THE LIFEBLOOD OF THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST

To be honest, I really didn't know much at all about Pacific salmon, or salmon generally, before I left Australia a few months ago. I knew that bears scooped them up from rivers as they headed upstream. I knew that the island I lived on — Bruny Island in Tasmania's Derwent River Estuary — was surrounded by tens of thousands of salmon, all cramped into what were, essentially, fish feed lots. So yeah, I didn't know a whole lot.

What I've learned over the past few months is that Pacific salmon really are the life blood of Alaska and the Pacific Northwest. Salmon are a keystone species in the fragile and complex ecosystems of the North Pacific oceans and the rivers and tributaries that flow into it. Not only are humans dependent on these amazing animals as a food source, but so are bears, eagles, orcas, many seabirds and — believe it or not — even trees. 

When people talk about Pacific salmon they're actually talking about five different species — pink (humpies), sockeye (reds), chinook (kings or springs), chum (dogs) and silver (cohos). Each species varies in its appearance, distribution, behaviour and taste. So far on the trip I think I've treated to three of the five species — whether smoked, cooked, or eaten raw as sashimi. 

Countless communities across the entire region I've travelled live by the salmon. Virtually everyone I met knew whether the salmon were "running", and most knew whether the signalled a good year or a bad one. Basically, a salmon run refers to the annual migration of salmon upstreamwhere they move from saltwater to freshwater in order to spawn — a natural marvel if I've ever seen one. What's more, these fish which may have spent up to three of four years out in the ocean, return to the exact same stream in which they spawned. Nature sure knows how to impress.

Salmon became an integral part of my travels pretty much from the get go. I was gifted it on numerous occasions. I would watch in disbelief as these salmon, slowly but surely, made their way up rivers that I rode over or creeks that I stopped by. I struggled for weeks and months to remember the names and nicknames of all five species. I held my first salmon in Skagway, feeling the pure power in its muscular strength as it wriggled from my grasp. On the Alaskan public ferry from Juneau to Prince Rupert I met three sisters (and an adopted fourth) who were making a documentary about salmon and the threats of proposed mines in three river systems.  And, for the last five days, I was lucky enough to hitch a ride on a commercial fishing boat as I made my way south from Haida Gwaii to my current location on Quadra Island. The impression that these experiences have left on me is both a mixture of complete awe and undeniable fear. The awe stems from the complexity of ecosytems and foodwebs that nature has created. The fear emanates from observing our ability as humans to unravel the maze of threads that tie these complicated systems together. 

I met Alison, Hannah and Ilsa — along with their adopted sister for the project Cheyenne — as the Alaskan ferry slowly weaved its way through a maze of remote islands in Alaska's Southeast. The three sisters are all fishermen (or fisherwomen?) who have spent countless hours working in Southeast Alaska. With Cheyenne in tow, their intention is to create a documentary film called Sisters and Rivers about the threats posed to the Taku, Stikine and Unuk rivers — rivers that all originate in British Colombia and flow out into Southeast Alaskan waters — by proposed open-pit gold and copper mines. Their objective was to talk to communities and the industries that define many of them — namely commercial fishing — and consider the consequences and profound impacts of future decisions. The girls were a classic bunch, down to earth and friendly as they come. They'd been on the road for some time, all cooped up in a van together, and it sounded like they were having a really great time. I would have liked to spend a little more time with them to hear the stories they had gleaned so far, but their stop was only six hours away and so our time together was short lived.

A few weeks later, after strolling the docks of the marina in Masset, Haida Gwaii, I eventually found the man I was looking for. As it turned out, we even shared the same name. Tom Gray, a commercial fisherman for over forty five years, was generous enough to let me hitch a ride on the Pearl Sea on his return voyage home to Vancouver Island. The Pearl Sea was a beautiful old wooden fishing boat that had stood the test of time. "Because I had the benefit of patience and time, I was able to get the best materials I could possibly find to build her" Tom told me proudly. The boat was built by a friend of his and the attention to detail is undeniable. Comprised of red cedar, yellow cedar and some fir for good measure, the Pearl Sea has stood up to anything the Pacific Ocean has thrown its way. 

All I had to do in return for the five day trip was "Dress a few fish and drink a whole lotta coffee." I pretended to know what Tom meant when he talked about "dressing" a fish, making it clear I'd never even set foot on a commercial fishing boat before. "You'll be fine." replied an unphased Tom.

