Visiting the State Capital : Juneau, AK

"Alaska has long been a magnet for dreamers and misfits, people who think the unsullied enormity of the Last Frontier will patch all the holes in their lives.”

Jon Krakauer

Approach to Juneau

During the night, Queen Elizabeth continued her slow journey south from Skagway, retracing part of the route we had travelled north the evening before. By morning, the ship was gliding through the misty waters surrounding Juneau, Alaska’s remote state capital.

Unlike the brilliant sunrises that sometimes define mornings at sea, this morning greeted us with another curtain of fog and low cloud. Dense forested slopes disappeared into the mist while ribbons of waterfalls traced pale lines down the mountainsides. As the light gradually strengthened, the outlines of the landscape began to more strongly emerge - distant peaks, clusters of shoreline homes, and the dark shapes of seabirds moving across the water appeared.

As we rounded the final stretch of water toward Juneau, low clouds hovered just above the rooftops of Juneau while the surrounding mountains remained hidden somewhere higher in the fog. The landscape, as was now familiar in Alaska, was layered and shifted along with the fog.

Today we were the third ship to arrive in port – usually we had been the first to arrive, which had facilitated us exploring many of the smaller towns before the deluge of other passengers. Seeing other ships already tied up along the waterfront reminded us that Juneau, as Alaska’s capital and one of the most accessible ports in the Inside Passage, draws a steady flow of visitors throughout the season.

We had also been told the evening before that Queen Elizabeth would be tendering into port, which would have been our first such experience on this voyage. Instead, to our surprise, the ship eased alongside a dock, and the familiar choreography of docking lines and gangways began once again.

Sometimes plans at sea change quietly overnight.

Breakfast and Daily Program

Breakfast that morning was simple but welcome - fresh fruit, yogurt, Swiss muesli, and a chocolate croissant (I said simple, not entirely healthy), which we enjoyed while we studied the day’s Daily Program and the notes prepared by the ship’s navigation and naturalist teams.

The ship’s notes described Juneau as an unusual capital - set beneath a vast icefield and surrounded by waters rich with marine life. Accessible only by air or sea, it is a city shaped as much by glaciers and ocean as by its gold rush past.

Juneau offers an unusually wide range of possibilities for visitors. Excursions ranged from whale watching and glacier flights to visits to musher camps, salmon bakes, and historic gold-rush sites. For many passengers, the highlight of the day would be a visit to Mendenhall Glacier, one of the most accessible glaciers in Alaska and a destination that appears on many travellers’ bucket lists.

For those staying on board QE, there were other opportunities available, including:

3:00 PM Afternoon Tea with Guitarist Leo William John - Queen’s Room
5:00 PM Up Close with Naturalist, Dr. Rachel Cartwright - Commodore Club
8:45 PM Jazz Evening with the Queen’s Room Musicians - Commodore Club
10:45 PM Trad / Folk Experience - Golden Lion Pub

The ship’s naturalist, Dr. Cartwright, also reminded passengers that the waters surrounding Juneau are among the most productive marine habitats along the Inside Passage. During summer months, humpback whales frequently gather here to feed, while Steller sea lions, harbour seals, and Dall’s porpoises are also common sights for those heading out on wildlife tours.

Docking and Disembarking

Following breakfast, we returned briefly to our cabin to collect warmer jackets and our day packs for the morning’s exploration. The skies over Juneau carried the familiar cool dampness of coastal Alaska, and even from the decks it was clear that the day would require a few extra layers.

Once ready, we made our way through the ship and down toward the gangway. After passing through the security checkpoint and scanning off the vessel, one of the crew members paused us for a quick update. Queen Elizabeth, we were told, would soon shift her position along the harbour. When we returned later in the afternoon, we would need to board via a tender boat rather than directly at the dock. A nearby pickup point was pointed out before we stepped ashore.

