Chapter 37
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Ford’s Terror—Endicott Arm, AK
You can pass through the narrow entrance to Ford’s Terror only once every twelve hours, during a short window when the water rushing through the constricted rocky passage guarding the giant fjord stops and reverses itself, taking a brief respite before reverting to treacherous rapids with boat-crushing overfalls, eddies, and whirlpools.
Marco did not want to miss the window.
Not by too much, at least.
He handed Bill his stabilized binoculars. “Take a look. We’re still a bit early. Let’s just motor around out here and keep an eye on the entrance.” He showed Bill how to adjust the focus knob. The tidal rapids were flowing strong into Ford’s Terror, with sharp whitecaps atop large standing waves.
Bill gasped. “That’s terrifying! You sure we can get in there?”
Marco bumped the throttle to keep the bow pointed toward the opening.
“In a little while, it should calm down for a few minutes. That’s when we make our move.
Then with the tidal shift, it’ll reverse and start ripping through going the other direction.
And this is nothing,” Marco said, making no effort to calm Bill’s nerves.
“When the ebb current is in full force, there can be a three-foot overfall right there, and big whirlpools just outside.”
Bill put the binoculars down on the helm. “Tour Alaska. Die in style!”
The white water started to abate a little, and the current was beginning to slow.
Marco planned to go through on the early side.
He turned Radio Flyer away from the entrance toward a giant waterfall that cascaded down the face of a cliff.
“We always…I…always start with the boat at that waterfall, then aim straight toward the opening from there. The nautical charts of this place are completely wrong, but very few people come here, and they haven’t resurveyed and updated the charts in decades.
Our path will take us right over this spot where the chart shows a submerged rock.
It’s not there, luckily. Ready to do this? ”
Bill exhaled loudly. “I got no choice but to trust you.”
“It’s now or never.” Marco keyed the radio microphone. “Sécurité, sécurité, sécurité—Radio Flyer—fifty-foot motor vessel will be entering Ford’s Terror in one minute. Any concerned vessels respond on one-six.”
Bill picked up the binoculars for another look. “Jeez.”
Marco touched the top of the snow globe at the helm.
One more time.
Marco revved the big diesel, propelling Radio Flyer toward the rapids. “Standard protocol is to make a sécurité call to let anyone who might be coming out know that we are on the way in. Definitely don’t want to meet another boat going the other way through the narrows.”
The current was still with them, pushing the boat much faster through the dangerous turn at the entrance. Marco wondered if he’d gone too early. It would be really tight. He steered the boat along the tongue of the rapids as they approached the hard right turn.
He gunned the engine to gain more steerage as the flood pushed the big boat hard toward the rocks.
A strong eddy twisted them violently. Marco spun the wheel the other way and gave it full power, holding the stern narrowly off the rock wall.
The rudder caught some grip and Radio Flyer lurched toward the opposite side of the narrow channel.
The current was pushing the boat almost sideways.
Marco jerked back on the power, then tapped reverse to slow their momentum. A sharp rock outcropping passed just off the bow. He popped the boat back into forward gear and spun the wheel to bring her back into line.
The current eddies began to subside as the boat slipped into the wider channel.
He relaxed his grip on the wheel.
They were in.
Definitely pushed it a bit too early this time.
Bill was sitting still, staring wide-eyed out the pilothouse window. “I had no idea”—his voice trembled—“you were into such extreme activities.”
Marco ran his hand across the smooth glass of the snow globe that sat at the helm, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped off the fingerprints. He could feel Bill’s eyes scrutinizing his every move.
“So, what’s up with the snow globe, Marc?” Bill asked. “Doesn’t seem like your style exactly.”
Marco’s chest tightened. He swallowed. “Michelle and I always dreamed of retiring and taking our own boat to Alaska.” His throat constricted.
He paused and steadied his voice. “The day after we finally crossed Dixon Entrance and cleared customs in Ketchikan, Michelle made a big formal ceremony on the boat and presented me with this five-dollar snow globe as a trophy for making it to Alaska. It was corny and silly and I loved it.”
He picked up the snow globe and turned it over, letting the slow-swirling glitter calm him as it settled on plastic Creek Street. He exhaled and gathered his strength to continue. “This place—Ford’s Terror—was the last place we ever visited together.”
He gave the snow globe one more swirl and set it in its place at the helm.
Bill’s hand landed on Marco’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
Clear of the rapids, Marco followed the long inlet along a steep rocky cliff into the main body of the fjord.
The boat swerved gently from side to side, pushed by residual boils and eddies that swirled through the passage as the tidal current reversed direction.
The swerving subsided and the boat settled into a watery wonderland, easily the size and grandeur of Yosemite.
Bill and Marco were the only two humans there.
“Looks like it could be just us for the next twenty-four hours,” Marco said. “The next high slack tide is around midnight—and I can’t imagine anyone brave enough to try that entrance in the dark.”
Bill opened the pilothouse door and leaned out, the mountains surrounding them too steep and too high for him to be able to see the tops from inside the boat. “This…this is absolutely amazing. I’ve never seen any place this beautiful—ever.”
They were headed down a waterway bounded by steep rocky cliffs with dozens of waterfalls dumping the melt-off from unseen glaciers high up the mountains.