I awoke to the grumbling of the hardy diesel engine before the sun had poked its head up over the horizon. The Pearl Sea slowly glided away from the dock as the still, glassy water reflected our surroundings as well as any mirror I'd ever gazed into. The placid waters didn't last long. Before I knew it we were out in unprotected waters and I quickly started to feel like I was a little out of my depth. I've spent most of my life by the ocean and I feel it is an integral part of the person I am today. But all this time in saltwater has passed in close proximity to land — a few kilometres offshore and it feels like a different world. Choppy, short-period windswells bucked the boat back and forth violently. Tom, a veteran of these waters, was completely unphased. 

I was dressed in a pair of waterproof overalls — typical fishing gear — and did my best to focus on the horizon. We were on a troll boat — a type of fishing that instead of using large nets uses multiple lines with many lures attached to tempt fish to bite. That day we were chasing silver salmon, or cohos, for Tom's winter food supply. Having finished the commercial end of the season, it was time for Tom to fill his own freezer. 

Before long the first coho was off the line and into the back of the boat. Trolling is arguably one of the most humane ways to fish commercially. Instead of being choked to death by a gillnet boat, or crush in a seine boat's net, fish on troll boats are basically beaten over the head once they're taken off the line, resulting in a quick death. Sure it ain't the most glamorous way to kill something, but for someone like me who's mostly removed from the processing of animals that I eat, I gained a lot from the experience. 

In between bouts of fairly violent seasickness, it was my job to dress the fish. Dressing involves removing the innards of the fish so it's ready to be put on ice, delivering the best possible product to consumers with ever-greater expectations. After taking a filleting knife, I would first remove the gills, before making a cut in the underside of the salmon to remove its inner workings and the remaining blood. This ensures a longer shelf-life in the ice and prevents the fish from rotting. What I noticed, and what we later discussed, was the remarkable colours on the salmon's body, particularly up near the dorsal fin. Vivid blues, purples and greens contrasted wonderfully with the silver scales of the coho salmon. As I dressed these fish, these colours were again balanced by the bright orange flesh that comprised the interior of the animal. We bagged about thirty fish that day, and I can safely say that I was wrecked — the recently vacant stomach didn't really help either.

The fishing completed, we still had another four days left on our journey south. With my bike safely strapped to the roof of the boat, I played countless games of solitaire, read all Tom's National Geographics from cover to cover, watched Orcas surface alongside the boat and bears stroll along vacant beaches and took shifts steering the boat — "just don't hit anything, ok?" The Pearl Sea darted its way in and out of a labyrinth of straits, passages, sounds and narrows that comprised Canada's section of what's generally known as the Inside Passage. These waters were, for the most part, very well protected and we only had small sections in exposed waters. I was pretty bloody thankful for that. 

When I wasn't entertaining myself, I leaped at the opportunity to learn as much as I could about salmon in my time with an old, wise sea dog. As it turned out I couldn't have picked a better captain. As well as being a commerical fisherman, or perhaps more accurately because of it, Tom has spent many winters teaching a course on Salmon and the related ecosystems in the Pacific Northwest at the University of British Colombia in Vancouver. A self described "loose cannon", Tom has never been to university and hence his course is technically not an accredited one. But if forty five years out fishing doesn't teach you a lot about salmon and their behaviour, then I don't know what does. 

Tom's rogue status has meant that wherever he goes — fisheries meetings, guest appearances at conferences run by the David Suzuki foundation or university lecturing — there's "always someone there to keep an eye on me". Tom prides himself on telling people the truth, even if it's not what they want to hear. 

Here's a question for you:

"Why are salmon populations in the Pacific Northwest undergoing a serious decline?"

You probably don't know the answer, but if you had to take a shot in the dark what would you guess?

A few months ago I probably would have gone with over-fishing — makes sense, right?

Turns out, in this case, that I would have been wrong. It's this dominant myth — at least in Pacific Northwest salmon populations — that has plagued the commercial fishing industry for decades. Fisherman like Tom have defied environmentalists on this point by using the comparison between fisheries in the Pacific Northwest — which are in severe decline — and the Alaskan fisheries, which are having record runs in recent years. The Alaskan fleet is much, much larger than that of the Pacific Northwest, yet salmon populations are as strong as ever? Tom Gray, along with many other fisherman, have argued ad nauseum that environmentalists ignored what is arguably the most important factor: habitat. 