Standing on the pier, it was immediately apparent that Juneau is unlike most state capitals. Despite being Alaska’s political centre, the city feels remarkably isolated. Tucked tightly along the narrow waters of the Gastineau Channel, it is surrounded on nearly all sides by steep mountains, glaciers, and the cold waters of the Inside Passage. As such, there are no highways connecting Juneau to the rest of the continent. The only ways to reach the city are by sea or by air. Approaching it by ship makes that reality clear. The town is situated between forested slopes and open water, making Juneau a community shaped as much by geography as by history.

While Juneau is a community largely defined by its Tlingit heritage, Russian colonialism, and American culture, the modern city owes much of its growth to the gold rush. In 1880 - nearly two decades before the famous Klondike Gold Rush - local prospectors Joe Juneau and Richard Harris discovered gold in a stream now known as Gold Creek. That discovery set off a series of mining developments that would transform the region. Over the following decades, large mining operations emerged in the surrounding mountains, eventually uncovering what would become one of the world’s richest gold-bearing quartz deposits.

Mining companies operated here from the late nineteenth century until the mid-twentieth century, and by 1900, Juneau had grown into the economic and industrial centre of Alaska. Recognizing its growing importance, the territorial capital was moved from Sitka to Juneau, cementing the town’s role as the administrative heart of the region.

Walking along the waterfront that morning, it was easy to see how closely the city remains tied to the sea. Much of the harbourfront is built on pilings extending over the water, where docks, boardwalks, and historic buildings cluster tightly along the shoreline. Fishing vessels and floatplanes share the same harbour with visiting cruise ships, while shops, museums, and small cafés line the streets just above the docks. Rising steeply behind the town, Mount Roberts forms a dramatic backdrop.

Exploring Juneau, Alaska

Ashore and wandering along the waterfront, even at this early hour, the town was already alive with activity, though not always in the way that we expected.

A large contingent of cruise passengers appeared to be moving with surprising urgency toward one particular destination: Tracy’s King Crab Shack. The small restaurant had already become something of a focal point for arriving visitors. As we walked along the harbour front, we watched the queue steadily grow. What began as a small gathering of people soon stretched around the building, forming a long line of hungry travellers waiting for their chance to sample Alaska’s famous king crab.

The scene struck me as slightly surreal. Having just finished a generous breakfast aboard Queen Elizabeth, I could not quite imagine stepping ashore only to line up immediately for another enormous meal. As a vegetarian, the appeal was perhaps even harder to grasp. The idea of spending precious hours in port simply waiting for food seemed an odd use of time in a place surrounded by forests, mountains, and trails. Still, travel always reveals how differently people choose to experience the same destination. For many passengers, this crab shack had clearly become a must-see landmark.

Leaving the growing crowd behind, we continued walking along the harbour. Not far from the waterfront, we passed the base station for the Mount Roberts Tramway, a gondola that carries visitors high above the city to scenic viewpoints on the forested slopes of Mount Roberts. The cars drifted slowly upward into the clouds, disappearing briefly as they climbed the mountainside. This, too, we walked on from.

Continuing on, we explored Juneau, discovering that like several of the coastal communities we had already visited in Alaska, many of Juneau’s buildings were painted in bright tones—vivid purples, deep reds, yellows, blues, and greens that stood out against the surrounding rainforest and the grey coastal skies.

Yet almost immediately, we noticed something else that distinguished Juneau from the other Alaskan ports we had visited. Unlike Skagway, which retains much of the feel of a historic gold rush town preserved for visitors, Juneau felt unmistakably like a functioning city – a reflection of it being Alaska’s capital and administrative centre.

Away from the main cruise docks, we began noticing everyday life unfolding around us. Local residents walked dogs along the waterfront paths. Others carried fishing gear toward small boats tied up in the harbour. A few people were already heading toward nearby trails that disappeared into the forested hillsides beyond town. The rhythm felt different here. This was not simply a historic stop along a cruise itinerary, but a community where people lived and worked year-round. Because of that, Juneau felt more permanent than some of the smaller Alaskan towns along the Inside Passage. Ketchikan and Skagway had carried the atmosphere of frontier settlements shaped heavily by tourism and seasonal visitors. Juneau, by contrast, felt more grounded. The city seemed to balance its role as a destination for travellers with the quieter routines of a place that continues long after the ships depart.