Ahead of them at the corner, a massive waterfall sprayed out from the top of the cliff with such force that the water barely touched the wall for much of the descent.
Mist rose from the bottom as the deluge pounded the rocks, then ran into the fjord.
“This is my favorite place on earth, Bill.”
Bill put on his jacket. “Mind if I go out on the bow to watch as we go in?”
“That’s a great idea.”
Bill slipped on Marco’s loaner jacket and disappeared out the pilothouse door toward the bow.
Radio Flyer reached the end of the west arm of Ford’s Terror, a vast bowl bounded by mountains on all sides with three large waterfalls cascading down from snowcapped peaks thousands of feet above.
Marco dropped the anchor. “Let’s go do some dinghy exploring!”
Bill followed. “Do I need the XTRATUFs?”
The davit motor whined as Marco lowered the RIB into the water. “Nope, no boots. We won’t go ashore here. Lotta bears this time of year. But wear the jacket. It’ll get cool in the dinghy.”
Bill zipped up the loaner jacket and settled into the bow seat of the RIB.
The outboard snapped to life with a flick of the starter switch. Marco gunned it and spun the dinghy around, heading back toward the entrance of Ford’s Terror.
He kept the dinghy close to the right-hand wall of the fjord, giving them a nice view of the massive waterfalls across on the other side.
Bill stared wide-eyed. “What’s the name of that huge waterfall over there?” He shouted over the howl of the outboard.
“As far as I know, nothing in here has a name,” Marco replied.
“If that was back home,” Bill leaned toward Marco, shouting louder, “it’d have a name, a visitor center, a parking lot…probably a Starbucks.”
The plan was working—Bill was distracted. Marco could see his destination just ahead on the right, a barely visible cut in the face of the cliff.
Bill was sitting backward looking the other way.
Keeping the dinghy at full speed until the last instant, Marco pulled the throttle back and turned the boat sharply into the cut.
Bill yelped.
They were entering a narrow notch set deep in the face of the towering cliff, culminating in a giant waterfall that had carved out the crevasse over thousands of years.
The dinghy idled into the hidden wonderland, sheer rocky walls rising vertically hundreds of feet on both sides, lush ferns that almost never saw the light of day scattered near the base of the waterfall, with the thinnest sliver of blue sky visible far above them.
Mist from the torrent of water crashing on the rocks filled the air and moistened Marco’s face.
Bill was taking it all in, his mouth agape, silent.
Marco killed the outboard and let them drift for several minutes with only the roar of the falling water. There was a magic about this place that captivated Marco. It felt prehistoric, like it had been undisturbed for eons, and he was just temporarily transported here to regain his peace of mind.
Bill’s face seemed to soften. “This is really special, Marco. Thank you.”
Marco couldn’t take any more sentimentality.
He started the motor, spun the wheel, and gunned the throttle.
The dinghy leaped onto plane. “Let’s James Bond out of here!
” Marco shouted. They flew out of the notch into the wide channel going over twenty knots, as Marco imagined they were escaping the lair of the supervillain right before a giant explosion destroyed the entire complex in their wake.
He held one hand over the side, feeling the spray as the RIB flew across the smooth water.
Marco secured the dinghy to Radio Flyer’s swim platform as Bill climbed out.
“Let’s grab a beer up top.” Marco opened the cooler and Bill took out two cold cans of Alaskan Amber. Marco climbed the ladder and took a seat in the flybridge.
Bill joined him, flopping down on the settee and cracking open his beer. He pulled something out of his jacket pocket. “Hey, we never looked at this thing the other day, what with the bear attack and all.” He handed Marco the furry pouch bound in leather ties.
Marco set the pouch in his lap and carefully undid the knot.
It reminded him of the drawstring on the bag of gold.
“Oh, it was an attack now? Pretty sure we just cordially crossed paths during their morning stroll, but I’ll back your story if you want.
” He winked at Bill, then carefully unrolled the sealskin, revealing two small identical black moleskine books.
There was a sharp smell of mildew and ink. These must be old.
He handed one to Bill.
He gently pulled open the cover of the remaining book.
There was a little water damage around the edges, but the pages came apart cleanly.
The sealskin had protected them remarkably well for goodness knows how long in the eagle’s nest. The inside cover and first page were blank.
The second page was handwritten in curly formal cursive:
Radioville Station Log—January through _____ 1938. Joseph T. Baxter, station operator. Radioville, Alaska Territory
The breath left Marco’s lungs. The journal shook in his hand as he turned the page.
January 10, 1938: Fr: Douglas Irving—To: Rachael Irving, Kenosha, WI “Sending some funds via Western Union. So sorry things are tough. I’m doing all I can.”
Fr: Samuel Worlson—To: Tamara Worlson, Lawton, OK “Ain’t heard nothin from you in weeks. Everything OK? Hope you are well.”
Bill interrupted. “Marco? What the hell is this?” He held the other book toward Marco, opened somewhere near the beginning.
T EHDE T MGD T HMDI E AE E OOOSZIB
Bill showed Marco several more pages. They were all the same.
The entire book was hand-printed in some kind of code.