I left Sitka yesterday afternoon, my bags bursting with souvenirs, mementos and boat snacks. I love that narrow section north out of Sitka through Olga and Neva Straits through Hoonah Sound to Chatham Strait – I took a ton of pictures! Evening came fast and I had hoped to get clear enough skies to catch the Aurora Borealis, but it wasn’t to be. Midnight came along, and I gently laid my head on my bumpy boat pillow. Before dawn we were cruising through Frederick Sound and nudging into Petersburg’s harbor. The town was just stirring—a floatplane droning overhead, fishing boats packing gear, and gulls circling the docks. The crew slipped the lines from the moorings and the boat continued south. A little over an hour later we tied up in Wrangell, long enough to watch the tide rise around the pilings and grab a cup of coffee thick enough to stand a spoon in. The joe was needed greatly this morning. The ports of call were errr-lee, and my ears caught every announcement.

Sumner Strait was the next body of water The M/V Columbia made it’s way though. We threaded past tiny Meyers Chuck and entered Clarence Strait, where the weather announced itself with zero subtlety. Ten minutes earlier the water wore just a couple of whitecaps; suddenly two dozen danced across the same patch of sea. The wind stiffened, the cloud ceiling sagged until it kissed the distant hills, and a soft gray rain pattered down—breakfast, served Alaskan style.

By just after noon we eased into Ketchikan, docks bustling with ferries, trucks, and travelers. The town felt enormous compared with my last visit—though that was 1990. Three hours at the dock there, then back on the move past Annette and Duke Islands into Dixon Entrance. I made my final farewell to Alaska beneath a sky dappled with “sucker holes”—those fleeting blue portholes that lure you into believing the rain is finished. Now the ship is humming through Canadian waters, the shoreline slipping by in evergreen silhouettes.

Tomorrow promises nothing but horizon: a full day at sea, the Inside Passage’s twists giving way to straight-edge vistas of open blue. Friday morning we’ll nose into Bellingham. From there my itinerary becomes a patchwork of transport—train south to Sea-Tac, reclaim my car, and drive the last three hours to Oregon City. Six hours of steel rails and asphalt will close the loop that began last Tuesday, the 17th, when I flew to Sitka.

The past two weeks have been crammed with the sort of moments that made my heart race: candid interviews, great conversations, hours of footage capturing Sitka’s weatherworn landmarks and the pulse of Raven Radio. Even this ferry ride has doubled as a traveling studio—camera in hand, I’ve filmed mist-shrouded fjords, swapped stories with passengers about their Alaskan haunts, and collected accents, smiles, and the odd bit of local lore.

It’s the most immersive journey I’ve taken since my younger days—equal parts fieldwork and daydream, logistics and wonder. And I’m reminded, mile after mile, that every good story starts with a departure and gathers its power in the spaces between. This one’s no different, and I’m loving every chapter.

Blog Post Number Seven: Things to wrap up on board

June 26, 2025

It’s been a good morning on the Columbia. I woke after the usual six hours of ferry sleep—just enough to function, with a late-afternoon nap waiting in the wings. The ship had a gentle roll that played tricks on my balance; I’m not normally prone to seasickness, but even my stomach issued a polite warning. Pro tip (unsolicited but free): when queasiness hits, do not lie down or climb to a higher deck. The motion only gets worse the farther you are from the waterline. Instead, head as low on the ship as you can, step outside, and let the cold air reset your senses. It may not cure seasickness outright, but it slows the spiral and sometimes stops it altogether.

After that first stretch of choppy water, we slipped into a calm inlet where the sea turned glassy. Over breakfast I watched a trawler pass in the opposite direction; its wake sent a ribbon of reflected sunlight skimming across the mirrored surface—pure magic against the gray overcast.

We’re due into Bellingham tomorrow around 8 a.m.—I’m sure I mentioned that yesterday. Today’s agenda is simple: sort through the “boat food” (some snacks have not aged well), off-load the photos still trapped on my camera, and squeeze in more writing. Most of what I’ve posted so far was snapped on my phone, but trust me, the big camera has gems.

I’m still digesting an intense week and a half of interviews, footage, and creative wandering. Part of me is eager to get home; part of me is already plotting the next trip back to Sitka to keep adding layers to the story. Soon it’ll be back to the day job—a mental shift that always feels strange. The work’s fine, just not where my heart lives. Maybe that’s true for most people; maybe not. Either way, compartmentalizing is the name of the game.

For now, I’ll repack my gear, crank some music, and dip into John Straley’s new novel, Big Breathe In, which I picked up at Old Harbor Books before leaving Sitka. Perfect ferry-reading material.

A checklist maybe is in order. One of those helpful tools that I like to make, and then casually ignore it while attempting to remember what I put on it but still refusing to look at it. To enjoy one last sunset on the water, if progressive hues of gray qualify for that. To snag a final Solarium selfie, as it will be a long time (never say never) until I am on another Alaskan ferry. To be clear, this has been a wonderful slow roll back to the lower 48, but I may not do it again because of time and cost. Head up to the cafeteria for lunch and treat myself to one more slice of pie "for the road". Tomorrow’s a travel day, but today is still part of the story.

Catch you later.

