For our second night in Fairbanks, we had arranged for us to stay at the Aurora…
Alaska: A day cruise to Northwestern Fjord
🚢 Into the Fjords: A Day on the Northwestern Fjord
Another Alaskan summer’s day greeted us in the way that Alaska generally does — cold, grey, and wrapped in a low, dank mist that had helpfully positioned itself directly over the mountains we’d been hoping to admire. Visibility: roughly the inside of a cloud. Atmospheric? Certainly. Scenic? Less so.
We had an early start. We wearily hauled ourselves from our slumber, assembled a makeshift breakfast from the provisions we’d had the foresight to pick up at the local store the previous evening, and hit the road. The plan was to take a nine-and-a-half-hour boat trip from Seward up the Northwestern Fjord — a journey of some 70-odd miles along the coast. A full day on a boat, in miserable weather, on waters we’d been told were surrounded by spectacular mountain scenery that we almost certainly wouldn’t be able to see. Tremendous. We’d already bought the tickets, of course, so there was really no going back.
Seward itself sits on Resurrection Bay, and deserves a word or two. The town was named after William H. Seward, the United States Secretary of State who in 1867 negotiated the purchase of Alaska from Imperial Russia for the frankly astonishing sum of $7.2 million — about two cents an acre. Critics at the time called it “Seward’s Folly” and “Seward’s Icebox,” which in fairness seems reasonable when you’re standing in it on a cold July morning with the clouds draped over everything like a damp flannel. History, of course, subsequently vindicated Mr Seward rather spectacularly.
At 9:00 am our boat glided out onto the calm waters of Resurrection Bay itself — a deep-water bay carved out over thousands of years by glacial activity during the last ice age, when enormous rivers of ice ground their way through the landscape with the sort of indifference to inconvenience that only geology can manage. The bay is apparently surrounded by steep, dramatic mountains which butt right up against these frigid waters. We were told this. We believed it in principle. We simply couldn’t confirm it with our own eyes on this particular morning, as they were entirely hidden behind what I can only describe as a considerable amount of weather.
As we pulled away from the dock, however, something rather wonderful happened. Our first wildlife sighting appeared almost immediately — a sea otter, contentedly floating on his back in the water, seemingly without a care in the world, watching us cruise past him with an expression of mild curiosity. He looked, frankly, more relaxed than any of us felt.
These wonderful creatures — Enhydra lutris, for those keeping notes — have quite the story behind them. Sea otters were once found in enormous numbers all along the North Pacific coastline, from northern Japan and the Russian coast across the Aleutian Islands and down the western coast of North America as far as Baja California. Then came the maritime fur trade. Russian hunters arrived in Alaska in the mid-18th century, and by the time other nations joined in the hunt, the sea otter population had been absolutely decimated. Between roughly 1741 and 1911, an estimated one million sea otters were killed for their extraordinarily dense fur — the densest of any mammal on Earth, with up to a million hairs per square inch. By the early 20th century, the global population had been reduced to somewhere between 1,000 and 2,000 animals. They were, in every meaningful sense, on the edge of extinction.
The 1911 International Fur Seal Treaty provided some protection, and the US Marine Mammal Protection Act of 1972 made things considerably more official on American shores. The population has recovered significantly since then — there are now perhaps 125,000 sea otters worldwide — but they remain listed as endangered. Fishing entanglement, oil spills (the 1989 Exxon Valdez disaster killed an estimated 2,800 sea otters in Prince William Sound alone), and coastal pollution continue to threaten their recovery. So the chap floating cheerfully on his back in Resurrection Bay, apparently without any knowledge of any of this, deserved a moment of appreciation.
We watched him until he disappeared behind our wake, then turned to face whatever the Northwestern Fjord had in store for us next.
🐋 Orca in the Bay: When the Radio Crackles and the Sea Delivers
We left our otter friend to his blissful, buoyant existence and headed further down the bay.
Our captain for the day was, according to Karen, a very handsome fellow. I wouldn’t know. I was looking at the water. What I can confirm, without any spousal bias whatsoever, is that he had a wonderfully dry sense of humour and the kind of weathered, thousand-yard stare that comes from spending years scanning grey Alaskan waters for things that don’t particularly want to be found. He was, in short, exactly the sort of person you want in charge of a boat when you’re somewhere cold and remote and hoping to see something magnificent.
