“Alaska’s beauty is harsh. She doesn’t seduce you – she dares you.” – Loren Eiseley, American anthropologist

Cruising Alaska

Vancouver is a tough city to say goodbye to. We spent three glorious days basking in its sunshine and exploring this coastal seaport gem in British Columbia.  For the next seven days we’ll be sailing the Inside Passage, the coastal route running alongside the Pacific Ocean, and the network of islands and fjords that abound there.

The Holland America Noordam will be our home. It’s one of their oldest and smaller ships, and honestly, now into its 20^th year, she’s getting a bit long in the tooth, clearly showing her age, deeming it time for yet another facelift.

The city skyline slowly slips away as the ship eases out of the harbor. From an upper deck, we watched seaplanes skim across the waters, and crossed under the majestic Lions Bridge; Stanley Park fading into green shadows.

As our voyage began, excitement buzzed through the decks as strangers traded smiles and laughter; sharing in the fellow explorer experience that’s about to begin. 500 miles lie ahead to reach “The Great Land” aka Alaska.

Dinner that night felt festive, the sea stretching wide open before us, and the promise of great adventures to follow.

Inside Passage

Glaciers, fjords, waterfalls, oh my … Morning has broken with silence interrupted only by the steady hum of the ship. The Inside Passage revealed itself in shifting scenes: pine-clad mountains rising sharply from the water, with clouds brushing the peaks, and tiny fishing boats dwarfed by nature’s scale. David lingered out on our stateroom balcony with coffee in hand, spotting eagles overhead and the occasional ripple that hinted at something stirring beneath the surface.

The day moved slowly, with quiet times watching the wilderness glide past. At sunset, the horizon caught fire in streaks of pink and gold for an unforgettable introduction to the great Northwest.

Ketchikan

Ketchikan came into view early the following day, a colorful, waterfront town perched on stilts above the water, framed by forested mountains. The harbor was alive with movement as fishing boats set out, floatplanes bobbing, and gulls circling noisily overhead. It felt like a frontier town still deeply tied to the sea and the forest.

Our land tour brought us to the Saxman Native Village, where we got a taste of the local indigenous culture. The towering totem poles stood like silent guardians; their carved figures fiercely standing guard against the misty, grey Alaskan sky.

Ravens, eagles, wolves, and bears stared down from the weathered cedar, each pole telling its own story of clan lineage, legend, or historical event. Some rose nearly forty feet, their colors bold against the dark green of the forest beyond.

We stepped inside the clan house, a long, cedar-scented hall with carved beams, and were warmly welcomed with a traditional and colorful, dramatic dance performance.

The drumming began low and steady, then rose in rhythm as dancers in their vivid red/black regalia moved across the floor. Their woven robes and carved masks seemed to bring the animal figures of the totems to life – ravens flapped, eagles soared, and bears lumbered in time with the drum. The songs, sung in the Tlingit language, filled the room with a power that felt both ancient and alive in the moment.

The performance was more than entertainment; it was a glimpse into the heartbeat of the culture, a reminder that the poles outside were not just immovable relics, but living stories that are brought to life by song, dance, and memory.

Walking among them, I realized the totems were not mere carvings, but storytellers in wood, preserving the spirit of the Tlingit and Haida people. Our guide shared the meaning of each figure; the way every curve and detail carried a message. It was like stepping into a library without words, where history and myth were recorded not on paper, but in cedar wood.

By midday the mood turned from solemn to spirited as we found ourselves at The Alaskan Lumberjack Show. The clash of axes, the whine of saws, and the thud of boots brought a different kind of story – that of grit and humor of frontier life.

Opposing American and Canadian lumberjack teams (an ominous foretelling of the future) battled with speed climbing, axe throwing, and log rolling; all while their playful rivalry drew laughter and applause from the crowd. It was loud, lively, and undeniably corny fun.

What truly kept me entertained, though, were the unintended layers of humor woven through the performance. Something about all those rugged “frontier boys” swinging axes, grunting, flexing, and trying very hard to out-man each other… well, let’s just say the subtext was doing its own log-rolling act. I’m not sure the rest of the audience caught it, but it certainly kept me smiling.

In the late afternoon, Creek Street, once a red-light district, charmed all with its boardwalks perched over water, and full of shops and galleries. We strolled along the creek where the salmon run dazzled us below as they leapt upstream. It was a lively and mesmerizing performance of nature acting out for us.

David came upon a man looking up into the tall trees with his camera aimed at something. “Bald eagle – look up there,” he said. Almost camouflaged, if it wasn’t for the white “bald spot” shining as a beacon, it could easily have gone unnoticed. It was the first of many sightings of the US national bird in days ahead.

During dinner, the four of us shared our adventures of the day. Beth and Annabelle literally took off and flew over the gorgeous, mist-covered fjords on a seaplane; making for an unforgettable experience. I would like to expand on that based upon my perceptions from what I recall from their excited conversation.

Here now is my interpretation … their floatplane skimmed across the harbor before rising gracefully into the sky, leaving the town small and colorful below. Soon, they were gliding above a wilderness of deep fjords, sheer granite cliffs rising thousands of feet from the water, and waterfalls cascading in silver ribbons.

