He stepped out of the shrubs on the opposite bank, stood stockstill, then moved slowly down to the river’s edge, milky white, the sun glinting off the tips of his fur. He turned his head left to right, and back again. Sniffed the air. He clambered slowly up onto a moss-cloaked log that stretched across the river and scooped a gigantic paw into the water, trying to snag a fish.
He was so close we could hear him huffing slightly as he crossed the log in slow motion. He was between us and whatever place he’d stepped from, which seemed a landscape beyond. Jeff grabbed the camera. I could hardly breathe. The bear looked to me as old as light, his movement measured. He was both motion and stillness, a deep silence around him. He seemed as surreal as a dream, but with a presence that filled the whole river. Thirty seconds, eternity. It was as if the spirit of the place had become visible, had for an instant taken on material form.
We stood rapt and watched the beautiful bear amble up the river. He had a rare otherness: all the charge and mystery of a singular work of art, the magic of a mythical being that’s stepped out of a fairy tale, with late-afternoon light on his back flaring in a copper glow.
I felt luminous. To abide the bear was to feel large. But mostly, I recognized in those moments, that feeling of abundance was about the waiting for the bear, and the journey to the waiting, and doing those things together. It made everything, including the mystery that’s always there, even between two people who think they know everything about each other, seem whole.
We leaned way out over the railing, trying to make the wonder of those minutes last. The bear crossed a log, stood sniffing the air, head turning back and forth. Then he was past, paws crunching gravel, and we watched him continue up the river until the forest swallowed him.
MORE CANVAS!
An hour after we saw the bear, something totally unexpected happened. Jeff and I were hiking out, weaving between the trees, with Marven following. “A lot of people feel it’s really spiritual to see the white bear,” he was saying. Darkness was beginning to fall. Just then, Jeff saw a streak of gray, a flash.
“What’s that?” He pointed. “Up ahead on that branch?”
It was an owl hunkered in the limbs not ten feet in front of us, watching with huge black eyes. Suddenly, it spread its wings, lifted off, and disappeared into the forest.
We hiked on, scanning trees in search of the thing. Leaves. Darkness. Moss.
And suddenly, there it was again: this enormous owl blocking the trail.
“A northern spotted owl…that’s a really rare sighting,” Marven said, stunned.
Hello, wondrous owl! I felt like shouting into the cold.
“That’s only the second one I’ve seen in the wild,” Marven said. “Some tribal people think it’s bad luck to see them…” he added, his voice trailing off.
But I didn’t think so. The northern spotted owl kept drawing us on, flying ahead through the trees, then strangely stopping to wait, as if it had something urgent to say.
What I heard it say when I thought about it later was this: There is both beauty and darkness in nature. And in life. The poles of existence. It’s bittersweet, the reality of the passage of time. Don’t worry so much about what’s going to happen because it’s out of your control anyway. Listen. Have faith. Feel. Even pain has its place, so you might as well grab life by the tail and hold on tight, live it well, all of it, eyes wide-open.
* * *
Back aboard the boat the rain slackened; the evening’s clouds swelled with brightness. Standing on the bow raising the anchor, I could hear the hypnotic voice of the sea tapping against the hull. A wind had picked up: insistent, briny, bright. Over the next days, as we made our way south, from Khutze Inlet to Reserve Bay, down the great length of Princess Royal Channel to Rescue Bay, and finally to Shearwater, I thought about the bear. Could it be my spirit animal? I pictured its powerful jaws, imagined it sleeping in its moss thicket, its fur dirty white.
“‘Each of the four directions: North, South, East, and West,’” or the Four Directions of indigenous oral teachings, I read aloud to Jeff as we continued south, “‘represents a particular way of perceiving things. No direction is considered superior to another, the point is to seek and explore each one in order to gain a thorough understanding of your own nature over time and in relation to the surrounding world.’”
“Hmmph,” my husband grunted.
“But hey, listen to this,” I went on. “‘North represents Wisdom. Its color is white, its power animal is the buffalo, and its gift is strength and endurance. West is the world of introspection; its color is black, its gift is rain, and its power animal is the bear.’”
I set down the book. “That’s cool, don’t you think? That we’ve just spent the last month sailing North and West in search of a white bear?”
“Maybe. What’s South, then?”
I picked up the book, paged ahead. “From the South comes the gift of warmth and growth after winter is over…its color is green…its power animal, the mouse.”
“You’re shitting me. Its power animal is the mouse?”
I laughed, smiled. “Well, at least I’ll take warmth any day.”
* * *
With the boys leaving, I’d felt adrift in the world—not just the predictable drift of who to be and what to hope for, but the drift of time and space in a calendar unmoored. I thought of all the places I’d been and all the lives you could lead, all of them interconnected in a time that seemed to be moving faster, growing more layered and complex and uncertain by the minute.
The white bear, nearly as great a mystery now as it was eons ago, seemed so fantastic. When I closed my eyes and saw the bear, dreamed about the bear, I saw a white spark sheltered by wild sea: an elusive spirit surrounded by some of the world’s most powerful currents. And in that thought was clarity, a point of focus in the haze.
