were able to follow his footprints back to the cave. They redirected the stream and lit a fire at the entrance so that the cave was filled with smoke thereby asphyxiating everyone inside. Three hundred and ninety five people died in the cave, the whole population of the island bar one old lady who had not sought refuge there. Human remains in the cave were reported to have been found, but by 1854 they had been removed and buried elsewhere.<br />
Massacre Cave sits in the back of a fault-like crevice under a steep rock face near where this photo was taken just around the point south of Galmisdale. It was one of the most eerie places that I have ever visited, and as I crawled along the very low claustrophobic passage into the cave my imagination was vividly reconstructing the horrific event from many centuries ago. I had to crawl for about 7 metres before it opened out into a larger chamber where it was impossible not to feel their presence, and to hear their choking and screams
    Kayaking-West-Coast-Scotland49.jpg
  • It was such a relief to set foot on my first beach along the Masoala Peninsula and what a beautiful beach it was. There was a small river flowing out from the dense forest and I couldn’t wait to explore it. But I was physically drained and the next day was a day of recovery and quiet, relaxed contemplation of my verdant surroundings. When I finally paddled up the river and walked as far as I could I was mesmerised by the vegetation. There was such a wonderful variety of different trees, tree ferns and palms, many of them undoubtedly endemic to Madagascar or even to the Masoala Peninsula. This is what I had been dreaming of when I first made plans for this trip; to be alone in a remote part of Madagascar with the means to explore rivers and penetrate one of the most scientifically valuable rainforests on <br />
the planet. I continued along the peninsula looking for more rivers to explore.
    Kayaking-Madagascar-journey34.jpg
  • Palawan-assorted8.jpg
  • The common sunstar is a species of sea star belonging to the family Solasteridae. It is found in the northern parts of both the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans. The intertidal life in Southeast Alaska is very rich because of the nutrient-rich water that is pumped around by the prevailing strong currents and upwellings.
    Southeast-Alaska-coast-starfish13.jpg
  • This is the pebbly beach and stack at the northern tip of the island near where I was camping. The steep escarpment that fringed the eastern half of the island can be seen in the background. I can imagine that the Inner Hebrides is a geologist’s paradise. I can only profess to having a keen layman’s interest in geology; physical geography was one of my favourite subjects at school, and I always find myself trying to remember and identify geomorphological features on my travels.
    Kayaking-West-Coast-Scotland44.jpg
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  • The brightly coloured mottled anemone was one of my favourite creatures in the intertidal zone of Southeast Alaska. The red streaks on its flanks are like flames of luminous wet red paint.
    Southeast-Alaska-coast-anemone15.jpg
  • Palawan-assorted9.tif
  • It was hard to tell from my nautical chart exactly where I could expect to find protection from offshore coral reefs. There appeared to be stretches where I would have to take my chances and run the gauntlet on the open sea and then hope to find a way of getting back inside the next stretch of protective coral reef. Sometimes they abutted right up to the shore or there were too many breakers to negotiate. It was a constant maze that I had to negotiate and make the best choices for. I stopped at a village called Vinanivao to see if I could pick up some of the usual provisions like baguettes, biscuits, onions, tomatoes and bananas. I limped through the hot streets dragging my bloated foot beside me and having to seek out the shade because the hot sand was scorching my feet. It wasn’t just the sand and my bad leg that made me feel uncomfortable, as the locals only stared at me as if I was an alien invader. It was the first remote village that I had passed through where I didn’t feel completely welcome. Sitting down was always a great relief now, even if I still had to keep moving my foot around to find the least uncomfortable position. By contrast, the next village that I passed afforded me a memorable welcome even if I decided to stay in my kayak. I skirted the beach and was spotted by a group of young boys frolicking in the water. They came rushing over to me and started clowning around, plunging, splashing, wrestling and plenty of funny faces. I could have spent the day with those little clowns enjoying their simple life but my bad foot meant that I had to keep pressing on to reach a doctor. Sometimes the pain was so unbearable that I had to lay on my side and recite a rhyme until the pain abated. But eventually the sore on the back of my ankle burst open and erupted its suppurating contents, leaving a gaping hole, but at least the pressure and some of the pain was relieved.