Walking and Birding the Harbour

Leaving the busier streets near the cruise docks behind, we gradually made our way toward the Juneau Seawalk, a waterfront path that traces the shoreline beyond the main harbour area. The route begins only a short distance from the cruise docking area, yet within minutes the atmosphere shifts noticeably. The noise and activity of downtown begins to fade, replaced by the quieter feel of the coastline.

The wooden decks along the Seawalk were still wet from the morning’s mist, their dark boards reflecting the soft grey light of the overcast sky. Ahead of us, long piers stretched out into the harbour, offering wide views across the Gastineau Channel toward the surrounding mountains. Low clouds clung to the forested slopes while fog drifted slowly along the shoreline, at times revealing and then concealing the landscape beyond.

For birders, the conditions were ideal.

The tide had retreated far out into the harbour, exposing wide stretches of tidal flats where birds gathered to feed. Bald Eagles were the most obvious presence. Several stood along the exposed shoreline, their dark bodies and pale heads unmistakable even at a distance.

Above, Common Ravens were perched on posts and railings along the harbour, watching the tidal zone with the patient attention and intelligence that defines so many other species.

Carrion Crows and American Crows moved busily across the mudflats while gulls circled overhead, occasionally settling along the water’s edge.

In the water nearby, a pair of American Dippers, North America’s only aquatic songbird, searched for invertebrates and fish eggs.

It was fair to say that this was the kind of place where you could easily spend an hour simply watching the shoreline.

One small feature along the pier particularly caught our attention. Mounted on a tall post was a series of rotating panels displaying images of local bird species along with their names - Bald Eagle, Harlequin Duck, Surf Scoter, Yellowlegs, Herring Gull, and others. It was a wonderfully simple idea: a public bird identification guide built directly into the landscape. For travellers like us, who are almost always scanning the water and sky for movement, it felt like a small but thoughtful invitation to pay closer attention to the wildlife around us.

Further along the waterfront, the cultural history of the region also appeared along the shoreline. Totem poles and Indigenous carvings stood near the water’s edge, reminders that these coasts have been home to the Tlingit people for generations. Nearby, a metallic boat monument rested along the shoreline, its form echoing the long tradition of travel and navigation that has always defined life in Southeast Alaska.

Not far from the walkway, we also stopped to read a small plaque describing an important discovery in whale research. In the 1970s, a researcher based in Juneau began comparing photographs of humpback whale tail flukes taken in Alaskan waters with images collected in Hawaii. The markings on the tails - each whale possessing a unique pattern — eventually revealed a remarkable connection. The same individual whales photographed feeding in Alaska during the summer were later identified thousands of kilometres away in Hawaiian waters during the winter breeding season.

At the time, the finding confirmed something scientists had long suspected: humpback whales regularly migrate between Alaska and Hawaii, travelling immense distances across the Pacific each year. Standing there beside the harbour, with fog drifting across the mountains and eagles watching the tidal flats, it was striking to realize how interconnected these distant places truly are. The waters before us were not simply a local harbour but part of a vast migratory network linking ecosystems across the Pacific Ocean.

Statue of Takhu

Continuing along the waterfront path, we soon came upon one of Juneau’s more unexpected landmarks - a large sculpture of a breaching humpback whale known as Takhu. Its name comes from the nearby Taku River, a waterway long connected to the region’s ecology and Indigenous cultures.

The statue rises nearly twenty-five feet above the shoreline, capturing the moment of a whale launching upward from the water, its massive body twisting in mid-breach. Beneath the sculpture, a shallow reflecting pool and fountain create the illusion of a splash, sending arcs of water outward as though the whale had just erupted from the sea.

The sculpture has also become something of a local talking point. When it was unveiled, it reportedly cost several million dollars to construct and install - an impressive investment in public art, particularly in a region where the real animals themselves can often be spotted just offshore. And where conservation funds are hard to come by. Standing there beside the quiet harbour, it was difficult not to smile at the absurd political decisions that gave way to this.