I’d always been led by instinct, which had brought me my husband and my sons, so I trusted it: the idea of our empty-nest trip, to sail north together hoping to find the mythical white bear. Sometimes, you just have to point your heart toward something to move on. I also knew that although I love to get lost, I’d need a true partner in the wilderness—so I kidnapped my husband, talked him into venturing north together, although we had no idea if we’d make it to the Great Bear Rainforest, what we’d find there, or even if our boat would survive…
* * *
As we journeyed home, some days we awoke to sun, clear blue sky, and a brisk breeze streaming off the walls of the granite fjords. Others, we awoke to rain pummeling the cabin, and peered out to see lead-gray seas. The crisp air signaled September: we imagined Sam, driving home from San Francisco to pick up a rug we’d left for his apartment. We pictured James on his way to class (hopefully) in upstate New York, where the time was always three hours ahead. This awareness of our sons’ comings and goings was like a thick thread of feeling, connecting us materially. Jeff and I laughed at ourselves: the anticipation of the boys leaving had been so much worse somehow than their actual leaving.
Each morning we selected a Song of the Day, choosing a track from the iPod and cranking up Radiohead, the Pixies, old Rolling Stones. We danced on the stern deck to stay warm. We savored simple pleasures: mugs of hot tomato soup in the cockpit, crisp green apples, and the sheer dreamy quality of time, sitting in the main cabin reading, the only sound that of the occasional page turning. I found a spare piece of line and, when I was insanely bored, perfected my clove hitch.
Craziest of all? Once we found the spirit bear we managed to find the Northwest’s elusive wind as well. After sheets of rain lashing Mathieson Channel—“I can see where the phrase sheets of rain comes from!” I yelled from the helm back to Jeff, who was busy securing the dinghy so it wouldn’t buck and slap the sea while vertical planes of rain drenched him. We made our way back down Percival Narrows and Reid Passage, threading the rocky entrance to Seaforth Channel.
There, against an angry indigo sky and with twenty knots blowing from the sou
thwest, we caught enough wind to put the sails up.
We raised the staysail first.
Then the big main.
And finally, with both of us yelling “More canvas!”—and agreeing for once—the giant white genoa: dazzling, billowing and flapping. Spanking along, we hurtled downwind like that all the way to Bella Bella, big sails unfurled like wings against the sky.
* * *
We put the sails up again the next day in Fitz Hugh Sound, but the wind, maybe seven knots, didn’t last. We cut the engine anyway. Heron moved so slowly across the water, we wondered if we were moving at all. There was the sound of the wind plying the canvas and wave-splash off the bow and just enough breeze to burn away the fog, leaving a thin white band of silver mist above the water.
Neither of us said anything for a long time. Sailing this slowly, moving imperceptibly, it seemed to me as if we were able to see our lives from above, like birds soaring over a landscape, and with a deepening sense of the connection of all its parts. I felt intensely alive, remembering all the people we’d met—Marven and Richard Hunt and Wally Bolton; Ken and Edith, Jill and Richard; Pat Freeny and Captain Brian; the villagers of Klemtu and Hartley Bay. Everything—the schools of fish swimming beneath us and the great flocks of birds floating past; the lone wolf and the white spirit bear; the ancient orcas and humpbacks, each humpback whale’s tail as individual as a human thumbprint—felt linked and fragile and worth fighting for.
“Look, humpbacks!” Jeff said after a while, staring off the starboard bow.
We counted four, then seven, then twelve spouts: a whole family of whales feeding lazily, their white spray rising and falling against the dark flanks of Calvert Island.
“Maybe they’re migrating south to Mexico,” he mused.
“We could just keep going…follow them,” I suggested.
We floated on through the stillness across the glassy strait.
Then, when it was time to pull in the sails, we secured them easily, wound them fast, and motored the boat into a forested bay called Fury Cove. It was protected and calm this day; warm with late-afternoon light and ringed by shell beaches piled high with gray driftwood worn smooth by weather and time.
We dropped the anchor and shut down the engine.
Silence.
“Want to go exploring?” Jeff said after a few minutes, eyeing the wild beach.
We stood there a moment, savoring the new quiet. There was a feeling of accomplishment and a feeling of pure freedom. We had done this thing together. That was all, and it was enough.
I leaned over to roll up my jeans so we could wade gingerly ashore in this new place.
“Yes,” I said, and felt a spark of wonder that we’d made it here. “I do.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book owes everything to the generosity of author and naturalist Leslie T. Sharpe, who was both safe harbor and sharp-eyed navigator throughout the (very) long process of taking it from first pages to final draft. Uncharted exists because a handful of exceptional people, like Leslie, believed in it from the start.
Gratitude is not a big enough word for dream agent Jennifer Lyons, who took a chance on me and continues to grace me with her wisdom, friendship, and straight talk.