    Kayaking-Madagascar-journey43.jpg
  • It was hard to tell from my nautical chart exactly where I could expect to find protection from offshore coral reefs. There appeared to be stretches where I would have to take my chances and run the gauntlet on the open sea and then hope to find a way of getting back inside the next stretch of protective coral reef. Sometimes they abutted right up to the shore or there were too many breakers to negotiate. It was a constant maze that I had to negotiate and make the best choices for. I stopped at a village called Vinanivao to see if I could pick up some of the usual provisions like baguettes, biscuits, onions, tomatoes and bananas. I limped through the hot streets dragging my bloated foot beside me and having to seek out the shade because the hot sand was scorching my feet. It wasn’t just the sand and my bad leg that made me feel uncomfortable, as the locals only stared at me as if I was an alien invader. It was the first remote village that I had passed through where I didn’t feel completely welcome. Sitting down was always a great relief now, even if I still had to keep moving my foot around to find the least uncomfortable position. By contrast, the next village that I passed afforded me a memorable welcome even if I decided to stay in my kayak. I skirted the beach and was spotted by a group of young boys frolicking in the water. They came rushing over to me and started clowning around, plunging, splashing, wrestling and plenty of funny faces. I could have spent the day with those little clowns enjoying their simple life but my bad foot meant that I had to keep pressing on to reach a doctor. Sometimes the pain was so unbearable that I had to lay on my side and recite a rhyme until the pain abated. But eventually the sore on the back of my ankle burst open and erupted its suppurating contents, leaving a gaping hole, but at least the pressure and some of the pain was relieved.
    Kayaking-Madagascar-journey42.jpg
  • The snorkelling around the islet where I camped for a week was excellent. There was a shallow underwater shelf that extended out from the northern end of the islet and because of the strong upwelling around the islet there was abundant marine life. This was the most surprising creature I encountered a very short distance from the shore, a stone fish, that blended in perfectly with the seaweed, apart from its incredible eyes, which seemed to be illuminated by fire. I was able to approach it very closely with a certain degree of caution.This was my first ever trip with a reasonably good underwater camera, and my first attempts at some serious underwater photography.
    Kayaking- Gulf-of-California68.jpg
  • When I was camping on one of the Los Candeleros islets, I was sharing it with three ravens. They were rolling and tumbling acrobatically in the updraughts that were whipping up the precipitous face of the island. I have developed a special affinity with that most ubiquitous, intelligent and successful of all birds over many years in Alaska, where their amazing repertoire of calls is an integral feature of the ancient forests. I have even learnt how to mimic some of their calls and capture their attention. After a few days cutting the ice with my fellow residents one of them started flying out to my kayak to seemingly greet me whenever I returned to the island; it would circle overhead whilst calling out and then escort me back to shore.<br />
After a couple of weeks of familiarisation my glossy black friend vanished. A few days later I landed on a nearby beach at Ensenada Blanca to visit an American living in the local fishing village. As I stepped ashore I noticed a raven flying demonstrably towards me. I replied to its raven calls and it flew overhead and did a few rolls as if it was showing off. The acknowledgement was plain to see, rather like a dog wagging its tail. Then it flew ahead of me and proceeded to harass and dislodge the turkey vultures that were perched in the trees. After each successful assault it called out and then proceeded to dislodge another vulture in the next tree; within seconds the sky was full of screeching, disgruntled vultures! It seemed as if the raven was clearly intoxicated with its own sense of bravado, and maybe it was even trying to impress me. When I arrived at the American’s house at the end of the beach I told him about the hilarious encounter with my shiny black friend and when he looked out of the doorway to see if the raven was still out there he looked at me, laughed, and informed me that it was waiting outside for me, and sure enough it was perched on a cactus just a few metres from the door!