Alaska has made signficant inroads into protecting vast swathes of land under strict wilderness conditions. That means no mines and no clearfelling of forests. Salmon populations in these areas are, by all accounts, flourishing. Coincidence? Tom was ready to tell me why he didn't think so. 

When I was on Haida Gwaii I bore witness to the decimation of old growth forests. If I thought Haida Gwaii was bad, yesterday's journey down the Johnson Strait alongside Vancouver Island was a real eye-opener. The utter devastation wreaked on endless valleys and hillsides was immense. Forests had been, and continue to be decimated. Everywhere I looked I could see recent clearcuts or regrowth from clearcut. Not only has this destroyed complex terrestrial ecosystems, I was beginning to learn about the effects it was having on marine life.

When you cut down trees that have stood for hundreds and hundreds of years, you greatly impact what they stand upon: soil. Much of Vancouver Island, Haida Gwaii and the rest of the Pacific Northwest has very steep terrain — picture mountains dropping off straight into the ocean. Soil stabilisation occurs of hundreds of years, as old trees bury roots deeper into the ground, essentially providing the foundations for study soil. When you cut old trees down where does the soil go? Gravity takes its course and soil migrates downhill. The problem here is that sediment eventually runs off into creeks, streams and tributaries, smothering salmon eggs that are yet to spawn. It also affects nutrient exchange, the temperature and water flow of creeks and rivers, and a whole lot of other crucial factors no doubt. 

Earlier I mentioned that trees depend on salmon. "How does that work?" I wondered. A big salmon is packed full of nutrients, and when a bear walks off into the forest with a recent catch chances are he might drop a bit of salmon here or there. An eagle might accidentally do the same. In addition, not all salmon that enter the streams have enough stamina to make the whole migration — natural selection chimes in. All these dead carcasses contribute to nutrient input in these ecosystems, and there's been studies that highlight the profound impact salmon populations have on the health of surrounding forest ecosystems. So even if you don't clearfell the whole damn hill, you're condemning that ecosystem to a bleak and uncertain future. 

The threads extend further. I was lucky enough to meet Oriana, and after chatting to her about her job at an expedition company, she excitedly showed me some incredible videos she'd filmed with some scientists that were on one of the expeditions. One interview with an orca biologist discussed his ability to identify many different orcas individually, just by the calls they make. He went into great detail about their complex communication systems and social structures. On the Pearl Sea I was lucky enough to see some of these magnificent creatures up close, and their tendency for play and their innate curiosity about we humans was incredible to watch. These animals too are threatened by collapsing salmon populations. Different pods of orcas specialise in hunting different prey. Some target seals, but the southern pods around BC tend to have a preference for salmon. And Tom's years of observation in these waters tell him that they're struggling. Walking through a clearfell forest, never in my wildest dreams would I have considered the affect it was having on a cetacean hunting kilometres offshore. 

Small fishing communities in BC, Tom tells me, have been stripped bare. Subject to vicitimisation by countless governments and environmental organisations, there were attempts to guilt-trip them out of jobs. Now there's no fish left. And no fishing boats either. Tom used to fish around Vancouver Island, but now makes the five day journey north to Haida Gwaii every summer to Area F, where he is allocated a licence. Haida Gwaii's fisheries have also been severely affected, but not to the catastrophic levels further south. These days Tom, and his partner Pete on Blaze fish for the love of it. They're financially stable enough not to need to anymore, but they can't seem to stop. Pete's getting close to eighty years old and he still pulls fifteen hour days on the boat. Something tells me these guys won't stop until they're physically incapable of continuing. It reminds me of those old tyre covers I used to see back home: "Fish to Live, Live to Fish".

Environmentalism is a funny thing in a lot of ways. It's also a fairly new "discipline" of study, if you call it that. But there's problems here. Why don't we pay more attention to the man who's been observing these salmon and their habitat for forty five years? Because he doesn't have a university degree? People like Tom are frequently ignored for the dominant environmental theme of the day. And quite often it amounts to tunnel vision. It's in the interests of people like Pete and Tom for salmon populations to flourish, not decline. Why would they want to jeopardise their livelihood? 