Continuing … clouds drifted at eye level, and the lakes below reflected the peaks like glass. From above, the immensity of Alaska was humbling, wild, untouched, and timeless.

We all agreed Ketchikan had given us its heritage, humor, and grandeur of nature all woven together in one unforgettable stop to start our journey.

Juneau

Did you know, Juneau, unlike any other capital city in the U.S., cannot be reached by vehicle? No highway leads in or out, no ribbon of pavement ties it to the rest of Alaska or the lower forty-eight. The city is cradled between the steep coastal mountains and the Gastineau Channel, walled in by nature itself.

Over the years there have been heated debates about building a road to connect Juneau with Skagway or Haines, but the sheer cost, the avalanche-prone mountains, and the untouched wilderness have always won out.

To reach Juneau, you must come by sea or by sky, and once you arrive, the roads only stretch a little way before surrendering back to forest.

Our day began with a steady Alaskan drizzle that showed no sign of letting up. From ship to small boat, we joined a whale watching excursion that will take us out into the Lynn Canal. As we cruised into open waters, deeply bundled-up in layers, we huddled along the rails, eyes straining at the gray waves, searching.

Time passed by with only gulls to keep us company until at last, a spout appeared. “Ahoy mates!” A plume of breath rose like smoke against the horizon, followed by the rolling arch of a humpback’s back. “Quick – look over there, port side! Quick – over there, starboard!”

Then, just as quick, silence again, the ocean swallowing its secrets. Sightings were few, fleeting, and hard-won, but each one was a gift, a glimpse into a world that reveals itself only on its own terms.

It went from whales to ice, as our shuttle bus wound its way back through town. Soon, the forest opened, then suddenly, there it was: the spectacular Mendenhall Glacier, a massive wall of blue ice tumbling down from the Juneau Icefield. It was an awesome sight to behold. Not like anything I’ve seen before.

We were set to do the short walk to see the glacier up close and personal, and see and hear the roaring of Nugget Falls, but it was way too cold, rainy, windy and a slippery trail thrown in. Instead, we took in all the glacier’s majesty from the deck of the visitor center … not too shabby.

At the center, rangers told stories of the glacier’s quickening retreat over the past decade; pointing out where ice once filled much of the valley, and is now pulled back by warming summers. It was humbling standing where ancient ice had been not long ago.

Back in town, wandering the rain-slick streets of Juneau, we ducked into the warmth of the famous and iconic Red Dog Saloon. Its swinging doors creaking open like a portal back to another time. Inside was packed to the rafters with other seekers of comfort and warm drink. Between them and the loud music, it was a raucous scene to behold.

Sawdust crunched underfoot, the air smelled faintly of whiskey and wood smoke, and everywhere you looked, the walls were plastered chockablock with relics of Alaska’s gold-rush days: old rifles, mining gear, and weathered photos of long-forgotten characters of yore. 

As luck would have it, a table was found under a mounted moose head, and for a while, we just soaked in the scene – the piano player cracking bad jokes, servers dressed in period costumes shouting orders, eavesdropping conversations of glaciers, whales, and weather.

The only way out of the saloon was, shock of shocks, was through the gift shop. In the miners’ day, they drank their gold nuggets worth. Today, the place simply skips the middleman and goes straight for your wallet.

Rows of logo-covered T-shirts, mugs, and magnets awaited like glittering “treasures,” each one practically whispering, “Go on… be part of history, and buy, BUY!” The gold rush may be over, but the cash grab is alive and thriving.

By the time we returned to the ship, we were damp, shivering, and tired. Yet there was a deep satisfaction in the day’s travels: the glaciers wrapped in mist, the whales appearing on their own schedule, and the wild Alaskan weather that refused to be tamed.

Juneau had not offered us a gentle welcome, but it had given us something better: a day steeped in the authenticity of this rugged, untamed place. A great introduction to the 49^th State.

Skagway

“As the crow flies,” 100 miles north through the Inside Passage, Skagway greeted us with wooden boardwalks, clapboard storefronts, and echoes of the Klondike Gold Rush. Here our experiences will be totally different – David and I will head off to a Musher Camp and Beth and Annabelle on a train ride deep into the Yukon.

We took off on a bus that wound high up into the forested hills. The Musher Camp is tucked among tall spruces and birch, where the excited yelps of sled dogs carried through the trees with anticipation of impending sled work.

The dogs were lean, strong, and full of energy, each one straining at their harness, eager for the run. We climbed into a wheeled summer sled, and as soon as the musher gave the signal, the team surged forward. The forest trail blurred past, paws pounding dirt, tongues lolling out in pure joy. Their speed and power were astonishing; even without snow, it felt like flying.

After the run, we met the stars of the day – the Puppies! Wide-eyed and clumsy, they tumbled over each other in a joyful heap, eager for attention. Holding one against my chest, I could feel the soft warmth of its fur and the gentle beat of its heart; mine melting at the same time.

The mushers explained how human interaction at an early age is important as it begins their initiation into socialization and interaction skills with humans. The moms looked on mindlessly, happy for the break.

