Kayaking the Copper River, Alaska: An Adventure in Life and in Photography
Text and images copyright Tim Grams, all rights reserved

Day One
O’Brien Creek, near Chitna, is where I embarked on my journey. The weather was perfect for me: sunny with a north wind. Autumn colors were reaching peak in this area, with their intensity fading as I moved down river. The Copper is notorious for its strong winds that funnel through the gap carved in the Chugach Mountains and the current ran at eight miles per hour through the area of Wood Canyon. The water volume in September was considerably lower than its typical high-levels of June and July, and therefore less hazardous to navigate through. It was just a fast run with a few small standing waves. The nature of the river changed gradually below the canyon as the valley widened. There was more room for the single channel to wander between mountains that still defined the valley.

The trip coincided with a full moon and I chose a camping location to accommodate both sunset and night photography. The weather was kind to me that evening as well.

The Copper travels through an area little touched by man in recent years, although it was a major thoroughfare to interior Alaska from about 1910 to 1940. This was a time when the Copper River Railroad ran along its western shore to the rich Kennicott Copper mine near McCarthy. Relics of this bygone period remained apparent, particularly the old rail grade.

In other areas, nature had quickly overrun any sign of humankind. The river had returned to being a major passage for large runs of sockeye, Chinook and Coho salmon, and was frequented by animals that preyed upon the fish. Brown bears topped the food chain and tracks were present almost every time I approached shore. Numerous bald eagles nested along the river and even harbor seals ventured far up the river in pursuit of salmon.

To avoid confrontation with the bears I camped in the middle of the river on an island with hopes the swift current would discourage nocturnal visits from the large and curious rulers of this terrain.

Day Two
By the middle of the second day, the valley became much wider with huge sand dunes, actually glacial silt, covering many square miles. The urge to leave the kayak to go hiking was intense. But I also realized that my humble boat would probably be the best beach-combing find of the summer for a local bear. The kayak and its contents were all that stood between me and a serious survival situation, so I stifled my hiking instinct.

That night’s camp was on a large island, maybe one mile square. I snooped around a bit looking for a pool of isolated water with settled silt to use for drinking. The water in the main channel carries so much glacial silt that visibility is less than an inch, which quickly clogs a water filter. I also looked for interesting reflective pools for photos. As I returned to camp I spotted a dark brown object up on the bluff near my kayak: a very healthy-looking grizzly. He sat on the bluff like a big dog and watched me closely. I scrambled for my gun, camera and a 300mm lens, not sure which might be the first I would need. After taking a few photos he let out a “hoof” and disappeared from view.

Day Three
As I contemplated the beginning of the third day, the gentle patter of rain and solid gray horizon to the south encouraged procrastination. When I finally emerged from the tent, unexpected colors in the east energized my spirit and prompted a mad scramble to gather my photo gear. I rushed over to the quiet oxbow river bend I’d found the previous day.

That day the river carried me past an area with a couple of thunderous tributaries, odd twists and the Abercrombie Rapids, none of which proved difficult to pass. First one harbor seal, then several, could not contain their curiosity and followed me for several miles.

When the Copper River Railroad and the Million Dollar Bridge were built in 1910, Miles Glacier filled Miles Lake. It has receded over five miles since then, but the mighty Copper has filled the void with an immense amount of sand and silt. The power that glaciers and simple running water have to shape our world is astonishing.

The ever-present bear tracks on the main shoreline near Miles Glacier encouraged me to seek out another island for the night. The skies were heavy and gray. There was little doubt I would be experiencing the rain that characterizes the northern reaches of the Pacific Northwest coastal rain forest.

I paddled over to Miles glacier that evening, going past the main current of the river. I was amazed at how far the current extended into the lake and the large vortices it generated. Since I had already felt the effects of powerful wandering whirlpools on my kayak, I stayed clear of them. A few of the vortices had sucked in five-foot chunks of ice and spun them around like tops; a bit more excitement than what I had had in mind for the evening.