Returning to the City

Eventually, we turned back toward the downtown waterfront, retracing our steps along the Seawalk toward the cruise docks. Once again, the atmosphere had changed noticeably. More ships had arrived during the morning, and the streets were beginning to fill with visitors. The quieter shoreline paths we had enjoyed earlier gave way to crowded sidewalks, long queues forming outside shops and restaurants, and a growing line at the Mount Roberts Tramway where passengers waited for rides to the scenic overlook high above the harbour.

We briefly considered exploring some of the nearby hiking trails, but local notices indicated that several paths had been closed due to recent bear sightings. In Southeast Alaska, that kind of announcement is not unusual, but it does serve as a reminder that wilderness lies very close to the edges of town.

With the gondola lines growing longer and the downtown area becoming increasingly busy, the decision came easily. Rather than spend the afternoon waiting in crowds for viewpoints above the city, we decided to leave Juneau behind for a while and head toward one of the region’s most famous natural landscapes.

We lingered along the shoreline for a few more minutes, binoculars still in hand, watching the quiet activity of the harbour unfold. Moments like this have always been among our favourite parts of travel - stepping away from the busiest streets and simply allowing a place to reveal itself slowly. Eventually, however, our attention shifted toward the mountains rising beyond the city. Somewhere within those forested valleys lay one of Alaska’s most iconic landscapes - the Mendenhall Glacier.

Mendenhall Glacier

Rather than booking the organized excursion offered through the ship, we decided to make our own way out to Mendenhall Glacier. After finding a small patch of free Wi-Fi near the waterfront, we checked the local transit schedule and discovered that a city bus ran directly from downtown Juneau to the glacier area.

The solution proved remarkably simple.

From the Downtown Bus Station, we boarded a local bus bound for the Mendenhall Valley. The fare was only a couple of dollars each way - a fraction of the cost of the organized excursion - and within minutes we were travelling through the residential neighbourhoods that spread beyond Juneau’s waterfront. About thirteen miles from downtown, just over twenty kilometres, the bus dropped us off only a short walk from the entrance to the recreation area.

Our onboard naturalist had described Mendenhall as Alaska’s “easy access glacier,” and it was easy to see why. Unlike many of the remote icefields scattered across Southeast Alaska, this glacier can be reached with little more effort than a bus ride and a short walk. Yet the setting still felt undeniably wild.

Mendenhall Glacier lies within the Tongass National Forest, part of one of the largest temperate rainforests on Earth. The glacier itself flows down from the immense Juneau Icefield, a frozen landscape covering roughly fifteen hundred square miles high in the mountains above the city. According to our naturalist, thirty-eight glaciers descend from this icefield, each carving its own valley through the surrounding peaks.

From the bus stop, a wide paved path led toward the visitor area. The walk itself became part of the experience. The trail wound gently through dense forest where thick mosses carpeted the ground and climbed the trunks of towering spruce and hemlock. Long strands of lichen hung from the branches, swaying slightly in the cool, damp air. The fog that had followed us throughout the morning seemed to grow thicker here, drifting slowly between the trees and softening the outlines of the landscape.

It was the kind of forest I have always loved - lush, quiet, and alive!

Walking on, the trail rounded a bend in the road and then suddenly, beyond the tops of the regional conifer trees, the glacier came into view! Mendenhall rose high into the mountain valley, its pale blue ice stretching downward from the distant Juneau Icefield toward the lake below. Even from a distance it appeared immense, its jagged surface and deep crevasses catching what little light filtered through the overcast sky. It was a striking first sight.

After paying the entrance fee at the visitor centre, we began wandering through the area, following paths that led toward the broad lake at the glacier’s edge. Eagles perched in the tops of nearby trees while smaller birds moved quickly through the surrounding brush. The landscape felt vibrant and full of life despite the cold presence of the ice beyond.

A short trail led us down toward the shoreline of the lake itself, where signs asked visitors to remain mindful of nesting birds. Portions of the gravel shoreline had been roped off to protect Arctic Terns and other species that use the exposed ground for nesting during the summer months. 