As we departed, the dogs were still barking, still yanking and pulling, still dreaming of the trail. They live for it.

Still riding the high of that puppy-love glow, and with time to spare while waiting for transportation back to the ship, we kept moving rather than standing still. Needing the motion to stay warm, we strayed a bit into the meadow at the edge of the Alaskan wilderness surrounding our pickup point. That’s when Mother Nature decided to show off in all its fungi glory; proving every step you take is a surprising one.

For at our feet, were the most beautifully shaped and vividly colored fungi I’d ever seen. Some looked so bright and whimsical they could have been candy. And yet, as we all know, beauty in nature often comes with a warning, as many of these jewels are deadly poisonous. In Alaska, every step you take offers a surprising experience.

Back in Skagway, the boardwalks bustled with tourists and gold-rush reenactors, but it was the sound of the dogs that stayed with me – wild, determined, and utterly Alaskan. Why didn’t I just sneak a pup into my coat pocket?! This will turn out to be my favorite experience of the entire cruise.

While David and I were gushing over puppies, Beth and Annabelle’s White Pass Train was puffing over mountain passes into the Yukon. As the whistle blew, the train slowly pulled out of town, clattering over trestle bridges and climbing toward the clouds.

Almost immediately, the landscape changed. The lush green valley gave way to rugged cliffs, waterfalls tumbling down, and then snow.

After the thrill of their ride, they slid into Liarsville, a recreated gold rush town that perched near the Yukon border. It felt like stepping back into 1898, when prospectors raced north in search of gold, their lives tough, their stories taller than the mountains.

That evening the ship became an Orange Night fiesta – Holland America’s cheerful salute to its Dutch heritage. Long before cruise ships and glacier vistas, the Dutch Royal Family carried the name House of Orange-Nassau, and that vibrant color became a national emblem. HAL has kept the tradition afloat, turning one night of every voyage into a tangerine-toned celebration.

We already knew how exuberant “orange fever” could be … turn back the clock to April 27, 2024 during our visit to the Netherlands, and we found ourselves swept along into the exuberant King’s Day … that gloriously chaotic celebration when the entire country turns neon orange and temporarily forgets the meaning of moderation.

Amsterdam’s lively streets bursting with music, boats zigzagging through canals packed to capacity, and people dressed like walking citrus fruits – it was pure Dutch mayhem. So stepping into Orange Night on our Alaskan cruise felt like a much milder, more seaworthy version of that joyfully unhinged day (with far fewer bicycles and far less spilled beer).

On board, passengers wandered the decks in every shade from pumpkin to neon carrot, the sunset over the Inside Passage trying its best to compete. David, naturally, elevated the moment – crafting his own orange mask, equal parts festive and theatrical, a touch of homemade pageantry that fit perfectly into the shipwide revelry.

A royal Dutch tradition unfolding against rugged Alaskan peaks, it was unexpected and spirited; one of those memories that glows long after the voyage ends.

Glacier Bay

This was the day that felt like the heart and soul of Alaska came upon us. In the early morning, rangers came aboard to narrate the passage through Glacier Bay. The ship moved quietly through still waters, surrounded by mountains and cliffs that seemed to rise straight out of the sea.

The ship glided slowly into the bay, slipping across water so still it looked forged from polished steel. Every cliff, every glacier, every shard of ice towering above us was reflected with eerie perfection.

Mist curled around the peaks, revealing jagged, and breathtaking snow-streaked ridges; like the landscape was unveiling its secrets one gasp at a time. Here’s where the word awesomeness becomes reality and best describes the scene before us.

Beth and I charged straight to the bow, determined to witness the spectacle with nothing between us and the raw power of Alaska. The wind was merciless – slicing cold, rain needling our cheeks, gusts hitting with such force they nearly stole our breath.

At one moment a crew member warned Beth not to lean too far forward. This was her Kate Winslet ~ ”Titanic” moment at the bow. I was her Leonardo savior, clutching her with both arms, certain the next blast might send her sailing off into the glacial abyss.

We stood there laughing, shouting over the roar of the wind, clinging to the rail as if riding the edge of the world. The only words that fit were the ones that tore out of me: “WOW! WOW!”

David made a gallant attempt to join us, but wisely retreated to the sanctuary of the cabin. From the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, he watched the entire scene unfold with quiet reverence; it was his own private opera of ice, mist, and mountains. No wind, no chaos, just pure, contemplative awesomeness.

And Annabelle? She had wisely positioned herself somewhere warm, and far from the wind, the rain, and our near Titanic re-enactment; all while admiring the scenery in blissful comfort.

At Margerie Glacier, the captain eased the ship close, and I watched in awe as chunks of ice calved into the water with a thunderous roar. As we approached, a thunderous crack split the air. A huge chunk of ice sheared off and crashed into the turquoise water below, sending ripples across the bay. We all gasped, caught between awe and the sheer power of nature. Sea otters floated nearby, indifferent to the spectacle, while the mountains and glaciers loomed timelessly around us.

Hours drifted by as we sailed from one glacier to another, each more magnificent than the last. Time seemed suspended in that blue-white world.

As seen around …

Glorious food aboard …