Spring in the Prince William Sound is a time of contrasts that I look forward to each year: deep snow, vibrant blue waters, and endless adventure. This past April, Nyssa, Scott, Emrys, and I set out for a weekend of skiing, shrimping, and exploring the dynamic terrain of Port Nellie Juan.
After surviving the usual Whittier mayhem of the tunnel, parking, and the boat ramp, we leave the harbor behind and motor down Passage Canal and then across Port Wells. The wake of the boat chases us as we turn right and slip into the sheltered waters of Culross Passage.
Photo: Emrys Hall
At the end of the passage, the glassy waters of Nellie Juan spread away from us as we set our shrimp pots. There’s always the sense of mystery when dropping the pots into depths - wondering whether they’ll yield a haul of prawns, a few baby tanner crabs, a pile of mud, or something unexpected.
Photo: Emrys Hall
With the pots soaking, we skin into the temperate rainforest. The snowpack is deep, etched with rain runnels, and uncooperative underfoot - a slippery ascent through the trees that is a laugh-filled start to the tour.
Photo: Emrys Hall
At treeline, we pause to take in the view of Blue Fjord and Nellie Juan beyond. Emrys:
The ridges separating Blue Fjord and Derrickson Bay call, and we chase after Scott as he becomes a speck silhouetted against steep drop-offs and terrain smoothed by the heavy snowpack.
Climbing higher, we look down to see Emrys above the head of the fjord, where the intertidal zone, snowy shoreline, and deep blue waters paint a breathtaking intersection of landscapes.
Our first west-facing run above Derrickson is glorious mellow corn. Scott can't contain his grin as he carves soulful turns:
With the sun moving across the sky, we explore farther west. Below us, we look at Derrickson speckled with icebergs splintered from the Nellie Juan Glacier. Contact Glacier, now retreated from the sea, stands as a reminder of the changing landscape.
From a high ridge at the top of the lap, we look east toward Montague Island, its spine rising beyond the island-dotted waters of the Sound.
The day is getting later and we start to head back towards the boat, climbing above Ultramarine Glacier, its massive gorge cutting through the mountains below us. Emrys pausing to soak in the scale of the place:
With extra time and the stable maritime snowpack, we drop our packs for a carefree lap. Nyssa peers over the cornice and is frozen for a moment in time as her momentum shifts and she tips into the bowl:
We follow, carving into the buttery corn snow as the rolling white horizon cuts the blue sky.
Photo: Emrys Hall
Emrys sits out this lap, soaking in the glory of this magical place as we skin back over the horizon to him. Below us, the shimmering water stretches out in all its beauty, a reminder of the vastness of the Sound. In the background is the terrain we will end up skiing the following day:
Photo: Emrys Hall
For our final lap to the salt water, we carve deep tracks into the overcooked corn. At treeline, the smooth skiing gives way to the inevitable challenges of the backcountry: downhill bushwhacking through trees, alders, and creeks coated in manky inconsistent snow - honestly one of my favorite things.
We check the pots then head for a sheltered beach where Nyssa, Scott, Carolyn, and I have camped before.
On the beach, the tents are dwarfed by 8 to 10 foot snowbanks—a testament to the impossible amount of water that the western PWS wrings from the sky.
As evening falls, the stillness of the fjord wraps around us.
Sunday dawns bright, calm, and perfect. We breakfast on the rippling waters then go to reset our pots.
Photo: Scott Patterson
Photo: Scott Patterson
Kings Bay is our goal for the day, but the winds are funneling through the channeled gap and I am nervous about leaving the boat. We putter around for awhile looking for a place we feel comfortable anchoring the boat. After exploring several potential spots, we settle on the West Finger Inlet, where the boat is protected from the strong west winds.
We anchor the boat and walk the grassy tidal flats to the snow. Like usual, the skin up through the rainforest is silly with a series of goofy cruxes where we cling to icy snow and questionable veg belays.
Approaching the alpine, I look at the long moss dangling off the trees, its a quintessential gulf of Alaska landscape in my eyes.
Above treeline, the view west into Kings Bay is of deep blue waters with squalls dancing on the surface - I'm glad we didn't leave the boat out there.
Scott is ahead again and skis a west facing lap from the high point carving smooth turns past us and down a mellow west-facing slope above Kings Bay
It looks fun. Scott catches up with us and we all ski it together one more time.
Together, we follow the ridge north for our next lap. Nyssa, Scott, and Emrys are ants against the massive backdrop of giant Chugach peaks rising over Port Wells.
Photo: Scott Patterson
Dropping north toward the inlet, we ski a lap of steeper, rolling terrain. The run is fantastic. Nyssa:
Scott spots another promising zone farther north along the ridge and our eyes and souls absorb the unique landscape as we head that way.
While Emrys calls Sara, we run ahead to squeeze in another lap. As we rip our skins and prepare to drop in, we look past a huge overhanging, dripping cornice at Emrys who is giving the dangerous monster the space it deserves.
The ramp curves northward as we descend. I watch Nyssa ski towards Scott, her tracks juxtaposed against the textured shadows of where water is draining through the snowpack.
We climb back toward Emrys, who is waiting on the ridge. As we gain elevation, Cochrane Bay and Port Wells come into view, stretching for tens of miles to the north.
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Then, its our last run of the weekend, and we cut through sloppy corn, carving our way toward the trees and the boat waiting below. Nyssa slicing into the cooked snow with each turn:
At treeline, we pause to look back up at our tracks stamped into the classic rolling terrain of the Sound - ephemeral evidence of a great day together.
Turning our gaze westward, we take in the sweeping channel of Kings Bay, framed by the striking white granite peaks of Deepwater Bay rising sharply from the sea.