The explanation made perfect sense. As glaciers retreat, they leave behind wide expanses of gravel and outwash. These newly exposed landscapes quickly become important habitat for ground-nesting birds, whose eggs are so well camouflaged among the stones that they are easily mistaken for small rocks.

   

Continuing along the lakeshore, we paused when a large bird shifted among the branches of a nearby tree. A heron stood perched high above the water and above us.

The presence of both the heron and the eagles quickly became understandable when we looked down toward the nearby stream. Below them, moving slowly through the shallows, were the unmistakable flashes of Sockeye salmon pushing their way upstream along Steep Creek.

Nearby signs tracked the weekly salmon counts for the creek, comparing current numbers with historical averages from previous decades. The trend was difficult to ignore. The runs that once filled these waters in enormous numbers were now noticeably smaller, another quiet signal of how the region’s ecosystems continue to change. Standing beside the rushing water, watching salmon struggle upstream while eagles waited patiently in the trees above, the ecological connections between the glacier, river, forest, and wildlife felt unmistakably clear.

Trail of Time

When we reached the junction leading toward Nugget Falls, it quickly became clear that most visitors had chosen the same destination. The path toward the waterfall was crowded with people moving steadily along the shoreline trail toward one of the park’s most photographed viewpoints. Rather than join the growing line of visitors, we chose a different direction.

Nearby, a sign marked the beginning of the Trail of Time, a circular route looping through the forest above the lake. The full trail measures roughly three and a half miles, or about 5.6 kilometres. Park information suggested it might take visitors up to two and a half hours to complete. For hikers accustomed to long days on trail, that estimate felt very generous, though it also made sense. This was a place meant to be explored slowly, with time to stop and read the interpretive signs and absorb the landscape. It didn’t take much convincing us to set off.

The trail began as a wide, undulating path weaving through dense forest. Moss covered nearly everything - the trunks of spruce and hemlock, fallen logs along the trail, even the rocks lining the small streams that crossed beneath the path. In several places, the forest opened briefly to reveal distant views of the glacier through the trees.

Signs along the trail reminded visitors that this landscape is very much alive with wildlife. Bears are known to move through the area, and partway along the trail, we encountered two park rangers quietly walking the route, keeping watch over both the visitors and the surrounding forest.

The Trail of Time itself tells a remarkable story. Unlike many interpretive walks that describe events in abstract terms, this path traces the physical retreat of Mendenhall Glacier through the valley. Each marker along the trail represents a point where the glacier once stood, gradually revealing how far the ice has pulled back over the past several centuries.

Three hundred years ago, the glacier filled much of the valley below. Since then, it has retreated more than two and a half miles. In the late twentieth century, the rate of retreat began accelerating. During the 1990s, the glacier was shrinking by roughly thirty feet each year. By the early 2000s, the pace had increased to nearly two hundred feet annually, and recent measurements suggest that the rate has continued to rise. Walking the trail makes those numbers and climate change tangible.

One sign marks the place where President Warren G. Harding stood during a visit to Alaska in 1923, gazing out across the ice that once filled the valley below. Another marker indicates the glacier’s position in 1936. Standing at those points today, surrounded by trees and forest floor that did not exist when the ice last touched these places, the scale of the retreat becomes impossible to ignore.

Yet the trail is not simply a lesson in environmental change.

All along the path, new life has taken hold in the landscapes left behind by the retreating glacier. Moss carpets the ground, young trees push upward through the soil, and streams weave through the recovering forest. Waterfalls tumble down the surrounding cliffs, appearing almost suddenly through openings in the canopy as though descending from the clouds themselves.

For long stretches, we had the trail almost entirely to ourselves. Eventually, the path curved back toward the open valley near the glacier. By the time we returned to the lakeshore, the skies had begun to darken and a light rain started to fall across the valley. The glacier, partially veiled by mist, seemed to fade gradually into the surrounding mountains.