    Kayaking- Gulf-of-California61.jpg
  • What an auspicious start to my trip! I had already made one false start leaving too late in the day and having to head back to the relative shelter of Tamatave. The next day I paddled 20 miles along the completely featureless coastline, and all I saw was a continuous, steep beach, with the big swells of the Indian Ocean crashing down onto it. I couldn’t see any ideal places for making a safe landing so I had to just go for it, come what may. I monitored the sequence of waves and made a dash for it at what seemed the safest point. I managed to get through the surf but as soon as I hit the beach and jumped out of the kayak the next wave broke into the cockpit and the powerful undertow started to drag my heavy flooded kayak back out to sea. The alarm bells were already clanging away inside my head, along with the thought, “Here’s another fine mess I’ve got myself into!”<br />
I instinctively started grabbing bags out of the kayak and hurling them up onto the beach while either my feet or knees were desperately anchoring into the abrasive shingle, but I was still being dragged around mercilessly by my unruly kayak. I looked down along the endless beach and saw two diminutive figures so I started hollering for help. As they got nearer my heart sank because I could see that it was a young girl with a child. They could only grab my things that were floating away in the relentless surf but then miraculously a strong young man appeared on the scene, and jumped into the sea to help me wrestle with my half-submerged kayak. The kayak was a dead weight in the water so I decided to start dismantling the cockpit coaming so that some of the water could be drained from the cockpit. It worked, and after much heaving we managed to drag it up the beach away from the surf; we both collapsed on the shore, utterly exhausted and chilled by the cold water. I was eternally grateful for the providential arrival of that young man on that deserted stretch of coastline.
    Kayaking-Madagascar-journey1.jpg
  • Point Gardiner was one of my favourite places to camp, explore and kayak around. The shore was great for beach-combing because Point Gardiner is in such an exposed location at the southern tip of Admiralty Island where Frederick Sound and Chatham Strait converge, and faces towards the opening to the Pacific Ocean at the southern end of Chatham Strait. Many of the beaches are littered with logs from logging.
    Southeast-Alaska-coast8.jpg
  • This was a frequently enjoyed beautiful view from my camp on a small promontory overlooking Tenakee Inlet. It was good look-out point to watch for the arrival of any whales in September when I usually ended my summer kayaking trips here in time to catch the arrival of the bubble net feeding pods of humpback whales. At high tide the little islet with trees is cut-off for a while. There is an old Indian cemetery with several wooden grave markers on there making it an even more atmospheric look-out point. When the whales are bubble net feeding in September they often feed close to the shore along here.
    Southeast-Alaska-coast10.jpg
  • Point Gardiner was one of my favourite places to camp, explore and kayak around. The shore was great for beach-combing because Point Gardiner is in such an exposed location at the southern tip of Admiralty Island where Frederick Sound and Chatham Strait converge, and faces towards the opening to the Pacific Ocean at the southern end of Chatham Strait. Many of the beaches are littered with logs from logging.
    Southeast-Alaska-coast7.jpg
  • Cape Fanshawe was always one of my first anchorages after leaving Petersburg, either in one of my boats, Avalon and subsequently Selena, or in my kayak. It’s on the mainland and at the entrance to my favourite place for vegetation in Southeast Alaska, Port Houghton. Although there are some safe anchorages in amongst the small islands there, and there used to be a fur farm situated there, the actual cape is very exposed to the full power of the elements as can be seen by the way these rocks on the shore have been sculpted; they have been sculpted like waves and are extremely slippery to walk on.<br />
I always remember being trapped there in my kayak late in the summer because the sea conditions were so rough. I was trying to get back to Petersburg at the end of a trip, and when the weather eventually cleared for a while, I had to make a dash for town and paddled continuously for 14 hours to make it back there. I had nearly been out of food, and to add to my torment my tent was being constantly bombarded with cones by a very petulant and territorial squirrel: it developed into squirrel wars!