He barely moved from his spot at the helm. He didn’t need to. He simply stood there, scanning the surface with the practiced patience of a man who has learned that Alaska rewards those who look carefully and punishes those who get distracted by their flasks of coffee — however understandable that temptation might be at nine o’clock on a grey morning.
The radio helped. Every so often it sputtered into life with a burst of static, and another captain somewhere further up the bay would crackle through with a potential sighting. It was, in its way, rather a civilised arrangement — a loose network of boat captains quietly pooling intelligence across the water, like a nautical neighbourhood watch, but for wildlife rather than suspicious vans.
After one such call, our captain adjusted course without ceremony and we headed towards the shore. And there they were.
A pod of orca — killer whales, Orcinus orca — moving through the bay with the sort of unhurried, purposeful grace that makes you simultaneously glad you’re on a boat and glad the boat is reasonably large. They were hunting King Salmon, also known as Chinook salmon, which run through these Alaskan waters in considerable numbers from late spring through summer — a fact the orca are well aware of, and have been for rather longer than the tourism industry. Orca are apex predators in every meaningful sense: intelligent, highly social, and extraordinarily effective hunters. They’ve been on the planet in more or less their current form for around 11 million years, which puts their career in perspective nicely.
We cut the engine and drifted. The pod moved around us, unhurried and indifferent to our presence. And then, almost immediately, a juvenile orca breached — launched itself clear of the water in that extraordinary, improbable arc, hung there for just a moment, and crashed back down in an eruption of white water. The entire boat made the sort of collective noise that people make when something genuinely astonishing happens directly in front of them.
All of us saw it.
Except Karen.
Karen, who had been standing on the same deck as the rest of us, in the same general direction as the whale in question, managed to be looking at precisely the wrong patch of ocean at the critical moment. This is, I should say, not an isolated incident. Karen has a remarkable and entirely consistent talent for missing the exact thing that everyone else sees. It’s almost a gift, in its way. A very frustrating gift, but a gift nonetheless.
Our captain, bless him, took the opportunity to explain a little about orca behaviour while we were still in the vicinity. Each individual orca, he told us, can be identified by the unique shape and markings of its dorsal fin and the distinctive grey saddle patch behind it — researchers have been cataloguing Pacific Northwest orca populations this way since the 1970s, building up detailed records of family groups, known individuals, and life histories spanning decades. Beyond the visual, each pod also has its own distinct set of vocalisations — calls, clicks, and whistles that are passed down through generations and remain unique to that group. They are, in other words, animals with culture. Which is either wonderful or slightly humbling, depending on your mood.
We could have stayed considerably longer. Nobody would have objected. But the Northwestern Fjord is a long way up the coast, and there was a great deal more ahead of us, so our captain, with impeccable timing and no apparent regret, restarted the engine and we were soon on our way once more — out towards the Bay of Alaska and the open ocean beyond.
🐋 Humpbacks, Heavy Seas, and a Romantic Notion
As we pushed further from the shelter of Resurrection Bay and out towards more open water, two things happened more or less simultaneously. The sea, which had been pleasantly calm up to this point, decided it was time to remind us who was actually in charge. The swell picked up noticeably, the boat began to pitch and roll in a way that made breakfast feel like a questionable decision, and a number of our fellow passengers adopted the slightly greenish, thousand-yard stare of people who are deeply regretting their life choices.
The second thing that happened was rather more enjoyable: we started seeing whales.
These weren’t orcas — which, incidentally, are not actually whales at all but the largest members of the dolphin family, a fact that seems to surprise people every single time it comes up. No, what we had here were humpback whales — Megaptera novaeangliae, if you want to be precise about it — proper, enormous, magnificent ones.
Humpbacks are remarkable animals by any measure. They typically run to around 40 feet in length — roughly the size of a school bus, which gives you some sense of the scale involved when one surfaces unexpectedly close to your boat — and can weigh up to 40 tonnes. They are also, for a creature of that bulk, startlingly acrobatic. They breach, they slap their enormous pectoral fins on the surface, they wave their flukes in the air with what can only be described as a certain theatrical flair. They’ve been doing this for roughly 35 million years, which means they were around long before we were, and will quite possibly be around long after us, assuming we extend them the basic courtesy of not hunting them to death. Humpbacks were, of course, another species that humanity did its level best to eliminate during the great whaling era. By the mid-20th century, commercial whalers had killed an estimated 200,000 of them in the Southern Hemisphere alone. The International Whaling Commission finally introduced a moratorium on commercial humpback whaling in 1966, by which point the global population had been reduced by perhaps 90 per cent. They’ve been recovering steadily since, which is, for once, a piece of genuinely good news.