With the weather shifting and the afternoon advancing, we made our way back toward the park entrance and the small bus stop nearby. A short while later, we were once again riding the local bus through the Mendenhall Valley, returning toward the harbour and the waiting decks of Queen Elizabeth.

Tendering back to QE

Since Queen Elizabeth had shifted away from the pier earlier in the day, returning to the ship required something new for us. Rather than walking directly up a gangway from the dock, we would need to board one of the ship’s tenders and ride it out to the vessel anchored in the harbour.

Having never done this before, we took a few moments to locate the correct dock along the waterfront. Fortunately, Cunard had made the process easy to navigate. A small temporary pavilion had been set up near the harbour, staffed by crew members who directed passengers toward the appropriate boarding point.

After checking in with the staff, we waited only a few minutes before the tender arrived.
Soon, one of Queen Elizabeth’s bright orange lifeboats pulled alongside the dock, its engines humming quietly as crew members secured the lines. Passengers stepped forward one by one as Cunard staff assisted everyone safely aboard. Within moments, we were seated, and the boat eased away from the harbour wall.

The ride itself lasted only a few minutes, yet it offered a wonderful perspective of the ship.

As the tender moved out into the harbour, the full length of Queen Elizabeth came into view, anchored gracefully against the grey mountains and low clouds surrounding Juneau. From the waterline, the scale of the vessel felt even more impressive than it did from the decks above.

Before long, we were pulling alongside the ship. The side of the tender opened, and crew members positioned a small platform connecting the boat to an entry point in the hull. One by one, passengers stepped across and climbed the short set of stairs leading back into the ship.

By the time we returned aboard the weather had turned decisively. Rain was now falling heavily across the harbour, drumming against the decks and windows. Stepping inside, warm and dry once again, we were grateful for the shelter of the ship after a full day exploring Juneau and the forests surrounding Mendenhall Glacier.

Sail Away with Naturalist

As Queen Elizabeth prepared to depart Juneau, the weather outside had turned steadily worse. Rain swept across the harbour while low clouds settled around the surrounding mountains. Under normal circumstances, we would have remained outside on deck to watch the ship slip away from port, but the conditions made staying out in the open air less appealing than usual. Instead, we found our way to the Commodore Club, where the ship’s naturalist, Dr. Rachel Cartwright, was hosting a small talk during sail away.

The lounge, positioned high at the bow of the ship, provided wonderful panoramic views through its wide windows as Queen Elizabeth began to move slowly through the Gastineau Channel. From inside, we could watch the rain streaking across the glass while the forested slopes and distant waterfalls emerged and disappeared again in the drifting mist.

Admittedly, regardless of the conditions, Sean still stepped outside from time to time, camera in hand, to capture the changing light and changing landscapes beyond the railings. Even under heavy clouds, the seascapes and landscapes retained a mysterious beauty.

Inside the Commodore Club, Dr. Cartwright spoke about the wildlife and ecosystems surrounding Juneau, offering observations about whales, seabirds, and the coastal landscapes we were travelling through and which we could have potentially seen on a clearer day. Given the conditions, as the ship continued its gradual departure from Juneau, the views outside the windows shifted constantly. Even without standing on deck, it felt like a beautiful way to leave Alaska’s capital behind.

Evening on Board

As the evening settled over Juneau and the surrounding mountains faded into darkness, we eventually returned to our cabin. After a long day exploring the harbour and walking the forests around Mendenhall Glacier, our jackets and clothes were damp from the persistent damp. We hung them up to dry, took quick showers, and changed into something a little more formal for the evening.

Normally, we enjoy elegant dinners in the Britannia Restaurant, but tonight the line outside the dining room stretched down the corridor. Rather than wait, we opted for something simpler, making our way, once again, up to the Lido for a quick meal before the evening continued.

Later, we returned to one of our favourite places on the ship - the Commodore Club.

The lounge was hosting a late evening jazz performance, and we settled into a quiet corner with drinks in hand. Outside the large forward windows, the night sea stretched out ahead of the ship while the faint silhouettes of islands slipped past in the semi-darkness of early evening.