I don't seek to criticise environmentalism per se. But more to consider the implications of what happens when we all jump on a bandwagon and decide to figuratively beat the crap out of a certain group or commerical interest. These issues are nuanced, and deserve some sort of balance. Academic scientific analysis has it's merits, but so too does years and years of careful observation. Tom and Pete have that in spades, and when it comes to trusting anyone on how to solve this immense problem facing the Pacific Northwest, this time I'm listening the trusty old timers. 

Read more about Sisters and Rivers here.

HAIDA GWAII

There was a sort of inevitability to me travelling to Haida Gwaii. It was the first significant detour of the trip so far and I actually ended up spending more time here than any other place since leaving Anchorage in June.

My arrival in Haida Gwaii was charged by an unwavering anticipation for a few weeks prior. Brandon and Cara, who I met as Alaska’s towering Wrangell Range stood proudly beside us in the midday sun, planted the first seed.

“You wanna go surfing? You should go to Haida Gwaii, man.”

“Hi-der what?”

“Haida Gwaii. It’s an incredible place, and there’s waves up on the northern coast.”

 Janet, a lady I crossed paths with in Tok, Alaska had more advice:

“You’ve got to go to the bakery in the back of the bus. The lady’s been in business for sixteen years and she makes the best bread on the island.”

 My decision was cemented in Whitehorse, as I chatted to the girl who worked in the bike shop:

“Hands down, Haida Gwaii is the best place I’ve ever been.”

It seemed my fate was sealed.

As I jumped on and off the Alaska Marine Highway’s public ferry system, weaving in and out of Southeast Alaska’s island chain, I slowly learn more about the original inhabitants of Haida Gwaii. The Haida people (Haida Gwaii literally translates to islands of the Haida people) are believed to have inhabited the archipelago as far back as 13,000 years. They displayed a collective resistance to European encroachment through remarkable resilience and were able to ensure their culture and traditions survived the onslaught of colonial oppression. Haida Gwaii became part of the maritime fur trade, which brought sea otters to the verge of extinction — their population is still in the process of rebuilding.  The Haida people, Americans and the British were all involved in the trade and exchange of pelts during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

As the sea otter were being exploited to unsustainable levels, the line of sight of European endeavour eventually panned towards the land and the old growth forests that flourished on the islands of Haida Gwaii. The cool temperate rainforests were littered with giant red and yellow cedars, towering hemlocks and enormous Sitka spruce. It may not have been the most biodiverse region on the planet, but what it lacked in diversity it surely made up for in biomass.

Today Graham Island is a shadow of its former self. While much of the southern half of Haida Gwaii has not been subject to decimation by clearfell, Graham Island was quickly decimated by improved logging technologies and the ravenous demand for timber. As I rode north from Queen Charlotte City, it was hard to find forest that was any older than a hundred years or so, at my best guess.

I believe clearfell lots are something everyone should see. In the modern Western world, we are extremely good at hiding the consequences of our lifestyles from public view. For all we consume, a great number of us may never see the harsh side effects our mother earth is dealt. The sheer volume of wasted timber — of thousands of years of untold wisdom stored in those huge tree trunks — is a sight to behold. Time is money, and it seems as though scrap timber , however old or valuable,  isn’t worth our time.

Grant Hadwin took the greed of the logging industry to heart, and eventually it drove him to commit an irreversible act. A forester himself, Hadwin gained a wealth of experience in the forests of the Pacific Northwest. As with anyone who spends substantial amounts of time in a certain environment, he also developed a strong affection to the cool temperate rainforests of Haida Gwaii. Hadwin’s pleas for the industry to change its ways and take more responsibility for the long term health of the forest fell on deaf ears. He felt he needed to make a bold statement, but the despair that led him to commit a particular act had far-reaching consequences.

Kiidk’yaas was the subject of a generations old story that had been passed down orally by the Haida people. It centred on a boy who disrespected nature, and by doing so subjected his entire village to the might of a powerful storm. The boy and his grandfather were the only survivors, and when the boy disobeyed his grandfather, sneaking a look back at the village as they fled, he was suddenly transformed into a giant Sitka spruce that glowed in contrast to the dark green hues of surrounding trees, its tips all coloured golden.

