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Hamann journal: The lady can danceDecember 1, 1999 EDITOR'S NOTE: Seattle-based correspondent Jack Hamann is headed on another adventure, this one to just to the south of the Arctic Circle. He'll be driving through the Canadian Rockies, across the windswept northern plains, up the Inside Passage and along the northernmost section of the Alaska Highway. Follow along here for regular dispatches on his journey. By Jack Hamann and Leslie Hamann
Journal date: November 26
(CNN) -- Alabama in Alaska. Mississippi in the middle of the Great White North. It was a day when November seemed like May, when water wouldn't flow in the pouring rain. Alabama: On one side of a chain link fence was Canada at 10 a.m.. On the other side was Alaska at 9 a.m.. In between was the U.S. Customs agent at the Prince Rupert entrance to the Alaska Marine Highway System ferry up the Inside Passage. It wasn't the Custom agent's questions that made us pause ("U.S. citizens? Buy anything while in Canada?") It was the way she asked them. ("Bah anythang whall in Canada?") Her sweet accent, it turned out, was from Alabama, about as far from icy Prince Rupert streets and rugged North Pacific coastline as we could imagine. She had a cold -- looked like she missed the magnolia blossoms back home -- yet was protecting her country from the importation of illegal fruits, cigarettes and firearms at this remote boundary between two of the friendliest nations on Earth. Her husband is a Canadian, his business is in Prince Rupert. And, hey,there are worse ways to serve your country. Ah guess.... Mississippi: In 1952, an American shipyard built an oceangoing passenger vessel for use in American waters. Forty-six years passed since it happened again. We're riding it for the next two days. The M.V. Kennicott is the pride and joy of the Alaska ferry system. It was built in Mississippi and piloted through the Panama Canal, before its maiden launch during the 4th of July weekend, 1998. Shipboard legend says that a Mississippi-based skipper took the Kennicott on a test run in the Gulf of Mexico to see how well it could maneuver. The captain was so impressed, he reportedly declared, "She sure ain't pretty, but she sure can dance." One reason she ain't all that pretty is because she has to be a Boat For All Seasons. In summer, the Kennicott sails the often-stormy seas in the Gulf of Alaska, linking the Aleutian Islands with the rest of the state. In winter, travelers like us get to ride her in the relatively calm waters of the Inside Passage. And if there should ever be another major oil spill in Alaskan waters, ferry passengers can be dumped at the nearest port, and the Kennicott becomes a floating hotel and command center, complete with helipad and satellite communications. Since everyone hopes oil spills will be few and far between, the Kennicott should spend most of her life leading Alaska's water-highway system into the next millennium. Dozens of Panhandle towns, each nestled at the base of magnificent mountain ranges, must get by without connecting roads. As such, state ferries are much more than a tourist's delight. When the Kennicott was christened, a few Alaskans in landlocked towns complained about the cost. Jack Shay, a politician in ferry-dependent Ketchikan, had a ready retort: "To those people I say: 'Shame!' I say: 'Fie!' I say: 'A pox on you!' This is our highway system, and by heaven, if you come down and say anything to the contrary, you're going to reap our ire and our great wrath!" And you thought politicians minced words. May in November: The morning after we arrived in Prince Rupert, four days of rain and the "F" word had lifted. The sun was shining like it was mid-May. (In the wheelhouse of the Kennicott, "F" word stands for "fog". Fog is the bane of navigation in the Inside Passage. Those who say the "F" word out loud suffer the wrath of wiser mariners, who know better than to openly tempt fate.) There are times in July when the soaring peaks of the Alaska Panhandle are swallowed by clouds, and a cold wind blows passengers on packed ferries back to the main lobbies, where they jostle for seats and tolerate noisy children. So is it fair that, in November, we get blue skies and balmy temperatures? Does it make sense that, on this great ship designed to carry up to 748 souls, we are two of only 43 passengers (plus a crew of 58)? In the crapshoot of off-season travel to Alaska, we've run the table on the Kennicott. We know half the crew by name, and we get our choice of almost any comfy seat, bench or counter on the ship. On this gorgeous day, the ferry system isn't making money, but we're not losing any sleep. It won't pour when it rains. Just when we thought it was safe to call home, our 18-year-old son left a message on our voice mail. It's Thanksgiving night -- Seattle is drowning in days of drenching rain -- and the pipes in our house seem to be broken: the faucet turns on and no water comes out. A four-day weekend, when plumbers charge the regular rate times three. The start of a two-day ferry ride, where ship-to-shore phones charge the regular rate times four. As if it couldn't happen on a Monday when we're back home. Oh, well, he's 18. Now he'll learn what it really means to be a man. Jack Hamann is a correspondent with CNN's Environmental Unit and CNN NewsStand.
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