I can’t imagine a finer editor than Gary Luke or finer home than Sasquatch Books. I am forever grateful to Gary and the entire Sasquatch team, including Jill Saginario, Tony Ong, Robin Cruise, Callie Stoker-Graham, Nikki Sprinkle, and Molly Woolbright.
Sasquatch said yes because the book had already benefited from the goodwill of so many friends who helped nurture it along the way: Kate Riley, whose writing group in Hailey, Idaho, became my first readers; sincere gratitude to Rob Hannon and Holland Williams for early comments. Love and thanks to Kate Janeway for introducing me to Gail Ross, and to Gail for her wise feedback. Enormous thanks to author Iris Graville and author and publisher L. M. Browning at Homebound Publications for sharing their time and advice as well. To Pat Freeny and Paul Nicklen, my deepest gratitude.
Big thanks to everyone at the former NILA writing residency on Whidbey Island for taking such keen interest in my work. A shout-out to Lawrence Cheek, Melissa Hart, and Ana Maria Spagna, especially for your kindness. Thank you to Cynthia Jones for not only being such a loyal writing partner but for hosting such inspiring writers’ salons. To Rick Simonson at Elliott Bay Book Company for key publishing advice at exactly the right moment. To Mary Elizabeth Braun at Oregon State University Press for your support. To Ruth Dickey at Seattle Arts & Lectures for morning coffee and inspiration. And to Michael Wiegers at Copper Canyon Press for poetry.
Dream editors Marika Cain, Peter Fish, John Rasmus, Richard Bangs, Nancy Novogrod, Pamela Fiori, Susan Crandell, Melissa Biggs Bradley, Susan Crandell, Ila Stanger, and Tracey Minkin provided writing assignments that sustained my wanderlust. I am indebted to Marika Cain in particular for the privilege of remarkable assignments around the world during years when many iconic publications folded.
Thank you to my dearest friends along the way: Sue Bogin for your smarts and incredible generosity in reading through multiple drafts. Thank you, Anne Barker, Ellen Rubinfeld, Arthur Rubinfeld, Laura Midgley, Pauline and Robbie Bach, Justina Chen, Margot Kahn, Martha Brockenbrough, Nicole Hardy, Byron Ricks, Blaine Harden, Jessica Kowal, Margaret Lane, Stephen Caplow, Lisa and Sam Verhovek, Charlotte Guyman, Elizabeth Turk, Jane and Rick Bernstein, Nicole Raphaelson, Jean Hanff Korelitz, Eileen Delehanty Pearkes, Jan and Bob Whitsitt, Julie and Erik Nordstrom, Susan Potts, Molly Pengra, Sarah Woodward, Jody Cunningham, Sharon Linton, Nancy Gervais, Lauren Davis, and Beth Drayton, for coffee, walks, snowshoes, dinners, books, encouragement, and more inspiration than you’ll ever know. Thanks to Geof Barker and David Midgley, sailing friends extraordinaire, and Dan and Amy Nordstrom for good humor, camaraderie, and commenting on portions of the manuscript. Special thanks to Howard Wright and Kate Janeway for Clam Shack heaven on the edge of the Salish Sea. And to Paul LaRussa and Ivan for helping keep Heron afloat.
For nuance on indigenous culture and history, I am indebted to First Nation friends: Jess Housty in Bella Bella; Doug Neasloss and Rosie Childs in Klemtu; and Marven Robinson for reading and commenting on portions of the manuscript.
To my parents, Bart and Laurie Brown, there can never be enough thank-yous for being our inspirations in adventure and life. Thank you for not only believing in me and this book, but for both taking the time to read it so carefully—and for your thoughtful comments.
Thank you, Dr. Kristen Brown Golden, for joining me on assignment in Japan and offering much-needed sisterly support at a crucial stage of the book-making process!
And always and in every way, thank you to Sam and James Seely for being the kind, lovely men you’ve grown up to be and for not only letting me write about you when you were much, much younger, but also for taking the time years later to read the manuscript and make such deft, insightful comments. Thank you to Annie Vaughn and Colleen Sullivan for so gamely joining us aboard Mighty Heron in recent summers, and for being such spirited and charming additions to our crew.
And finally, to Jeff Seely, my love, my happiness, my dearest friend and fellow explorer. Thank you for making life fun and always interesting, for reading so many drafts, and for supporting every word. I would literally not be here without you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kim Brown Seely is the descendant of a pioneer family that came to California in a covered wagon (or “prairie schooner”) in 1864. Her wanderlust was born during summers tromping about the High Sierras and along the remote Lost Coast of Northern California with her parents when she was a girl. Winner of a 2016 Lowell Thomas Journalist of the Year Award and the Lowell Thomas Award in Environmental Journalism, she worked for many years as senior editor at Travel & Leisure magazine, contributing editor at National Geographic Adventure, travel editor at Microsoft, and travel editor at Amazon.com. A lifelong adventurer, Kim’s passion is experiencing—and writing about—remote, wild places. She has travele
d to more than thirty countries for Virtuoso Life magazine, where she is a contributing writer and has won nearly a dozen writing awards for her work. She lives near Seattle, Washington.
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