    Southeast-Alaska-coast12.jpg
  • This was my main camp for many years when I was photographing the bubble net feeding humpback whales. It was a perfect lookout point enabling me to look up and down Chatham Strait, which is the longest navigable channel in the USA. It’s also the point where the Peril Straits enters Chatham Strait from the Pacific Ocean to the west. It was a perfect camp site in many ways apart from being near one of the whales’ favourite feeding sites, the Morris Reef. It had two protected beaches for ease of launching and landing, facing either north or south, depending on which way the wind was blowing from. It was close to streams for fresh water and there was always plenty of firewood washed up on the shore. Perhaps my favourite reason was that in the forest nearby was the biggest patch of huckleberry bushes that I knew of, and huckleberries were my favourite berries to have on my stack of pancakes every morning, to fuel me up for another long hard day paddling with the whales.<br />
It was also a beautiful spot to eat my dinner in the evening. I cooked very elaborate dinners because that was evening’s entertainment every night. Every night I would slide back into my reclining camp seat and watch the dying embers of the fire flicker beneath the stars, and the moon cross Chatham Strait from Admiralty Island to Baranof Island. The stillness of the night was periodically punctuated by a gentle volley of whale breath, which perfectly complemented the sounds of contentment rumbling inside my full belly.
    Alaska-camping-kayaking14.jpg
  • Steller sea lions forage near shore and pelagic waters.They are also capable of traveling long distances in a season and can dive to approximately 1300 feet (400 m) in depth. They use land habitat as haul-out sites for periods of rest, molting, and as rookeries for mating and pupping during the breeding season. At sea, they are seen alone or in small groups, but may gather in large "rafts" at the surface near rookeries and haul outs. They are capable of powerful vocalizations that are accompanied by a vertical head bobbing motion by males.<br />
Steller sea lions are opportunistic predators, foraging and feeding primarily at night on a wide variety of fishes (e.g., capelin, cod, herring, mackerel, pollock, rockfish, salmon, sand lance, etc.), bivalves, cephalopods (e.g., squid and octopus) and gastropods. Their diet may vary seasonally depending on the abundance and distribution of prey. They may disperse and range far distances to find prey, but are not known to migrate.<br />
Steller sea lions are colonial breeders. Adult males, also known as bulls, establish and defend territories on rookeries to mate with females. Bulls become sexually mature between 3 and 8 years of age, but typically are not large enough to hold territory successfully until 9 or 10 years old. Mature males may go without eating for 1-2 months while they are aggressively defending their territory. Males may live up to 20 years and females to 30 years. Females start breeding at 3-7 years and spend the next two decades either pregnant or lactating. Females are bred in June, but the fertilized egg does not implant until October. Single pups are born the following June, with birthdates at southern rookeries earlier than births at northern rookeries. Twins are rare. Pups suckle from 1 to 3 years, with most apparently weaning after their first winter.
    Alaska-Steller-sealion4.jpg
  • Two subspecies of wolves are currently recognized in Alaska; wolves in Southeast Alaska tend to be darker and somewhat smaller than those in northern parts of the state. Wolves are social animals and usually live in packs that include parents and pups of the year. The average pack size is six or seven animals, and pack members often include some yearlings and other adults. Packs of 20 to 30 wolves sometimes occur, and these larger packs may have two or three litters of pups from more than one female.<br />
The social order in the pack is characterized by a separate dominance hierarchy among females and males. In most areas wolf packs tend to remain within a territory used almost exclusively by pack members, with only occasional overlap in the ranges of neighboring packs.<br />
This was my first close encounter with a pack of wolves in Southeast Alaska. They are generally hard to see because most of their range is densely forested but the landscape is much more open in Glacier Bay. I was paddling around this island in the middle of winter when I heard some wolves howling. Around the next bend I encountered a pair of cow moose out in the water protecting themselves from a frustrated pack of wolves howling on the shore. I just sat motionless in my kayak and eventually one of the wolves trotted down the frozen beach and stood right in front of me for a few seconds before returning to the rest of the pack. It was a thrilling experience to look a wolf in the eyes at such close quarters.
