Sounds Of Silence In The Last Frontier

Where all you hear is water dripping off your paddle blade…and the occasional explosion of a 200-ton, calving glacier

- Matt Rott

It was the noise that finally got to me. The horns and sirens and garbage trucks— auditory detritus of a 21st century society. My summers are typically spent outdoors and out of the country, but a mountain bike accident less than a week after the solstice saw me grounded with a broken collarbone, stuck on a couch in the middle of the Midwest.

Spinning on a trainer in front of the television. Slogging through one-armed swim workouts. Nursing my shoulder through day hikes while my mind cried out for back-country mountain runs and swell strikes to Chile. Summer plans crushed like the distal tip of my left clavicle.

The fracture was still fresh when I received the invite, but there was no way I was turning the trip down. I needed to get away, to recharge my batteries in the quietly ordered chaos of nature. Doctor’s orders be damned—I was going paddling in the Last Frontier.

I’d been to Alaska on a surf/sup trip four years earlier, so I thought I knew what to expect. But from the start it was clear that this time would be different. First of all, we’d be paddling flat water, which completely changes the dynamic of an expedition. When waves are the focus, there is a tendency to become a bit myopic and allow the conditions to dictate the success or failure of a trip. But when paddling simply for the sake of being on the water, things slow down, and we tend to appreciate our surroundings more.

Rather than becoming fixated on the lineup, our attention turns to everything else, and minute details that are often missed become the raison d’etre. Instead of a hindrance, floating ice becomes a playground. Rather than a distraction, eagles and otters are the highlight of the day.