Skiing through the rainforest is as silly as always, complete with plenty of laughs along the way. At the water, we scramble and slide over the slick, uneven rocks and kelp stumbling to the dinghy.
We retrieve the boat, toss our ski gear on the back deck, and set sail to retrieve the shrimp pots. The fresh spot prawns are tossed in our pad thai and we drift in the golden light savoring this unique interplay between snow and sea that draws us back to this wild place every spring. Then we start the beautiful evening cruise back to Whittier and the work week.
The ridges separating Blue Fjord and Derrickson Bay call, and we chase after Scott as he becomes a speck silhouetted against steep drop-offs and terrain smoothed by the heavy snowpack.
Climbing higher, we look down to see Emrys above the head of the fjord, where the intertidal zone, snowy shoreline, and deep blue waters paint a breathtaking intersection of landscapes.
Our first west-facing run above Derrickson is glorious mellow corn. Scott can't contain his grin as he carves soulful turns:
With the sun moving across the sky, we explore farther west. Below us, we look at Derrickson speckled with icebergs splintered from the Nellie Juan Glacier. Contact Glacier, now retreated from the sea, stands as a reminder of the changing landscape.
From a high ridge at the top of the lap, we look east toward Montague Island, its spine rising beyond the island-dotted waters of the Sound.
The next west-facing descent brings more quality skiing. Scott arcs turns toward Derrickson Spit, a moraine deposited and contoured into shape during a time past when the Nellie Juan and Contact glaciers joined and extended farther. I am reminded of last year when we nervously boated through the tide rip of the shallow inlet, looking down into the shallow water at boulders deposited by the glacier from when it still touched there.
The day is getting later and we start to head back towards the boat, climbing above Ultramarine Glacier, its massive gorge cutting through the mountains below us. Emrys pausing to soak in the scale of the place:
With extra time and the stable maritime snowpack, we drop our packs for a carefree lap. Nyssa peers over the cornice and is frozen for a moment in time as her momentum shifts and she tips into the bowl:
We follow, carving into the buttery corn snow as the rolling white horizon cuts the blue sky.
Photo: Emrys Hall
Emrys sits out this lap, soaking in the glory of this magical place as we skin back over the horizon to him. Below us, the shimmering water stretches out in all its beauty, a reminder of the vastness of the Sound. In the background is the terrain we will end up skiing the following day:
Photo: Emrys Hall
For our final lap to the salt water, we carve deep tracks into the overcooked corn. At treeline, the smooth skiing gives way to the inevitable challenges of the backcountry: downhill bushwhacking through trees, alders, and creeks coated in manky inconsistent snow - honestly one of my favorite things.
We check the pots then head for a sheltered beach where Nyssa, Scott, Carolyn, and I have camped before.
On the beach, the tents are dwarfed by 8 to 10 foot snowbanks—a testament to the impossible amount of water that the western PWS wrings from the sky.
As evening falls, the stillness of the fjord wraps around us.
Sunday dawns bright, calm, and perfect. We breakfast on the rippling waters then go to reset our pots.
Photo: Scott Patterson
Photo: Scott Patterson
Kings Bay is our goal for the day, but the winds are funneling through the channeled gap and I am nervous about leaving the boat. We putter around for awhile looking for a place we feel comfortable anchoring the boat. After exploring several potential spots, we settle on the West Finger Inlet, where the boat is protected from the strong west winds.
We anchor the boat and walk the grassy tidal flats to the snow. Like usual, the skin up through the rainforest is silly with a series of goofy cruxes where we cling to icy snow and questionable veg belays.
Approaching the alpine, I look at the long moss dangling off the trees, its a quintessential gulf of Alaska landscape in my eyes.
Above treeline, the view west into Kings Bay is of deep blue waters with squalls dancing on the surface - I'm glad we didn't leave the boat out there.
Scott is ahead again and skis a west facing lap from the high point carving smooth turns past us and down a mellow west-facing slope above Kings Bay
It looks fun. Scott catches up with us and we all ski it together one more time.
Together, we follow the ridge north for our next lap. Nyssa, Scott, and Emrys are ants against the massive backdrop of giant Chugach peaks rising over Port Wells.
Photo: Scott Patterson
Dropping north toward the inlet, we ski a lap of steeper, rolling terrain. The run is fantastic. Nyssa:
Scott spots another promising zone farther north along the ridge and our eyes and souls absorb the unique landscape as we head that way.
While Emrys calls Sara, we run ahead to squeeze in another lap. As we rip our skins and prepare to drop in, we look past a huge overhanging, dripping cornice at Emrys who is giving the dangerous monster the space it deserves.
The ramp curves northward as we descend. I watch Nyssa ski towards Scott, her tracks juxtaposed against the textured shadows of where water is draining through the snowpack.
We climb back toward Emrys, who is waiting on the ridge. As we gain elevation, Cochrane Bay and Port Wells come into view, stretching for tens of miles to the north.
.jpg)
Then, its our last run of the weekend, and we cut through sloppy corn, carving our way toward the trees and the boat waiting below. Nyssa slicing into the cooked snow with each turn:
At treeline, we pause to look back up at our tracks stamped into the classic rolling terrain of the Sound - ephemeral evidence of a great day together.
Turning our gaze westward, we take in the sweeping channel of Kings Bay, framed by the striking white granite peaks of Deepwater Bay rising sharply from the sea.
Skiing through the rainforest is as silly as always, complete with plenty of laughs along the way. At the water, we scramble and slide over the slick, uneven rocks and kelp stumbling to the dinghy.
We retrieve the boat, toss our ski gear on the back deck, and set sail to retrieve the shrimp pots. The fresh spot prawns are tossed in our pad thai and we drift in the golden light savoring this unique interplay between snow and sea that draws us back to this wild place every spring. Then we start the beautiful evening cruise back to Whittier and the work week.
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