    Alaska-wildlife-wolf3.jpg
  • They originated in Asia and crossed into North America shortly before the Bering Land Bridge between Asia and America flooded about 11,000 years ago, and then dispersed throughout Beringia ( prehistoric Interior Alaska and northwest Canada). About 10,000 years ago an ice-free corridor opened up between the huge continental glaciers that covered Canada, allowing animals like moose, grizzly bears and bison to move south from Berangia to the Pacific Northwest into the continental United States.<br />
Moose subsequently evolved into four North American subspecies (and other sub-species found in Scandinavia and Russia). Alaska is home to the world’s largest, Alces alces gigas, as well as a smaller sub-species, Alces alces andersoni. Gigas, also known as Alaska moose or tundra moose, is found in Alaska, the Yukon and northwest British Columbia; andersoni, or anderson’s moose, is found in Southeast Alaska, the eastern Yukon, and central B.C east to Michigan.<br />
Impeded by mountain ranges, icefields and glaciers, moose did not colonize Southeast Alaska until the 20th century. They are far more recent arrivals than Sitka black-tailed deer and wolves, which moved up the coast from the south about 8,000 years ago as the glaciers melted and land was exposed. Moose from British Columbia accressed Southeast via the river corridors and arrived in the Taku River valley south of Juneau and the Stikine River basin near Petersburg about 1910.<br />
I had a memorable encounter with a large herd of moose in Adam’s Inlet in Glacier Bay in the middle of winter. I was standing on the mudflats at low tide and set up my tripod to photograph the moose on the shore. Gradually they started to walk towards me until eventually I was surrounded by at least 20 moose who were more curious about me than afraid; apparently their protected status in the National Park had made them fearless of humans.
    Alaska-wildlife-moose1.jpg
  • Once I managed to drag myself away from the feeding basking sharks in Gunna Sound I headed SE to the southern end of Mull and then E to the small island of Lunga not too far off the mainland. The sea conditions were quite moderate and it was a very pleasant paddle highlighted by a most unexpected encounter. Shortly before arriving at Lunga I saw something on the surface with part of it sticking up above the surface and moving quickly. As I got closer I was able to identify the unmistakeable shape and unique means of propulsion of a sunfish. They can grow to a massive size but this was just a very small one. It was the first time that I’ve seen one, although they have been sighted quite frequently along the south coast of England, and even very close to the shore of one of my local beaches in Torbay. I had always associated them with tropical waters and never ever expected to see one that far north, but such is the changing nature of our climate and ocean currents that there will be a concomitant shift in the migratory patterns of many warm water creatures such as turtles. I managed to get close enough to get a good view of its unusual shape and the gyrating “sculling” action of its tail fin but then it disappeared, although it kept returning to the surface, so I could see how it gets its name of sunfish because they are surface baskers like the basking shark, although they are just doing it to feed.<br />
I had very good memories of visiting Lunga by boat during my first trip to the Inner Hebrides in 1990, especially seeing puffins up close for the first time. I was really looking forward to returning there and being able to camp on the island for a while. It is of volcanic origin and has been described as “a green jewel in a peacock sea” and once I was there again I could only echo that poetic description. It is one of the most beautiful places where I have ever camped and a place that I will always dream of returning to.
    Kayaking-West-Coast-Scotland14.jpg
  • Anthropomorphic iceberg, LeConte Inlet, Southeast Alaska, USA<br />
.<br />
Ice calving off from the tidewater glaciers of Southeast Alaska can assume just about any shape or form, that gradually metamorphoses as they melt. This was one of the most anthropomorphic icebergs that I ever came across washed up on the shore of the Le Conte inlet where the Le Conte Glacier is situated, the southernmost tidewater glacier in North America.
