Le Voyage -- Catch as Ketchikan

Rain, rain go ... oh, never mind

Ketchikan AK has a reputation for being rainy -- the rainiest spot in North America, to answer the question, "How rainy is it?"

On the other days of our trip, the gloomy, long-range predictions of my Weather Channel app will not come to fruition. Not so today. Today will be exactly as expected -- foggy, rainy, wet -- though not quite as cold as I dressed for. Still the layers come in handy because I have extra places to put things to keep them dry.

We've carried our backpacks everywhere we've been ashore, but in all that time we never figured out that only one compartment is waterproof. The outside pockets are mere canvas, which will prevent some water, but not all, especially when rained on for hours on end. I have my phone and iPod in an outer compartment, and Sharon put our map from the visitor center and some of our paperwork in one of those compartments. The map will wind up being replaced. None of the papers are particularly necessary, so they won't be needed, though the important info remains readable.

The town lies across the street from the docks. No need to walk a mile to town; you're there when you disembark. And, of course, the tourist shops dominate the section nearest the ships. Rain falls most of the day, sometimes drizzly, sometimes pouring.

Our ship lies at dock about 50 yards or less
behind that ramp.

We walk down to the visitor center to pick up a walking tour map. The woman running the information booth is a hoot. Some guy walks up to her to ask about a plane tour he was going on and wanting to know if it was still on. She asks him when it's supposed to take place. He looks at his watch and says, "Right about now." She asks where the tour meets, and after he replies she says, "Well, you're not going to be able to catch it here, are you?" He figures out he's asking the wrong person and leaves.

Next a group of older women approach to ask some questions. One wants to know if there are buses you can take or if you have to be on a tour bus. The booth lady tells her that public transportation is available, but they discourage tourists from just riding around on the buses just to see the sights. The woman asks how much the buses cost. The info lady says that depends on how far you're going and suggests it might not be a good idea to wait in the rain for 20 minutes to go to a destination you could walk to in five.

Another one of the women inquires about a horse and buggy drive she's read about in some brochure. The info lady tells her it went out of business 5 years ago. But they're still advertising it, the woman replies. Info lady says, "I know they're closed 'cause I used to work for them, and that's why I'm working here now."

Ketchikan claims the distinction of being the first city
in Alaska and the first city to have paved streets.

As fascinating as the conversations are, we're here to explore, so Sharon and I put our heads together over the map and figure out where we want to go. Sandra, the on-board naturalist, told us about a bridge that crosses the creek next to Creek Street that's supposed to be a good place to watch for salmon on their spawning run. We see some fish swimming there, but the majority are dead, lying on the creek bed. We do spot a couple of harbor seals, who seem to be there looking for easy pickings. And some artist produced a salmon statue that looms over the creek. Not quite as impressive as the Big Fish in Belfast, though.


Shops line Creek Street, which used to the be the town's brothel area, created by the city to contain the "sporting" houses so they wouldn't be spread out through the town. Efforts to shut the whole area down began in the early '40s, but the houses remained in business until the '50s. A sign in the area says that some residents are still upset the houses were closed because they employed 22 women. I'm thinking they must be Republicans.

We'd decided we would be taking any of the ship-sponsored tours and would wander about on our own. One of the promising places listed to visit is the Totem Heritage Center, which is run by the city. A glance out our soggy map indicates we can propably get there with what appears to be a relatively short hike, a route that runs along the river.

The totem on the right is a funerary
totem. The remains of the person
it honors would be placed in a box
that is then placed in a notch cut
into the back of the totem.

We're standing at the bottom of Married Man's Trail, a back way into the "sporting" district said to be frequented by, well, married guys. It leads steeply up to street level, and signs along the way point the direction to the heritage center. Don't know how long the walk was because your perception of time distorts when you don't know where you're going. And when you're being soaked as well, time stretches forever.

Still, as we're walking across a bridge, we notice a bunch of folks standing in a little clearing near the river. Gulls by the dozen float in the water nearby, probably there hoping salmon will jump into their beaks for lunch. While we're watching, I see a salmon jump out of the water. Sharon missed it, but soon enough, another one (or the same one) jumps again. While this is going on a couple of gulls swim rapidly down to the area, but neither they nor we spot another fish jump. Probably because I was standing there with my camera pointed in hopes of catching another jump. Those suckers jump pretty high.