In 1997, a seemingly deluded Hadwin made a series of cuts in the golden spruce that sealed its fate. Two days later the tree fell. In my efforts to understand the effects of this act, I tried to imagine the reaction of Catholics if the Vatican was burnt to the ground. Or of Muslims if Mecca was bombed. Hadwin’s act had destroyed an incredibly sacred tree, and I’m pretty sure there’s many on Haida Gwaii who will never forgive the man. Hadwin disappeared after leaving Prince Rupert on a kayak in the middle of winter, with the intention of crossing the treacherous Hecate Strait to appear in a local court he had been summoned to. Some suspected foul play, while others reason that anyone wishing to cross that body of water in winter has undesirable odds placed on their survival. The remnants of Hadwin’s kayak and some of his belongings were found a few months later on Mary Island , a few hundred kilometres north. His body was never found.

I finished reading The Golden Spruce by John Vaillant not long before three metre swells started to pound into the port side of our ferry. The vessel rocked and rolled and the smell of stomach acid and bile hung in the air. I took the time to look around and was unsurprised to see plenty of ghost-white faces. The Hecate Strait can turn a little bit of southerly wind into serious windswell in a short time, owing to shallow depths of what was once an alpine boulder field — the scree was covered as sea levels rose after the last ice age.

I stepped off the boat in Skidegate and did my best to adjust my sea legs back to solid ground. As I cycled into Charlotte the road was lined with thimbleberries and salmon berries, so it took me over an hour to ride under ten kilometres.

My compulsion to move north was undeniable — the lure of waves meant that I found myself riding further than expected in order to quell the uncertainty. As it turned out, it was flat. The anticipation subsided and although I swam in saltwater for the first time since leaving Australian shores, I found myself wondering what to do next. I didn’t have to wait long.

After chatting to a fellow cycle tourist, I had a brainwave. Unsure of how long I wanted to be on Haida Gwaii, I figured I could save a few pennies by trying my luck scoring a stowaway spot on a fishing vessel heading south to Vancouver Island.

I wandered down to the marina in Masset where I met Stan and Tom. After chewing the cud for the better part of an hour the boys steered me in the direction of my best chance at a ride, sending me on my way with some canned salmon for lunch. Eventually I discovered that I’d have to wait until the end of the week, when the bigger boats returned after the culmination of the fishing season in the waters surrounding Haida Gwaii.

As fate would have it I met the captain of the Pearl Sea. After a few quick questions and a bit of logistics, Tom got down to business:

“Basically, we just like sitting around and drinking lots of coffee and watching the world go by. Are you happy to do that?”

I felt the question wasn’t worth responding to. The expression on my face probably sufficed.

My past week has been filled with picking berries — wild blueberries, huckleberries, currants, raspberries and more thimble berries. I was lucky enough to score a free cabin in return for a few hours work a day, and I’ve been treated to mouth-watering home cooked food sourced almost entirely from the property.

Kaz and Harmonie have been overly generous and have allowed me the opportunity to see parts of the island I would have never found on my own. Georgia and Tedesi were generous enough to cook me some killer meals and shared stories of Canada, tree planting and Tedesi’s impressive Australian accent. I listened intently as Katherine described her exploits jumping freight trains for six or seven years. I danced all night at a party in the bush and toasted marshmellows in the campfire with the crew: Sequoia, Charles, Yousef, Lula and Bilal. I watched old Valdy play at the Tlell Fall Fair (the earliest fall fair in Canada!), even singing a song about bicycles. I’ve played witness to the undeniable beauty of a very special place. And now it’s time to move again.

I had a good feeling about Haida Gwaii that came from the place I trust the most — my gut. And it didn’t disappoint. I expect this journey to be filled with places that, no matter how much time is spent there, will always feel like the departure is premature.  Haida Gwaii is one of those places.

St Mary's spring isn't an obvious place to stop. A small pool no bigger than a kitchen sink is lined with rocks on the side of the road opposite a rocky beach. I'd missed it on my ride North ten days earlier. I'd since learned the local legend: if you drink from St Mary's spring, you will return to Haida Gwaii. I was due to leave and still hadn't sipped the glorious water that would alter my fate. 

The boat couldn't leave, weather held us in port. I knew what had to be done. I cupped some water in my hands, as it slowly dripped through the gaps between my fingers. I closed my eyes, slowly letting the water trickle down my throat. I'll be back some day,

THINGS ARE CHANGIN'

A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.