    Alaska-glaciation20.tif
  • Bull moose (Alces alces andersoni), Adam’s Inlet, Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve, Southeast Alaska, USA.<br />
<br />
They originated in Asia and crossed into North America shortly before the Bering Land Bridge between Asia and America flooded about 11,000 years ago, and then dispersed throughout Beringia ( prehistoric Interior Alaska and northwest Canada). About 10,000 years ago an ice-free corridor opened up between the huge continental glaciers that covered Canada, allowing animals like moose, grizzly bears and bison to move south from Berangia to the Pacific Northwest into the continental United States.<br />
Moose subsequently evolved into four North American subspecies (and other sub-species found in Scandinavia and Russia). Alaska is home to the world’s largest, Alces alces gigas, as well as a smaller sub-species, Alces alces andersoni. Gigas, also known as Alaska moose or tundra moose, is found in Alaska, the Yukon and northwest British Columbia; andersoni, or anderson’s moose, is found in Southeast Alaska, the eastern Yukon, and central B.C east to Michigan.<br />
Impeded by mountain ranges, icefields and glaciers, moose did not colonize Southeast Alaska until the 20th century. They are far more recent arrivals than Sitka black-tailed deer and wolves, which moved up the coast from the south about 8,000 years ago as the glaciers melted and land was exposed. Moose from British Columbia accressed Southeast via the river corridors and arrived in the Taku River valley south of Juneau and the Stikine River basin near Petersburg about 1910.<br />
I had a memorable encounter with a large herd of moose in Adam’s Inlet in Glacier Bay in the middle of winter. I was standing on the mudflats at low tide and set up my tripod to photograph the moose on the shore. Gradually they started to walk towards me until eventually I was surrounded by at least 20 moose who were more curious about me than afraid; apparently their protected status in the National Park had made them not fear humans.
    wildlife-12.tif
  • A pack of wolves (Canis lupis) on an island in Adam’s Inlet, Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve, Southeast Alaska, USA.<br />
<br />
Two subspecies of wolves are currently recognized in Alaska; wolves in Southeast Alaska tend to be darker and somewhat smaller than those in northern parts of the state. Wolves are social animals and usually live in packs that include parents and pups of the year. The average pack size is six or seven animals, and pack members often include some yearlings and other adults. Packs of 20 to 30 wolves sometimes occur, and these larger packs may have two or three litters of pups from more than one female.<br />
The social order in the pack is characterized by a separate dominance hierarchy among females and males. In most areas wolf packs tend to remain within a territory used almost exclusively by pack members, with only occasional overlap in the ranges of neighboring packs.<br />
This was my first close encounter with a pack of wolves in Southeast Alaska. They are generally hard to see because most of their range is densely forested but the landscape is much more open in Glacier Bay. I was paddling around this island in the middle of winter when I heard some wolves howling. Around the next bend I encountered a pair of cow moose out in the water protecting themselves from a frustrated pack of wolves howling on the shore. I just sat motionless in my kayak and eventually one of the wolves trotted down the frozen beach and stood right in front of me for a few seconds before returning to the rest of the pack. It was a thrilling experience to look a wolf in the eyes at such close quarters.
    wildlife-9.tif
  • Ice calving off from the tidewater glaciers of Southeast Alaska can assume just about any shape or form, that gradually metamorphoses as they melt. This was one of the most anthropomorphic icebergs that I ever came across washed up on the shore of the Le Conte inlet where the Le Conte Glacier is situated, the southernmost tidewater glacier in North America.