Now, here’s where it gets pleasingly sentimental. Earlier that same year we had taken a whale watching trip in Hawaii — specifically in the waters off Maui, which form part of the Hawaiian Islands Humpback Whale National Marine Sanctuary, established in 1992. Every winter, humpbacks from the North Pacific migrate south to Hawaii to breed and give birth in the warm, shallow waters there — a journey of some 3,000 miles from their summer feeding grounds in Alaska. It is one of the longest migrations of any mammal on Earth.
As we watched these humpbacks in the cold grey waters of the Northwestern Fjord, we found ourselves wondering whether any of the individuals we were looking at now might be the same ones we’d watched in Hawaii just a few months earlier. The same animals, completing their annual round trip between the tropics and the Arctic, going about their lives entirely indifferent to the fact that we’d apparently followed them. Scientifically speaking, it’s not impossible — humpbacks are individually identifiable by the unique black and white markings on the underside of their flukes, and researchers have indeed tracked the same individuals making this precise journey year after year. Romantically speaking, we chose to believe it was absolutely them.
It was difficult to say exactly how many humpbacks we saw over the course of the day — somewhere between 15 and 20 felt about right. Most were distant sightings: a spout of vapour on the horizon, the dark arc of a back breaking the surface, a fluke raised briefly against the grey sky before sliding back under. But we were treated to one or two considerably closer encounters, where these extraordinary 40-foot animals surfaced near enough to the boat that you could hear the exhalation as they blew — a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sigh — and appreciate, in a rather visceral way, just how large they actually are.
Quite something, even in the drizzle.
🥶 Two Very Different Approaches to Alaskan Meteorology
Jack and Emily were, it has to be said, thoroughly enjoying themselves — though in completely different ways, and with completely different core body temperatures.
Jack, fourteen years old and possessed of that magnificent teenage certainty that discomfort is something that happens to other people, had decided early on that he was going to spend the entire journey on the bow of the boat. Outside. In the open air. In Alaska. In what was, technically speaking, summer — though Alaska’s definition of summer and everyone else’s definition of summer are separated by quite some distance, meteorologically and philosophically. It was raw. It was damp. The wind had that particular Alaskan quality of arriving directly from the Arctic without having had the decency to warm up at any point along the way.
None of this deterred Jack in the slightest. He planted himself on that bow with the quiet determination of a man who had something to prove, and he stayed there. Roughly ninety per cent of the entire nine-and-a-half-hour journey. We watched him from behind the warm glass of the interior cabin with a mixture of admiration, bewilderment, and the low-level parental anxiety that never really goes away. He did, in fairness, look magnificent out there — red-cheeked, windswept, absolutely in his element. By the end of the day, however, we essentially had to defrost him. I’m fairly certain he’d lost sensation in several of his extremities, though he would never in a million years have admitted it.
Emily, meanwhile, demonstrated the superior wisdom that comes from either good genes or good sense — probably both, as she gets it from her parents. She sensibly established herself in the warm interior of the cabin, ventured outside periodically when something worth seeing hove into view, took it all in with appropriate enthusiasm, and then retreated promptly back to civilisation and central heating. This is, if anyone’s asking, the correct approach to wildlife cruises in sub-Arctic conditions. No prizes for martyrdom.
🧊 Up Close with the Northwestern Glacier
Eventually, after what felt like a reasonable amount of time being tossed about on the rough open waters of the Gulf of Alaska — and yes, I did say Gulf, not Bay; one of us had apparently misread the map — we rounded the Kenai Peninsula and the sea settled into something considerably more agreeable. We slipped into the calm, dark waters of the Northwestern Fjord, and the whole mood of the trip changed.
The Kenai Peninsula itself is worth a moment’s digression. It’s a vast wedge of land about the size of Wales — Alaskans tend to measure things in units that make the rest of us feel geographically inadequate — jutting down from south-central Alaska between Cook Inlet to the west and the Gulf of Alaska to the east. The peninsula has been inhabited for thousands of years, first by the Dena’ina Athabascan people and later the Alutiiq, before Russian fur traders arrived in the 18th century and began the usual process of making themselves at home in someone else’s territory. Today it’s rather more pleasantly known for its fishing, its wildlife, and its quite extraordinary scenery — most of which, as previously established, we were not able to see.