A great many people would be familiar with this quote, and it's a paraphrased iteration something Soviet leader Joseph Stalin once said. In the original quote published in the Washington Post in 1947, Stalin was apparently  referring to deaths in the USSR as a result of widespread famine. I don't wish to remove the quote from its historical context, but instead use its essence to explore something else.

As we grow up, we learn how to adapt to, and live with, the effects of change. I believe the world — and our place in it — is dynamic and in a constant state of flux. A lot of other people probably believe the same thing, because it makes sense right? So when we speak of our mother earth, it's understandable that people are a little suspicious of talk of the global warming and climate change as if it's some new phenomenon. As far as we can tell, the earth and its complex ecosystems have been changing since time immemorial. If I was standing in this exact same spot 20,000 years ago, chances are I would have been stuck under about a thousand metres under a gargantuan torrent of slow-moving ice.

Since I arrived in Alaska over a month ago, I've heard many different stories from many different people. The theme that unites them is the understanding that things are changing, and they are changing fast. Each little anecdote is, in some way, a tragedy. In each story something is being lost forever.

"It looks so different the day after the cruise ships leave for the summer." Alex stared down into the murky water as we walked the Iron ore dock in Skagway, a little town that sits on the Taiya Inlet in SE Alaska. The sea had been recently stirred up by the evening departure of yet another enormous boat. Across the water the echos of voices reverberated, interspersed with bursts of laughter.  Three men cast their rods into clearer depths, tempting a few salmon to take the bait, their patience reinforced by the potential for a delicious and nutritious meal. We stood for a while, directing them to the location of the biggest fish from our high vantage point on the pier. In the end, all three went home empty handed. I went home with a thought lodged in my own head. How do thousands of salmon, in the midst of an epic migration, navigate the four or five aquatic metropolises that enter the inlet every day for four months?

A few hundred kilometres down the inside passage of Southeast Alaska, just outside of the city of Juneau, Alaska,  I was lucky enough to hike around Mendenhall glacier. I tried my best to absorb the sheer enormity of the frozen river from various vantage points, which were many kilometres apart. We managed to make it to the foot of the glacier, and ducked in under some ice caves to place ourselves directly under the mass of ice. It was an eerie sort of world, and breathtakingly beautiful. As fresh snowmelt searched for the easiest route through the surrounding ice, it painted moving patterns in the sky-blue ceiling. I'd never seen anything like it before.

For the duration of our time under the ice, I was crouched or squatting over to avoid head collisions with the frozen roof. Later, in a local bar, Eric and Kay showed me a photo taken April of this year. The photo showed Eric standing tall in those same caves. In three months, the glacier had receded immensely. This change can be attributed in part to both a reduction in the size of the glacier during the summer, and the fact that the glacier has been receding for centuries. Along the duration of the trail out to the Western side of Mendenhall, rock cairns displayed the ice limit of the glacier in five year intervals. The closer we got to the glacier, the further apart these rock cairns were located. The distances were increasing exponentially, the rock cairns like solitary outposts scattered across the bare sections of ancient rock. There must have been at least seventy-five metres between the cairns representing the 2006 and 2011 limits. The rocky outposts painted a picture of a rapid retreat. Terns and gulls shrieked at each other on the rocks below as a lone bald eagle soared overhead. I listened to the sound of the wind rustling the bright green leaves on the young alder trees and stared across the expanse of blue ice that lay before me

Sometimes it might seem like the world is dying a million deaths. We as humans continue to exploit our finite natural resources at great cost. We subject our fragile ecosystems and food webs to extreme pressure from increasing world population. But the paradigm through which we view these deaths is mostly statistical. Climate change is seen as an ominous and seemingly unstoppable threat, and maybe it is. But this idea seems to only cause distress and promote fear. I believe we can address these changes in a way that encourages hope and belief in the potential for a brighter future for human's and the earth we inhabit.

Thanks to the people I have been lucky enough to meet in my life, I choose instead to see our current situation as a collection of tragedies. Tragedy is part of what it is to be human and often in our experiences of dealing with tragedy, we are gifted a greater understanding of the world and our place in it. Tragedy can test our very limits, threatening to drive us into a spiral of despair. But in tragedy there lies a profound resilience of the human spirit. Out of tragedy springs hope.