    Southeast-Alaska-glaciation20.jpg
  • I had plenty of good weather to enjoy this beautiful, isolated location. I didn’t see anybody while I was there and very few boats passed by. Most of the marine vegetation was the same as what I was used to in my home of South Devon, with species such as thrift and white campion. But the summer peaks at an earlier date than South Devon so a lot of the plants had already finished blooming. After about a week I was ready to continue my journey towards my next island destination, Lunga in the Treshnish Isles to the south of the Isle of Mull. I first had to paddle along the east coast of Coll to reach the main settlement on the island, Arinagour, located at the head of Loch Eathara. On the way I stopped for a break and came across a very small dilapidated house on the beach with an old fisherman living in it. He was very welcoming and gave me an insight into an isolated and traditional subsistence lifestyle that seems so far removed from the majority of the UK now. Unfortunately before I could reach Arinagour I encountered my first really bad weather on the trip and I really had to fight to get there safely. It was a good test for the stability of my new kayak, as well as my nerves, because the sea conditions were so horrendously chaotic with waves coming at me from all directions. I can clearly remember being so relieved after entering the stormy loch to see the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry approaching, because up until that point I didn’t see any other boats if a rescue had been necessary. I camped near the shore there and the next day I enjoyed exploring the quaint settlement of houses and shops scattered around the loch before heading off towards Lunga. What a different life they have to most places on the UK mainland. I was used to living in, and visiting isolated island communities in Southeast Alaska, but the communities that I encountered on this trip seemed more removed from the influences of modern amenities – street lights for example.
    Kayaking-West-Coast-Scotland5.jpg
  • Wave-cut platform at Cape Fanshawe, on the mainland, Southeast Alaska, USA.<br />
<br />
Cape Fanshawe was always one of my first anchorages after leaving Petersburg, either in one of my boats, Avalon and subsequently Selena, or in my kayak. It’s on the mainland and at the entrance to my favourite place for vegetation in Southeast Alaska, Port Houghton. Although there are some safe anchorages in amongst the small islands there, and there used to be a fur farm situated there, the actual cape is very exposed to the full power of the elements as can be seen by the way these rocks on the shore have been sculpted; they have been sculpted like waves and are extremely slippery to walk on.<br />
I always remember being trapped there in my kayak late in the summer because the sea conditions were so rough. I was trying to get back to Petersburg at the end of a trip, and when the weather eventually cleared for a while, I had to make a dash for town and paddled continuously for 18 hours to make it back there. I had nearly been out of food, and to add to my torment my tent was being constantly bombarded with cones by a very petulant and territorial squirrel; it developed into squirrel wars!
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  • Duncan Murrell eating his breakfast of huckleberry pancakes at Point Hayes, Chichagoff Island, Southeast Alaska, USA.<br />
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This was my main camp for many years when I was photographing the bubble net feeding humpback whales. It was a perfect lookout point enabling me to look up and down Chatham Strait, which is the longest navigable channel in the USA. It’s also the point where the Peril Straits enters Chatham Strait from the Pacific Ocean to the west. It was a perfect camp site in many ways apart from being near one of the whales’ favourite feeding sites, the Morris Reef. It had two protected beaches for ease of launching and landing, facing either north or south, depending on which way the wind was blowing from. It was close to streams for fresh water and there was always plenty of firewood washed up on the shore. Perhaps my favourite reason was that in the forest nearby was the biggest patch of huckleberry bushes that I knew of, and huckleberries were my favourite berries to have on my stack of pancakes every morning, to fuel me up for another long hard day paddling with the whales.<br />
It was also a beautiful spot to eat my dinner in the evening. I cooked very elaborate dinners because that was evening’s entertainment every night. Every night I would slide back into my reclining camp seat and watch the dying embers of the fire flicker beneath the stars, and the moon cross Chatham Strait from Admiralty Island to Baranof Island. The stillness of the night was periodically punctuated by a gentle volley of whale breath, which perfectly complemented the sounds of contentment rumbling inside my full belly.