We had come, ostensibly, to look at glaciers. This is the sort of thing that sounds perfectly reasonable when you’re planning a trip from the comfort of home and considerably more ambitious when you’re standing on a boat deck in the wind. On a clear day, we’d been told, you can see glaciers clinging to the high valleys and cirques of the surrounding mountains — those bowl-shaped hollows carved by ancient ice, in a process that glaciologists call cirque glaciation and the rest of us call “quite impressive.” But today we were here for something even more dramatic: tidewater glaciers.
These are a particular kind of glacier, and they deserve a proper explanation. They descend from the Harding Icefield, which sits high in the Kenai Mountains and is one of the largest sub-polar icefields in the United States — roughly 700 square miles of ancient, compressed ice, some of it thousands of years old. From this vast frozen reservoir, dozens of glaciers flow outward in every direction like slow-motion rivers. The ones that reach the sea are the tidewater glaciers, and they are, to use the technical term, absolutely extraordinary. Pulled by gravity at rates of inches to feet per day, these rivers of ice grind their way down through the mountain valleys over centuries, scouring the rock, reshaping the landscape, and eventually arriving at the edge of the fjord where they do something that never gets old: they calve. Great chunks of ice — some the size of a car, some the size of a house — break away from the glacier’s face and crash into the freezing water below, a process that has been happening here since long before anyone was around to be impressed by it.
There are three or four tidewater glaciers in the Northwestern Fjord, but the one we had specifically come to see was the Northwestern Glacier itself — the largest and arguably the most spectacular of the group.
As we drew closer to the glacier, the captain began to reduce speed, and it became immediately obvious why. The water around us was increasingly dotted with floating chunks of ice — some small, some genuinely enormous — that had calved from the glacier face and were now drifting quietly about the fjord like uninvited furniture. Navigating through them required a certain amount of care, and the captain managed it with the practised calm of someone who does this regularly and has absolutely no intention of ending up on the news.
It was at this point that somebody on deck spotted grey specks on top of several of the larger floating ice rafts. Quite a few of them, actually. As we crept closer, the specks resolved themselves into harbour seals — Phoca vitulina, since we’re doing this properly — stretched out across their private ice floes with the contented air of creatures who had found precisely the right spot and were not planning to move for anyone. Harbour seals are the most widely distributed of all the pinniped species, found across the North Pacific and North Atlantic, and they have a particular fondness for hauling out onto ice, rocks, or anything else that keeps them out of the water for a bit. These ones looked thoroughly pleased with themselves, and frankly, who could blame them.
The captain stopped the boat for fifteen minutes — a decision we were all extremely grateful for. And there it was. The Northwestern Glacier, only a few hundred feet away, rising from the dark water in a great wall of ancient ice. Even on this overcast, grey, thoroughly uncooperative day, it shimmered in a cold blue light that seemed to come from somewhere deep within the ice itself. This isn’t a trick of the light, as it happens — it’s physics. Glacial ice is compressed so densely over thousands of years that it absorbs the red wavelengths of light and reflects back the blue, producing that extraordinary luminous colour that no photograph ever quite captures properly and no description fully does justice to.
We stood and stared. Nobody said very much. Sometimes that’s really the only appropriate response.
🧊 Ice, Calving, and the End of the World (Almost)
Eventually, after what felt like a reasonable amount of time being thrown about on the open water, we passed through the rough seas of the Gulf of Alaska — not, incidentally, the “Bay of Alaska” as I’d been confidently calling it, which tells you something about the quality of my pre-trip research — rounded the Kenai Peninsula, and emerged into the considerably calmer waters of the Northwestern Fjord. The swell dropped, the boat stopped trying to rearrange our breakfast, and we all breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Now, a word about the Kenai Peninsula, because it’s worth one. This enormous chunk of land — about the size of Wales, since we’re British and that’s how we measure things — juts southward into the Gulf of Alaska and essentially divides the rougher open ocean from the more sheltered coastal waters to the north and west. The whole area sits within the Kenai Fjords National Park, established in 1980, which covers around 669,000 acres and takes its name from the network of fjords carved into its southeastern coastline during the last ice age. We were, in other words, somewhere genuinely extraordinary.