Day Four
The fourth day brought almost constant rain or drizzle. Although nothing to compete with a Louisiana thunderstorm, it was an inconvenience nonetheless. As luck would have it, this was an area I had planned to spend the day leisurely exploring the incredible vistas. Unfortunately, wind, rain, low clouds, a dead camera battery, and hauling the tripod, an umbrella, and the shotgun all conspired to make photography a real struggle. After a half-dozen pictures, I headed back to camp. That evening I ventured out again for a paddle in the light rain. The house-size icebergs had moved in the wind and currents but the new compositions failed to spur me into digging the camera out of it waterproof bag.

Day Five
With over 35 miles to cover I was up early, but more rain and a dreaded south glacial wind made for slow progress, especially compared to being pushed by the powerful Copper current during previous days. Facing harsh waves, the Million Dollar Bridge seemed even more impressive since it had withstood the relentless forces of nature for over 90 years. The north span was the only one of the four that had been knocked down by the huge 1964 earthquake that reshaped many areas throughout South Central Alaska, including the delta.

To this point, if my journey had been down a human arm, Wood Canyon would have been the muscular bicep; the forearm the long unbraided channel; I was now passing the wrist. Beyond the Bridge a half-mile of aggressive maneuvering around submerged boulders brought me to the area where the river braided into a multitude of ever-smaller fingers. The smaller channels were nice, and less intimidating than the main channel which had gained considerable volume as tributaries added their flow. But I was also grounding out on gravel bars more often and hitting slower moving water. Smaller channels and shallow water also left me feeling like a big blue salmon heading downstream, who knows what a bear might think? There was also very limited visibility most of the time due to steep banks and thick alder bushes. I may very well have passed within ten feet of a bear and neither of us would have known the other was there.

Poor visibility and constant rain made me appreciate the wonders of a GPS! Although the information that I was traveling about five to six miles per hour but only gaining ground at about three miles per hour due to significant twists in the river was discouraging. I finally reached the highway bridge late afternoon, with about 12 miles still to cover. The first critical turn-off was 1.25 miles down river, the Alaganik Slough, which I would follow to reach the cabin on the delta.

But upon arrival, I found the slough was dry, and I was absolutely stuck without a way to reach the cabin eight miles away. The only logical thing I could do was set up camp for the night, even though it looked like the slough could be a bear super-highway. For peace of mind, I dragged the kayak and all of my gear about 150 yards over the sandbar toward the center of a dry river channel.

Day Six
Life always looks great in the morning when no bears visit during the night! The rain had been intermittent during the night and when I awoke, I stayed in the sleeping bag hoping the rain and wind would quit. It was a bad choice since the wind shifted direction and intensified. First the tent stakes pulled out, and I had to re-secure the tent with the boat and some large branches. The wind began to exceed 25 miles per hour so cooking was out of the question. I crawled back into the tent and had a bagel with peanut butter for breakfast. By the time the sleeping bag and pad were rolled up, I had to brace the side of the tent to prevent it from collapsing in 30 mile per hour winds. That I could be in a warm, comfortable cabin if the slough had not been dry was a frequent thought for much of the morning. The tent flattened immediately when I moved out and it took me two hours to drag the kayak back up river to the bridge. Less than 20 minutes after landing, a van with four fishermen from Texas picked me up and hauled me into Cordova. My luck was a bit soggy, but apparently still working.

Alone, I had been able to travel through the middle of one of the world’s wildest and most untouched areas. Although there are certainly signs of human encroachment, the remoteness and lack of roads in this wilderness have served well to protect its beauty and resources. A sea kayak proved to be the perfect vessel for this journey. It was large enough for my photo equipment, far faster and more exciting than a raft and yet, unobtrusive to the local wildlife. I had cruised the Copper by kayak.

Tim Grams has traveled throughout much of Alaska for the past 21 years. Along with his wife Dana and their black laborador, Kitaki, they have sea kayaked extensively in Prince William Sound and Kenai Fjords National Park. Tim also blends photography with other outdoor pursuits such as hiking and cross-country skiing. Tim works full time for the Alaska Air National Guard as a search and rescue helicopter pilot.

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