We need to treat the sufferings of our mother earth as a collection of tragedies, instead of discounting their power through our heavy reliance on statistical analysis. Indigenous peoples across the globe have passed down stories of their mother earth over thousands of years. These stories speak of a profound love and deep connection to that which gifts them the beauty of life, and they musn't be forgotten.

The Earth is our mother, for now. I fear if we keep ignoring her calls, she may not wish to care for us in the years to come.

THE BEAUTY OF THE BICYCLE

I met a very enthusiastic and generous man named Jim in Tok, Alaska. The miniature Canadian flag pin he gave me is still pinned to the outside of my bushwalking pack, sitting proudly next to my Keep Tassie Wild patch. Jim was a builder of mountain bike trails in his home state of Minnesota, and he was utterly thrilled to see me cycling through Alaska and the Yukon. Grinning as he inspected my bike, he exclaimed "Bikes have to be the best things man has ever invented, surely. They've been around for so long and have hardly changed in all that time." Unfortunately for Jim, his knees had suffered the brunt of countless years of mountain biking and as a result he isn't able to cycle as much as he used to. He was ecstatic to live vicariously through the experiences I'd had so far, and I'm pretty happy to ramble to anyone who'll listen. 

Travelling by bike is truly different. I guess that's obvious, but after about a month I'm starting to learn how different it really is. The world is altered, and you view it through a different lens. You read maps differently, you understand the lay of the land differently, you see differently. The distance someone drives in a hour will take you the better part of a day. As Trevor from Oregon told me as we sat on the banks of the Talkeetna River a few weeks ago, "Once you tour, you'll never look at a road the same again, for the rest of your life. Every time I get to the top of the hill — even in the car — I feel like I've won some little victory."

Yesterday I rode in a car, deciding to take up the offer of a ride with Kris and Nikola from Montreal and spend the day hiking a mountain that overlooks the Taiya Inlet near Skagway, Alaska. As fate would have it, the decision was bittersweet. On the one hand, I avoided 106km of an absolutely devilish headwind. On the other I skipped a section of road that, while spectacular from the window of a car, would have been incredible on the bike. Once crossing the US border into Southeast Alaska, the road drops from 1000m above sea level the ocean in 20km of winding, steep downhill roads. Sitting in the back seat of a car with the windows up feels like a different universe. You can't feel the headwind pummeling you in the face. You can't smell the freshness of the crisp, mountain air. You can't hear the sound of rubber making contact with road. It's as if you're in a bubble. A big, mechanical, metal bubble. That's not to say it's better, or worse. It's just different. 

I LOVE ALASKA, MAN

I've heard this phrase three times now. From three different people. None were native Alaskans, but all three now call it home. Zach from Colorado uttered those words as we floated down the Gulkana River on the Fourth of July, sipping on Coors Light and eating home-smoked salmon for lunch. A day earlier, as a sat drinking beer and looking out over the Gakona River, Zach's housemate Tim had said the same thing. He'd moved up here from Minnesota years ago and never left. People fall under the spell of this place. I see parallels to my own experience in Tasmania, and I already know I'll have to come back to Alaska before too long. It's the last frontier. And from what I've heard, it's remained fairly unchanged for decades. 

 Alex, who grew up in Belarus before moving with his family to Cleveland, Ohio at age 12, spoke the magical four words as I released a pink salmon back into the creek on the Dyea flats yesterday. As I held the fish in my hands, I felt its overwhelming muscular strength — necessary for its astounding migration upriver. "They're running alright, look at 'em all down there." The salmon had only started running two days earlier. A fellow fisherman pointed out two big males from our viewpoint on the little wooden bridge. The pair were sitting in an eddy current, patiently biding their time before planning their next jaunt against the unending flow of the creek. "That one's probably almost too old. See that strip of red down his back, once that get's a little darker they won't taste real good anymore." 

I love Alaska, man. When this phrase was uttered on all three occasions, I'm almost certain it was pre-empted by a sigh. It felt to me like a sigh of resignation. All three seemed resigned to the fact that they had fallen under the spell of an ancient land. A land where nature is king; of places and wide open spaces that will "eat you up if you're not careful". A land of beauty and brutality in equal measure. A land of people who know what it is to hunt for and process their own meat, fish for their own salmon and build their own housing. Alaska transcends borders or nation states. It exists somewhere in that void where words are unable to reach. It's a feeling you get. Beyond that I'm unsure. 

And I can say, with a sigh of resignation, that I too love Alaska, man.