On a clear day, we were told, glaciers are visible high up in the valleys and cirques of the surrounding mountains — those bowl-shaped hollows carved by glacial action over millennia, the kind of geological feature that sounds straightforward until you’re actually looking up at one and trying to process the sheer scale of time involved. Today, of course, the mountains remained firmly behind their curtain of mist, so we took that on trust.
What we had actually come to see, though, were the tidewater glaciers — a specific and rather dramatic variety that descend all the way from the mountains to the edge of the sea. They originate from the Harding Icefield, one of the largest icefields in the United States, sitting some 5,000 feet up in the mountains above us and covering an area of roughly 700 square miles. The icefield feeds around 40 glaciers in total, like a vast frozen reservoir quietly dispensing rivers of ice in every direction. Pulled inexorably downhill by gravity — a process that takes not years but centuries — these rivers of ice grind their way through the mountain valleys until they reach the coastline, where they meet the sea and begin to crumble. There are three or four tidewater glaciers in the Northwestern Fjord alone, but the one we had specifically come to see was the Northwestern Glacier itself.
This was, genuinely, a bucket-list item. We’d talked about it before leaving home, and here we were, noses pressed metaphorically against the rail, peering through the mist at an enormous wall of ancient blue-white ice rising from the water’s edge. The glacier face — the terminus, to use the proper term — towered above the surface of the fjord, a cliff of compressed ice that has been forming, moving, and transforming since long before anyone thought to give it a name.
The statistics, when you look them up, are not cheerful reading. Around 90% of Alaska’s glaciers are currently retreating as global temperatures rise — and the Northwestern Glacier is no exception. It has pulled back significantly over the past century, and continues to do so. We were acutely aware, standing there on the deck, that what we were looking at is not permanent. Future generations may not see this in anything like the same form, which lends the whole experience a slightly melancholy quality that sits just below the surface of the wonder of it all.
But then something remarkable happened. With a deep crack like a rifle shot — audible across the water even from our distance — a great chunk of ice broke away from the glacier face and crashed into the fjord below, sending a column of white water surging upwards and a wave rippling outward across the dark surface. This is calving, the process by which glaciers shed ice at their terminus as the face becomes unstable under its own weight. It happens continuously along active tidewater glaciers, and each calving event can release anything from a modest chunk the size of a car to a cathedral-sized block of ice containing water that fell as snow hundreds of years ago. We watched it happen several times, each one accompanied by that same thunderous report and the subsequent applause from everyone on deck, as though the glacier were performing for us specifically.
All too soon — as these things always are — it was time to turn around and make our way back to Seward.
The return journey was, thankfully, uneventful in the best possible sense. The route back took a slightly different course, weaving through some of the small, uninhabited islands that dot the coastline like full stops in a very long sentence. These isolated outcrops of rock and scrub are anything but empty, however. They serve as critical habitat for communities of Steller sea lions — another species in difficulty, listed as endangered along the western Alaskan and Aleutian Island populations — who haul themselves onto rocky ledges with the sort of effortful indignity that makes you feel rather fond of them.
The island cliff faces were, in the most literal sense, alive with seabirds. Horned puffins and tufted puffins — both of them absurdly characterful birds that look as though they’ve been designed by a committee with a sense of humour — occupied every available ledge alongside auklets and murres, the latter of which really do have a somewhat penguin-like bearing about them, standing bolt upright on the rock as though waiting for a bus. Murres are, in fact, members of the auk family rather than relatives of penguins at all; the resemblance is what biologists call convergent evolution, which is the technical term for nature arriving at the same sensible solution by two completely different routes.
Finally, as the light began to fade behind its persistent layer of cloud, we pulled back into the dock at Seward. Nine and a half hours. Cold, misty, occasionally rough, and genuinely magnificent. Despite the weather — perhaps even partly because of it, in some perverse way — it had been a wonderful day at sea.
Planning Your Visit to Seward
📍 Location
Seward sits at the northern tip of Resurrection Bay on the Kenai Peninsula in south-central Alaska, approximately 125 miles (200 kilometres) south-east of Anchorage. The town is nestled between snowcapped mountains to the east and the vast Harding Icefield — roughly 700 square miles of ancient glacial mass — to the west. It is one of Alaska’s oldest and most scenic communities, and serves as the primary gateway to Kenai Fjords National Park. The site of modern Seward is known in the Alutiiq language as Qutekcak, meaning “big beach,” and has been the ancestral homeland of the Sugpiaq (also known as Alutiiq) people for thousands of years. The town became an official townsite in 1903 when it was established as the southern terminus of the Alaska Railroad, and it remains Alaska’s only deep-water, ice-free port with direct rail and highway connections to the interior.
