In front of where we camp in Hallo Bay, several miles out in the water, sits Puffin Island –a rocky bump in the sea that turned a lush fuzzy green as the summer progressed and the grasses grew tall towards the rarely setting sun.  We had stared at this barren looking, deserted island for so many hours, that we were delighted to be invited on a boat ride to go over there.  We had bumped into our friend Brad, who invited us for lunch on the bear viewing boat that he works on.  From there, Brad took us by skiff over to the island.

The boat pulled up to a sandy stretch of beach, and we hopped out and waded through the calm surf to shore.  Brad took off to attend to his guests, and John and I felt the calm sensation of being alone on a deserted island.  We thought, this is our kind of place!  As the boat pulled away flocks of puffins burst out of the nooks and crannies and tangles of grass bordering the beach and flew into the air.  Alarmed at our presence, they began circling us, doing laps, in a wide radius.  There were so many puffins circling over head that it looked like black pepper had been blown into the air.  The sound of their short wings flapping was loud overhead as they circled and circled, hoping the intruders would retreat. 

I started to feel badly for upsetting them so, but eventually they did settle back onto land, or in the sea.  The water bordering the island held huge swashes of black – clumps of birds floating at the island’s edge.  We were on a long, sandy beach.  To one end was a tangle of grey boulders forming a rocky shore line.  The other direction was smooth sand that curved around the edge of the island and out of sight.  One of the first things I noticed as I walked down the beach was that the sand was covered, everywhere, in bird prints.  The puffin prints showed the scratch of nails sticking out of wide webbing.  Their distinctive prints were everywhere, and I marveled at a beach without human tracks, and felt guilty that my own ugly boot marks were treading on the bird prints.

But we weren’t, in fact, the only visitors to this island sanctuary and nesting ground for puffins and gulls.  As we gazed up at the steep, sheer cliff that rose above the beach we saw the distinctive paths through the grass that could be nothing other than bear trails.  We had often wondered, while sitting on the beach over in Hallo and gazing at Puffin Island, if any bears ever swam over to the island.  During extreme low tides the water recedes at what looks like half the distance between Hallo Bay and Puffin Island.  Now it was clear – bears do swim to the island to feast on eggs and to retreat, like us, into a world without any of their kin. 

We gazed upwards at the cliffs.  Brad had suggested we climb to the top to see the nesting grounds of the birds.  It was a straight up climb, but the entire slope was covered in long, thick grass.  We decided to climb.  We made our way off the beach and back into the grass at the base of the cliff.  We headed towards a bear trail, figuring that was the best way to get up.  The grass was immediately dense, almost as tall as I was, and barely passable.  You couldn’t see the ground through the grass, so we stumbled quite often. Every few steps my foot would slip between two rocks or a fall into a hidden pit in the ground.  But we finally made it to the beginning of the bear trail and began our ascent. 

The grass had been trampled down by heavy bear feet and I soon realized that the easiest way to climb was to grab hold of a huge clump of grass with my hands and yank myself up using my arms.  The grass was more effective than rope, and hand over hand I pulled myself upwards.  As I rose up above the beach I felt like Tarzan clinging to vegetation as ropes.  My arms burned, and I was more out of breath than I had been in years, but somehow I was compelled not to stop and rest, but to continue climbing as my chest heaved for oxygen.  I finally crested over onto a flat plateau slightly below the “real” top of the island.  I sunk to the ground, buried in grass, when my allergies kicked in.  For someone allergic to grass, being on an island of nothing but rock and grass was a bad idea.  My nose began to seizure and I dragged myself upright to make the final ascent.  John was ahead of me when I finally reached the mound of boulders at the top.  The scent of bird poop was dank and heavy and I sunk onto a rock too tired to care about sitting in bird pooh.  Gulls were flapping everywhere, squawking down at us, and once again I felt like a guilty intruder. 

The view was spectacular.  It was a clear day and you could see the ridges of Kodiak’s islands across the ocean.  But my eyes were watering badly it was all I could do to breathe.  The full sun bore down on us, and once again I was amazed at how hot it can feel in Alaska!  I must admit I was physically miserable and unable to enjoy the moment.  I blew my nose, slumped on a rock as my face began to swell red from pollen and heat and exertion.  Well, I had made it to the top, and was immediately ready to scale down to some fresh breeze at the water’s edge. 

I thought about the bears that make the long swim to get over here.  I wondered about their motivations.  Obviously, if timed right, the island can be an all you can eat egg buffet.  I wondered if mother’s with cubs ever swim over?  Does it feels like a retreat for them, a place to pig out on an endless supply of eggs without competition or danger from any other bears?  How long does it take bears to swim out here? 

Taking in the view as best I could I began to follow the trail back down to the beach.  The beach looked so tiny down below.  The trail quickly grew steep, the path of grass matted down and slick.  I was afraid of falling and tumbling to my death, so I began to go down as I had come up – facing the path and climbing down by clinging to the grass like a rope.  But it seemed painfully slow, and the bottom seemed so tiny and far away.  I turned around, and thought, why the hell not?  I sat down on my butt, lifted my legs, and slid downwards like a child sledding in the snow!  It was exhilarating, I flew down the hill, the grass a slick straw slide, and I grabbed onto the grass every so often to slow down or stop.  Flying on my seat, I crested a bump and went air born, landing below in the soft mountain side.  That’s one thing about seven foot tall grass, when it is trampled down, it is really soft and buoyant!  John joined in and we both slid down the mountain face laughing and shouting, and hooting and bumping air born down the hill.  It was so much fun I forgot to sneeze!  We eventually landed with a soft thud at the bottom and traversed the small strip of shoulder high grass between the rock face and the beach. 

I was happy that our second arrival hadn’t stirred up the puffins and we walked to the water’s edge, and waded in to cool off.  Sitting down up to my chest in the water, the waders kept me dry but allowed the chill of the water to cool me down.  The water was green, and clear and calm and the island had quieted down since our noisy arrival.  We waded back to the sand, and walked down the beach towards the boulders.  I really hoped to see some puffins, or their nests, up close.  I spotted a bone lying on the beach wedged in the sand and picked it up.  I realized it was the thin and delicate breast plate of a puffin.  It was incredibly light weight and I marveled at the design of bird bones.  We spotted bear tracks in the sand zig zagging through the webbed prints.  I liked the thought that this place exists for only bears and birds.  Staring across the water to the beach of Hallo Bay I could make out the rocky bluff where we camp.  It was interesting to see our camp from this opposite viewpoint, from out in the ocean.  And I was ready to head back there, leaving this magical little island as it should be, free from humans.

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