There’s a moment in boating that feels almost magical—when the hull lifts, the drag lessens, and suddenly, the boat is gliding. The term "getting on step," while technically related to boat hull planing, has taken on a broader significance for me. As we age, the insights gained from past experiences offer a distinctive perspective on life, which is quite intriguing. 

In boating, being on step means the boat has achieved enough speed for the hull to rise and skim across the water’s surface. Instead of pushing through the water, it glides above it. It’s a state of dynamic balance—where performance, fuel efficiency, and handling all improve. The transition into this mode is often called getting on plane, and when a boat hits that sweet spot, everything just feels right.

There's an intangible feeling beyond the mere mechanics of it.

This recently came to mind while I was aboard the M/V Columbia, heading south to Bellingham. In the distance, I noticed a large pleasure craft trying—and failing—to get on step. Whether it was overloaded, underpowered, or just improperly balanced, I couldn’t tell. Plowing the water, it slowly motored forward, stuck in the inefficient in-between, never quite breaking free. That image stuck with me.

It brought me back to boating with my dad, and the family.

Growing up, my dad always made sure his boats ran as well as they could. There were four of them over the years, and each one had its own quirks. He was meticulous about stowing cargo and gear in a way that kept the boat balanced and efficient. Whether we were loaded for a weekend of sleeping aboard in a treelined cove, or an afternoon fishing, or whatever else the day called for, he knew how to make it work. Now in his later years, he’s content with a rowboat, less concerned with engine performance—but back then, it mattered. A lot.

He had been a mechanic in the Coast Guard, and later, a boat mechanic in civilian life. He understood that every part of the system—engine, hull, weight distribution—needed to work together. As a kid, I didn’t understand the mechanics, but I could see the care. And I admired it.

Now, as an adult, I see it differently. That attention to balance, to efficiency, to whether things are “running right”—it wasn’t just about boats. It was a mindset. And whether I learned it by watching or inherited it some other way, I carry that same instinct today. Maybe not as finely polished, but it shows up.

For me, being on step has become more than a term from the boating world. It’s a metaphor. It’s the feeling of alignment. When the weight I’m carrying, be it emotional, physical or creative, is in the right place. When effort turns into ease. When forward motion feels natural and right.

And just like with a boat, getting to that place isn’t always easy. It takes adjustments. It takes knowing what to leave behind and what to shift. But when you get there? You feel it.

You’re on step.

Thanks for reading.
 If this resonated with you, or if you have your own version of what it means to be “on step” in life, I’d love to hear it. Drop a comment, or share this with someone who knows what it’s like to find that glide.

Blog Post Number Nine: Raven Radio

🎙️ Blog Title: “Tuning In to Something Bigger”

Why I’m Making a Film About Raven Radio—and Why It Matters

Before email, smartphones, or social media, there was radio. And in Alaska—where communities are often separated by mountains, water, and weather—radio meant something deeper. It wasn’t just background music or morning news. It was a lifeline.

In 1981, in the small coastal town of Sitka, Alaska, something quietly revolutionary happened. A group of volunteers came together to build a community radio station: Raven Radio, KCAW-FM.

I was a teenager growing up in Southeast Alaska when Raven Radio first went on the air. And it’s not an exaggeration to say it changed everything.

🎧 A Voice That Feels Like Home

Raven Radio cut through isolation. You could hear your neighbor on the air reading the news. Your classmate spinning records late at night. Local musicians performing live from a tiny studio with a squeaky floor.

And when a winter storm blew through or the power went out—or you just felt far from everything—you could turn the dial, hear that familiar voice, and feel like you belonged.

I’ve never forgotten that feeling. And here’s the thing: anyone who connects with Raven Radio—whether they’ve lived in Sitka for 30 years or tuned in from a fishing boat past Biorka Island—knows it, too. It’s not just nostalgia. It’s recognition. You’re hearing your place reflected back to you. That’s powerful.

🎥 Why This Story, Why Now

For years, I’ve wanted to tell the origin story of Raven Radio. Not just because it’s a part of my own story—but because it speaks to something timeless and urgently relevant.

Public radio in Alaska remains a critical source of communication, especially in remote communities. In many places, it’s the only locally controlled media. It 

brings essential news, cultural programming, emergency alerts, and a sense of shared identity across great distances.

But that kind of local, independent storytelling is under threat—from funding cuts, and the slow erosion of community-based media.

This film, Raven Radio: Voices Across the Water, serves to document and honor the legacy established in Sitka, while also recognizing the ongoing resilience 

demonstrated by the station today.

🛠️ What We’re Building Together

The film is already in progress. I’ve been to Sitka to interview some of the original staff and volunteers. Their stories are funny, moving, and full of that same spark that launched the station in the first place. I have plans to go back for additional interviews in October.

Now, I’m launching a crowdfunding campaign to help bring the film to completion. That means editing, sound design, music licensing, animation, and outreach—so we can tell this story with the depth and beauty it deserves.

But more than that, I’m inviting you to be part of the story.

You can learn more, and help amplify the project by visiting our campaign page:

Seed&Spark - Raven Radio

Thanks for reading. Thanks for listening.

–Kurt

JUNE 25th, 2025