✈️ Getting There
The most common way to reach Seward from within Alaska is by road or rail from Anchorage. The drive south along the Seward Highway — one of only 15 federally designated All-American Roads in the United States — takes around two and a half hours and is one of the most spectacular journeys in North America, passing Turnagain Arm, glacial lakes, and dramatic mountain scenery. It is well worth allowing extra time to stop at viewpoints along the way.
The Alaska Railroad runs a seasonal service between Anchorage and Seward aboard the Coastal Classic train, a journey of around four and a half hours. The train operates from mid-May to mid-September and offers views that road travellers simply cannot access, climbing deep into mountain terrain. It is a highly recommended way to arrive.
Several motorcoach services also operate daily between Anchorage and Seward, taking approximately three hours. These are a comfortable and affordable alternative to driving.
Seward is also a major port for Alaska cruise itineraries. Many large cruise lines use it as the first or last stop on glacier-route voyages between Alaska and Vancouver, British Columbia. If arriving by cruise ship, it is worth planning to spend at least a couple of extra days in the area.
There is a small local airstrip near Seward for private charters, but there are no scheduled commercial flights into the town itself. Visitors flying internationally will land at Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport and continue to Seward by land.
🚗 Getting Around
Seward is a small, walkable town. The two main visitor areas — the Small Boat Harbour and downtown Seward — are connected by a pleasant waterfront path, the Seward Waterfront Trail, and can be walked between in around 30 minutes. Most restaurants, shops, and key attractions such as the Alaska SeaLife Center are accessible on foot from the town centre.
For reaching destinations outside the town, having access to a car or hiring one is advisable. The Exit Glacier area in Kenai Fjords National Park — the glacier closest to Seward and accessible by road — lies about 12 miles from the harbour. There is a Hertz car hire office in Seward. Note that if you plan a one-way hire from Seward to Anchorage, drop-off charges can be considerable, so it may be more economical to travel back by train or bus.
Water taxis operate from the harbour and provide access to remote coves, hiking trailheads, and wilderness cabins around Resurrection Bay that cannot be reached by road. This is an excellent and relatively inexpensive way to extend the range of what you can explore.
Tour operators run a wide variety of guided excursions by boat, floatplane, and helicopter, many of which are the only practical way to reach the most dramatic scenery of Kenai Fjords National Park.
🧭 Things to See and Do
Seward punches well above its weight for a small town when it comes to things to do. The surrounding landscape offers opportunities for all ages and activity levels.
The most popular activity is taking a day cruise into Resurrection Bay and Kenai Fjords National Park. These narrated boat tours travel through fjords and past tidewater glaciers, where enormous chunks of ice crash into the sea. Wildlife sightings are a highlight — humpback whales, orca, Steller sea lions, Dall’s porpoises, harbour seals, sea otters, and large colonies of puffins and other seabirds are all commonly seen. Half-day cruises remain in Resurrection Bay, while full-day tours venture further into the park.
Exit Glacier is the only part of Kenai Fjords National Park that is accessible by road. A network of trails around the glacier ranges from a short, easy walk to the face of the ice, to the strenuous Harding Icefield Trail, an 8.2-mile round trip with around 3,000 feet of elevation gain that takes most walkers six to eight hours. Park entry and parking at Exit Glacier are free. Guided ice-hiking and glacier-climbing excursions are also available for those wishing to walk on the ice itself. Marker posts along the trails show how far the glacier has retreated over recent decades — a sobering reminder of the pace of glacial loss.
The Alaska SeaLife Center in downtown Seward is the state’s only public aquarium and the only permanent marine mammal rescue facility in Alaska. Exhibits include two-storey glass-sided tanks with above and below water views of seabirds, harbour seals, and Steller sea lions. There are also touch tanks, octopus and jellyfish displays, and behind-the-scenes tours focusing on sea otters and puffins. The centre carries out genuine marine research and wildlife rehabilitation alongside its public-facing role.
Sea kayaking is a wonderful way to explore Resurrection Bay at a quieter pace. Paddling past sea otters, seals, and eagles with mountain backdrops on all sides is an experience unlike any other. Guided tours and equipment hire are widely available.