We give up and press on for the center. The map we're following shows that we need to take a dead-end road, which seems wrong while we're walking on it, but we arrive at a turn-off for the center before we run out of road. Turns out, there's an easier way to arrive there, and the city operates a free shuttle bus from the center to "downtown." We'll wind up taking that bus back.

The totem center houses a collection of mostly 19th-century era totems that were rescued for preservation. The guide there is waiting for a group that he'll make a presentation to, and while he's not otherwise engaged, I pepper him with questions and get almost all the info we'll later hear him giving the group.

While wandering about the museum I read that one type of totem was called a "shame totem." If you did something wrong, a totem could be commissioned that commemorated the shameful events. Make proper atonement for your wrong doing, and the totem would be cut down and destroyed.

Totems, by the way, were not used for religious purposes, though some referenced religious beliefs. The man I spoke with said it would be fair to think of totems as memory aids, the various elements depicted helping to tell a particular story. But they were more than that. It's worth taking the time to read up on the customs surrounding the totems.

While we wait for the bus, Sharon talks to the woman staffing the admittance booth and gets a recommendation for a good place to grab fish and chips for lunch. She gives Sharon a new, dry map and points out a restaurant she says is a favorite of the locals. On the bus ride back, the driver pulls over for what may be a potential passenger. But her bus doesn't go where he wants to go. He's not satisfied with that answer and wants more information, so he stands on the bus step peppering her with questions. Finally she says, "Sir, I'm blocking traffic," and starts closing the door, forcing him off the step.

We find the recommended restaurant and enjoy a very good, though a bit expensive, meal. I'm sure many folks would consider the price reasonable, and it may well be for an Alaskan tourist area. Keep in mind, however, that I'm cheap, so my perspective may be skewed.

We pop into one of the tourist shops to buy sodas and add to Sharon's souvenir pressed-penny collection, then head back to the ship, where we'll spend the balance of the day, dry and warm. The only place Sharon won't be able to get a pressed-coin souvenir will turn out to be Vancouver. They have the machines, but the ones we run into only take Loons, and we wind up never having any Canadian money other than some pennies a man had given Sharon back in Skagway. Canadian pennies, or at least the ones he gives her are still mostly copper, as opposed to the copper-clad zinc coins we make in America.

Late in the afternoon, the captain makes an announcement. The number of people going to the medical area with cold and flu-like symptoms is up, he says, and they're taking steps to mitigate the situation. Passengers who appear to have the flu are being isolated and treated with antivirals, and we're all encouraged to practice proper sneezing and coughing etiquette and be sure to thoroughly and frequently wash our hands.

Sharon is developing a cold, but we only have a day left, and we have some OTC cold medicine, so we don't intend to patronize the infirmary.



I'm a bit fuzzy on this incident -- it may have actually taken place the next night -- but this will be the trip when my high-school French will actually prove to be somewhat helpful. We've taken all our meals in the buffet dining areas, which on this ship are really pretty nice, and wait staff take your orders for drinks and such. We're sitting at one of the larger tables when one of the wait staff brings an elderly woman over to sit at our table because everyone seems to be eating in that dining room, and space is limited. She can't carry her plate because she's unsteady and has to use a cane.

A young woman comes and asks "madame" what she would like to drink. The woman begins replying in French, most of which I don't get, but I do understand "le te chaud." I'm guessing that because the wait person called her madame, she thought the girl spoke French. And she doesn't speak English.

I glance at the waitperson's name tag and see that she is from Ukraine, and the puzzled look on her face indicates she has no idea what the French woman wants. Madame repeats her request. The Ukrainian woman guesses "tea?" The French woman nods and repeats the request. Again the puzzled look. I catch the Ukrainian's eye and say "hot tea." The French woman nods, and the Ukrainian asks if she wants it black. "Oui, black," the French woman replies then turns to me and begins expressing what is obviously her appreciation, though really I only understand "merci, merci beaucoup, monsieur." Before we leave, I wish her, "Bon soir, madame," and receive another outpouring of gratitude.

I have to mention the production show for this night. It's called "British Invasion," and we'll be treated to '60s music -- Beatles, the Who, Rolling Stones, etc. But the outfits the costumer has come up with for this show are beyond crazy. They sort of evoke the '60, but not. I wish I had broken the rules and taken a picture. It's too hard to describe. And though they did well with most of the songs, they annihilated others. Oh, well. None of the people performing were likely alive in the '60s. Who knows about the people who put the costumes together.