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  • The west coast of Scotland is one of the best places in the world, along with my home region of the SW of England, for seeing basking sharks, the second largest fish in the world. They can grow up to 10m (33ft) long. They are an open water shark, but move closer to shore in summer to feed on the plankton bloom. They are usually solitary, but occasionally gather in aggregations of 100 or more where there are large concentrations of plankton, usually where there are tidal fronts where different water masses meet. They are filter feeders, and in 1 hour they can filter 1.5 million litres (330,000 gallons) of water through their gills. They are highly migratory, but long-distance tracking of individuals only began recently, and it is still unknown whether they migrate between lower and higher latitudes, or between deep and shallow water. Their livers contain a large proportion of oil typical of deepwater sharks, which may indicate that they spend some time in deep water. Very little is known about their breeding. They probably mature late and reproduce slowly, making them particularly vulnerable to overfishing, especially as fisheries catch more females than males. They were once fished commercially on a small scale around Scotland for their huge livers, which contain oils formerly used in various industries, with a peak recorded catch of 250 sharks in 1947. But in response to dwindling numbers the basking shark has been fully protected since 1998. <br />
Because they swim at the surface, these magnificent sharks are easily harmed, either deliberately or accidentally. Currently, potential threats include bycatch in fishing nets, and disturbance or impact by jet-skis, speedboats and other vessels. Globally its conservation status is currently listed as vulnerable.
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  • It was hard to tell from my nautical chart exactly where I could expect to find protection from offshore coral reefs. There appeared to be stretches where I would have to take my chances and run the gauntlet on the open sea and then hope to find a way of getting back inside the next stretch of protective coral reef. Sometimes they abutted right up to the shore or there were too many breakers to negotiate. It was a constant maze that I had to negotiate and make the best choices for. I stopped at a village called Vinanivao to see if I could pick up some of the usual provisions like baguettes, biscuits, onions, tomatoes and bananas. I limped through the hot streets dragging my bloated foot beside me and having to seek out the shade because the hot sand was scorching my feet. It wasn’t just the sand and my bad leg that made me feel uncomfortable, as the locals only stared at me as if I was an alien invader. It was the first remote village that I had passed through where I didn’t feel completely welcome. Sitting down was always a great relief now, even if I still had to keep moving my foot around to find the least uncomfortable position. By contrast, the next village that I passed afforded me a memorable welcome even if I decided to stay in my kayak. I skirted the beach and was spotted by a group of young boys frolicking in the water. They came rushing over to me and started clowning around, plunging, splashing, wrestling and plenty of funny faces. I could have spent the day with those little clowns enjoying their simple life but my bad foot meant that I had to keep pressing on to reach a doctor. Sometimes the pain was so unbearable that I had to lay on my side and recite a rhyme until the pain abated. But eventually the sore on the back of my ankle burst open and erupted its suppurating contents, leaving a gaping hole, but at least the pressure and some of the pain was relieved.
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  • As I got farther from the shore and out into the fully unobstructed jaws of the Atlantic Ocean, I quickly realised that I was taking a really big chance with such chaotic sea conditions. I debated whether or not to turn back, but I decided against any rational thinking as usual, and adopted my King Canute attitude of defiance against the might of the ocean. If I remember correctly it seemed as if I had waves coming at me from all quarters, especially from the stern, that required some heavy-duty bracing to prevent me from jack-knifing and capsizing. I felt as small and vulnerable as I have ever done in a kayak anywhere in the world. It was quite reminiscent of an epic paddle on the east coast of Madagascar, when the following waves and swell were so big that I had to paddle in a reverse position into the waves, and “back into” the safety of a sheltered lagoon. To say that my heart was in my mouth the entire way would be too understate how genuinely scared I felt, but as always I was fully focussed and defiant, and even shouted at the waves from time to time just to let them know that I wasn’t going to surrender to them. My eyes were fixed on my destination, the small Isle of Lunga, and constantly analysing how much nearer it seemed. <br />
I had good memories of camping on Muck during my previous visit there in 1990. I was really looking forward to being there again, and that as well as my sense of self-preservation kept me battling away with gritted teeth. It may sound very clichéd but when you are paddling along the precipice, as I was in those sea conditions then every fibre of every muscle in your body is as taut as bowstrings. As I slowly got nearer I could already feel some degree of relief coursing through my veins along with the adrenaline. I could see the entrance to the harbour and the new ferry terminal getting delightfully larger and larger. I then paddled around the eastern side of the island towards a sheltered sandy bay on the northern end of Lunga.
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