Sportfishing is enormously popular in Seward, which has a reputation as one of Alaska’s premier fishing destinations. Charter boats depart from the Small Boat Harbour targeting halibut, salmon, and rockfish. Trips typically last several hours, and the distance involved means it is sensible to be prepared if you are prone to seasickness.
For those seeking a bird’s-eye view, flightseeing tours depart from Seward by floatplane and helicopter, soaring over the Kenai Mountains and the vast Harding Icefield. Some tours include glacier landings combined with dog sledding excursions.
Hiking options beyond Exit Glacier include the Tonsina Creek Trail (3.4 miles), a relatively gentle walk with opportunities to observe spawning salmon; the Lost Lake Trail (13.8 miles), offering sweeping alpine views; and the Caines Head Trail (14 miles along the bay), which leads to the ruins of Fort McGilvray, a Second World War military installation whose cement bunkers are open to explore.
The Mount Marathon Trail rises steeply from downtown to 3,022 feet and offers dramatic views over Seward and Resurrection Bay. It is the course of one of North America’s oldest mountain races, held every 4th of July.
The Seward waterfront and Small Boat Harbour are pleasant simply to wander, with regular sightings of sea otters and bald eagles. The historic downtown area has galleries, shops, murals, and restaurants serving fresh local seafood including Alaskan salmon and halibut.
Two annual events draw particularly large crowds: the Mount Marathon Race on 4th July, and the Silver Salmon Derby in August, which is the largest salmon derby in Alaska.
Best time to visit Seward
🌸 Spring (April – May)
Spring arrives tentatively in Seward, with snow still clinging to the mountain peaks but the days growing noticeably longer and brighter. Temperatures range from around 2°C to 10°C, and the landscape begins to green up quickly by May. This is one of the quietest periods for tourism, meaning fewer crowds at Kenai Fjords National Park and lower prices for accommodation and boat tours.
Wildlife is a particular highlight — sea otters, harbour seals, and Steller sea lions are active in Resurrection Bay, and migratory seabirds return to the coastline in impressive numbers. The Exit Glacier road typically opens in late April, offering early access to one of Seward’s most iconic attractions. Boat tours begin running, though some operators don’t reach full schedule until late May.
Spring weather is unpredictable. Rain and overcast skies are common, and snowfall is still possible, especially at elevation. However, the occasional clear spring day delivers spectacular views with snow-dusted peaks reflecting in the bay.
What to pack: Waterproof hiking boots, a warm insulated mid-layer, a waterproof outer jacket, wool or thermal base layers, gloves, a hat, quick-dry trousers, sunglasses, and a compact umbrella or packable rain poncho.
☀️ Summer (June – August)
Summer is unquestionably Seward’s peak season, and for good reason. Long daylight hours — up to 19 hours in June — mild temperatures between 12°C and 18°C, and the best conditions for outdoor activities make this the most popular time to visit. Resurrection Bay is alive with wildlife: orcas, humpback whales, Dall’s porpoises, puffins, and bald eagles are frequently spotted on boat tours into Kenai Fjords National Park.
Hiking trails are at their most accessible, with wildflowers carpeting the valleys and ridgelines offering sweeping panoramic views. The Exit Glacier and Harding Icefield Trail are fully open, and kayaking in the bay is a truly world-class experience. Seward’s waterfront comes alive with the Alaska SeaLife Centre, local restaurants, and the famous Fourth of July Mount Marathon Race, a gruelling and iconic event that draws runners and spectators from across the state.
The downside is the crowds. Accommodation books up months in advance, cruise ship passengers frequently disembark in port, and boat tours fill quickly. Booking well ahead is essential. Rain remains a constant possibility — Seward averages over 1,700mm of annual rainfall — so do not expect wall-to-wall sunshine even in peak summer.
What to pack: Lightweight moisture-wicking T-shirts, a fleece or light jumper, a waterproof jacket, comfortable hiking trousers and shorts, sturdy waterproof hiking boots, sunscreen, insect repellent, sunglasses, a reusable water bottle, and a daypack for trails.
🍂 Autumn (September – October)
Autumn is arguably Seward’s most underrated season. The summer crowds thin dramatically after Labour Day, prices drop, and the scenery transforms into a tapestry of gold, amber, and rust as the surrounding birch and willow forests change colour. Temperatures cool to between 4°C and 12°C in September, dropping further into October when frost and early snowfall become likely.
