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Hamann journal: Cover of darknessDecember 2, 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 27
(CNN) -- At 4 a.m., the Eye Of God didn't blink. Rocks to the left, a buoy to the right, black seas below, and cold darkness straight ahead. We had been in the wheelhouse of the M.V. Kennicott since shortly after 3 a.m.. Alaska's newest passenger ferry is strung from stem to stern with high tech computers, yet the momentous task in the hours just ahead would succeed or fail at the hands of humans. Captain William Hopkins is always on the bridge each time his giant ship passes through the Wrangell Narrows. The Narrows are a regular shortcut during the ship's three-day run between Prince Rupert and Haines, the winding 1,000-mile trek along Alaska's magnificent Inside Passage. Guiding the Kennicott through the cramped, often-shallow Narrows saves passengers about 130 miles. Over a season, it saves thousands of gallons of fuel, and avoids the risks of stormy seas to the west. But the Wrangell Narrows have their own risks, and we had a front-row seat. At 3 a.m., the wheelhouse is completely dark, save for the beige glow of two radar screens and a couple of red light bulbs to the rear. Captain Hopkins, his Chief Mate Barry Olver and Third Mate Chris Biagi were joined by four other men, all ghostly shadows as we stood in front of the giant picture windows spanning the bridge. Captain Hopkins spoke evenly, with authority. Each of his commands were unambiguous. They were answered unambiguously by the Helmsman steering the rudder. "Right five." "Right five." "Bring to three-five-two." "Three-five-two." "Stay the channel." "Stay the channel." A three-quarter moon hung above the mountains, all of them pale with snow. The inky water in the channel was dotted with dozens of lights on buoys, half blinking red, half blinking green. As the captain stared ahead at non-blinking amber lights in the distance, he ordered subtle turns to the left or right. Sometimes the giant ship shifted only one degree. We could not see Captain Hopkins' face in the darkness, and imagined him -- from the authority in his voice -- to be a grizzled old mariner in his early 60s. Turns out, he is only 47. William Hopkins had been on the water most of his working life, following the steps of his father, who had traded logging in California for guiding ships in Alaska. The younger Hopkins had learned the sea at his father's feet -- until his dad was killed in an accident at sea, the only one in a helicopter accident to reach the safety of a lifeboat, only to die of exposure on a night as cold as this one on the Narrows. "Spotlight left." "Spotlight left." With a flick of a switch, Chief Mate Barry Olver turned on a searchlight with a fat, searing beam. The irises on our eyeballs immediately clamped shut; the eerie shadows of sky, mountains and water all disappeared. As Barry panned left and right, our toes curled as we saw how close we now were to the rocks on either side of the ship. "We don't run the Narrows with the spotlights on," Barry explained, "because the human eye, when adjusted to the darkness, has better depth perception and can see further in the darkness." But sometimes, when the margin for error drops to almost nothing, the giant spotlight illuminates silent obstacles that could shred the shell of the ship. "The spotlight," he said, "we call it the Eye of God." At 4 a.m., the ship is full of sleeping passengers. None of them have any idea what it takes to run the stretch between Wrangell and Petersburg. This was a spectacularly clear night -- very different from the usual November, when the channel fills with fog, high winds and blinding snow. Ferry crews squeeze through these Narrows all the time. In the rare times they miss, it's big news. But on nights like this, it's another difficult job done well, under cover of darkness. Jack Hamann is a correspondent with CNN's Environmental Unit and CNN NewsStand.
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