As we sat there talking, it was wonderful to reflect on how much we had already seen in only a few days. Eagles perched along tidal flats. Whales surfacing beside the ship. Seals, seabirds, glaciers, forests, waterfalls. The landscapes and wildlife seemed almost endless in this part of the world.

I think it is fair to say that it would be difficult not to be captivated by Alaska.

Reflecting on Ports and Tourism

At the same time, travelling through these ports also raised questions that we had not encountered quite so directly on other voyages.

Most of our previous experiences aboard Cunard ships have taken place on transatlantic crossings. Those journeys are very different. Once the ship leaves port, the voyage becomes almost entirely about life at sea - long days watching the ocean, attending lectures, reading, walking the decks, and slowly crossing the Atlantic until land appears again on the horizon.

This voyage along the coastlines of Alaska has a very different rhythm. Here, the ship enters a new port almost every day. Each arrival brings crowds, excursions, shops, and the crowds of visitors flowing through communities that are, in many cases, relatively small.

After several ports, we began to notice certain patterns repeating themselves. Jewellery stores and diamond shops appeared in almost every town. Souvenir stores lined the waterfronts. The natural beauty of these regions was extraordinary, and returning each evening to the comfort of Queen Elizabeth was always welcome. Yet the commercial spaces between those two experiences often felt surprisingly similar from one port to the next.

More interesting, however, was the debate unfolding within the communities themselves.
In several of the smaller towns we visited, there were signs and posters raising concerns about the environmental footprint of cruise ships, the growing number of visitors, and the strain placed on local infrastructure when thousands of passengers arrive at once. On days when three or four ships were in port simultaneously, it meant that anywhere from 6000 to 9000 thousand people could suddenly appear in towns whose permanent populations were only a fraction of that size.

It was not difficult to understand why some residents and communities might feel overwhelmed.

Yet in Juneau, we encountered the other side of the conversation. As Alaska’s capital and administrative centre, the city displayed banners highlighting the economic importance of cruise tourism - the tax revenue, employment opportunities, and local business activity generated by the industry.

A tough debate already taking place around the world is clearly a lived debate in Alaska.

For many communities, the ships represent both opportunity and challenge. They bring visitors, income, and jobs. At the same time, they introduce crowding, environmental concerns, and a pace of change that not every resident welcomes. Alaska is far from alone in facing this dilemma. Similar public debates are unfolding in places like Amsterdam, Barcelona, Florence, and along the fjords of Norway, where communities are wrestling with the balance between tourism economies and quality of life.

Walking through the ports of Southeast Alaska, it became easy to see both sides of the discussion. When several massive vessels tower over a small harbour, each carrying thousands of passengers ashore, the scale of modern tourism becomes impossible to ignore.

And yet the landscapes surrounding these towns remain some of the most extraordinary on Earth that so many certainly must benefit from experiencing.

Certainly, it will take wiser minds than ours to find the solution and balance amid these tensions.

End of Day and Invitation

Eventually, the music in the Commodore Club began to wind down, and the hour grew late. After thanking our server, we made our way back down the corridors toward our cabin. When we arrived, we discovered something unexpected waiting for us.

Alongside the usual evening turn-down service and chocolates lay a formal invitation from the ship’s officers - an opportunity to meet the captain at a reception tomorrow. Whether we would be up for such an event remained an open question. We are never ones to easily fit into such formal events – but we will see later.

For now, however, the day was over.

Outside, Queen Elizabeth was already steaming steadily northward once again, leaving Juneau behind and heading back into the open waters of the Inside Passage. Ahead lay the wild coastline of Alaska and the approaches to Yakutat Bay. Tomorrow would bring another glacier, another landscape, and another chapter in this northern voyage.

See you on board!

Nautical Term of the day - Tender - A tender is a smaller boat used to transport passengers and crew between a ship and shore when the vessel cannot dock directly at a pier. On cruise ships, tenders act as floating shuttles, ferrying guests safely across the water while the ship anchors offshore, often offering a closer, more scenic glimpse of the harbour along the way.