Wildlife viewing remains excellent well into September — brown bears are actively feeding in preparation for hibernation, and whale sightings on Resurrection Bay are still common. Boat tours continue operating, though schedules begin to reduce from mid-September. The northern lights become visible from late September onwards on clear nights, making Seward a genuine aurora destination for those willing to face the chill.
October marks the transition into the quiet season. Some businesses and tour operators begin closing for the winter, and boat tours may cease by month’s end. However, for those seeking solitude, dramatic weather, and raw Alaskan atmosphere, early autumn is a deeply rewarding time to visit.
What to pack: A warm insulated jacket (down or synthetic), waterproof trousers, thermal base layers, sturdy waterproof boots, wool socks, gloves, a warm hat, a scarf, layers for unpredictable temperature swings, and a headlamp for lengthening nights.
❄️ Winter (November – March)
Winter transforms Seward into a quiet, moody, and starkly beautiful place that few outsiders see. Temperatures range from around -8°C to 2°C, with heavy snowfall creating a pristine alpine landscape. The town’s population shrinks considerably as seasonal businesses close, but those who venture here find an experience that feels genuinely remote and untouched.
Cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and ice fishing are popular winter activities. The area around Exit Glacier offers exceptional snow-covered scenery, and the lack of foliage means wildlife such as moose and mountain goats can be spotted more easily against the white backdrop. The northern lights are most reliably visible in winter on clear nights, particularly between December and February.
Seward itself remains open — the Alaska SeaLife Centre operates year-round and the town celebrates the Polar Bear Jump Off festival in January, a lively community event that attracts hardy visitors. Accommodation is widely available and very affordable in winter. However, daylight hours are extremely short — less than six hours in December — and some roads can become hazardous. Many boat tours and attractions are closed entirely until spring.
What to pack: A heavyweight insulated and waterproof parka, thermal base layers (top and bottom), fleece mid-layers, waterproof snow boots with good grip, thick wool socks, insulated gloves or mittens, a balaclava or neck gaiter, a warm hat, hand warmers, and microspikes or crampons for icy paths.
🗺️ Overall Best Time to Visit
For most visitors, June to August offers the definitive Seward experience — long golden days, the full range of wildlife and boat tours, accessible hiking, and the vibrant energy of an Alaskan coastal town at its peak. However, those willing to travel outside peak season will find that late May and early September provide an excellent balance: fewer crowds, lower costs, and wildlife that is just as impressive, in weather that remains manageable. Adventurous travellers seeking the northern lights, dramatic solitude, or genuinely off-the-beaten-path Alaska should consider the shoulder months of late September or January to February. Seward rewards visitors in every season — the question is simply which version of Alaska you are looking for.
Other things to do whilst in Seward
1. The Iditaride
After spending the previous day at sea we decided to focus our last few days in Steward on terra firma. Since arriving in Alaska and Emily finding out about the existence of kennels for dog sledding huskies that were open to the public, we had been pressurized into visiting one of these establishments. Luckily enough one such place existed close to Seward. Despite this being summer and the snow is long gone this tour also promised us a sled ride – how could we turn down this opportunity. So, we set off to the “Iditaride” Dog Sled tour.
Dog sledding is a big winter sport here in Alaska and the blue riband event of the sledding world is the Iditarod, the largest sporting event in Alaska (which is not saying too much).
2. Exit Glacier
Where to stay in Seward
1. Bear Lake Lodgings B&B
Bear Lake Lodgings B&B has lake views, free WiFi and free private parking, located in Seward.
The units come with hardwood floors and feature a fully equipped kitchen with a fridge, a dining area, a flat-screen TV with satellite channels, and a private bathroom with shower and bathrobes. Some units have a seating area and/or a balcony.
An American breakfast is available each morning at the bed and breakfast.
Bear Lake Lodgings B&B has a sun terrace.
After a day of hiking, fishing or canoeing, guests can relax in the garden or in the shared lounge area.
Moose Pass is 21 miles from the accommodation, while Cooper Landing is 26 miles from the property.
2. Exit Glacier Lodge
3. Sunshine House Bed & Breakfast
Featuring free WiFi, Sunshine House Bed and Breakfast offers accommodations in Seward. Free private parking is available on site.
Breakfast is provided daily at the property.
You can engage in various activities, such as fishing and canoeing.
More to Explore
