A delicate balancing act on the Duwamish River

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"It's going to be a beefy trip!" Greg Whittaker of Alki Kayak Tours shouted with a grin as he steered our double kayak from our launch point at West Seattle's Seacrest Park and out into Elliott Bay.

I soon learned that "beefy" in this context meant navigating wind-whipped waves across an open expanse of water. But the sun sparkled encouragement, and our group was all smiles as we headed toward a barge marked "HANJIN" piled high with shipping containers on the waterfront south of downtown — the familiar sight taking on an appreciable immensity viewed from our tiny craft. As a police boat sped past, a group of Caspian terns performed suicidal-looking fishing dives ahead of us — bright orange beaks pointed downward for vertical splashdowns.

Our group of 17 kayakers — four of them guides — had set out on a bright August morning to circumnavigate Harbor Island and visit salmon-restoration sites on the lower Duwamish River, a tour aimed at highlighting the unique urban-nature interface of this highly industrial area, which is a federally listed Superfund site.

"People are interested in the industrial aspects of the Duwamish River and seeing how wildlife can exist and thrive here," Whittaker said. "A lot of Seattleites take this tour because the river has been cut off from us. This is the best way to see every aspect of it."

An experienced kayak guide who opened Alki Kayak Tours in 2005, Whittaker is the tourism representative for the Washington State Oil Spill Advisory Council and sits on the citizens' advisory committee for the city's Shoreline Master Program update. He makes it a company priority to be "an additional set of eyes on the Sound looking for preventable ecological harm."

History and industry

We turned south into the East Waterway along Harbor Island, one of the largest man-made islands in the world. To improve shipping access to river industries, by 1917 business moguls and civil engineers had removed 20 million cubic yards of mud and sand to change 10 miles of serpentine lower river into a canal 4.5 miles long. The transported earth formed this island.

Now protected from the wind, we peacefully passed pilings coated in barnacles and mussels. Pigeon guillemots squealed as they surf-landed like water skiers. Wearing black and white in the summer months, these seabirds nest under docks and in sandy banks.

"Seal — 12 o'clock," Whittaker said, pointing out an unmistakable ball-like head. Harbor seals, California sea lions and sea otters are frequently spotted along this route.

Shipping-container cranes to our right and cruise-ship loading platforms to our left, here wildlife and water are the only reminders of the original river. It once fanned out in a wide delta similar to the Nisqually south of Tacoma. Salt marshes and mudflats stretched from Beacon Hill to Duwamish Head in West Seattle, changing daily with the tides. The Duwamish Tribe lived here when the Egyptians were building pyramids; cedar longhouses up to 300 feet in length dotted the river delta when settlers arrived in the mid-1800s.

Zigzagging through Harbor Island Marina, we spotted an osprey perched atop a mast. At least six pairs of these large raptors nest along the Duwamish (we saw two active nests atop light poles), their barbed feet perfect for nabbing fish. Blocking the channel, a tug nosed a barge into a new position, but the osprey eyed us more warily, accustomed to its home of constant movement and noise.

An emphasis on coexistence

"It's important to keep it industrial," Whittaker explained, using the country's largest cement plant as an example. "Moving all that gravel overland would destroy our roadways, and this industry keeps Seattle somewhat recession-proof."

Cari Simson, outreach and events coordinator for the Duwamish River Cleanup Coalition (DRCC), agrees. "We're never going to turn the clock back to the 1850s. It's important to keep industry here and work with them to do the right thing inside their gates and out in the community."

A community advisory group involved in all aspects of the proposed Superfund cleanup, DRCC helps industries learn how to become better stewards — not only by following pollution regulations, but by getting involved in restoration work and supporting community events. "There are a lot of interesting things here worth saving and preserving," Simson said.

One of these is the Herring's House Park wetland-restoration project. Sitting on a shell midden, this was prime herring and salmon territory, as the ancient name indicates. Archaeological findings date human inhabitation here to 300 B.C. More recently this land was home to one of the city's original lumber mills. The first step in restoring 11 acres of polluted tidelands was to replace its contaminated soils. Across West Marginal Way, the Duwamish Tribe Longhouse and Cultural Center (www.duwamishtribe.org/html/longhouse_project.html) is nearing completion. Housing tribal offices and events, it will be open to the public this fall for art exhibits, music, lectures and permanent exhibits.

Herring's House is one in a corridor of seven lower-river estuarine habitats built for migrating juvenile salmonids. Though far fewer than before, the fish return each year — wild-spawning and hatchery chum, coho, steelhead and cutthroat, as well as the endangered Puget Sound chinook.

'These areas provide refuge for juvenile salmonids migrating out to ocean," said B.J. Cummings, coordinator of DRCC. "They provide places they can rest, hide from predators and eat." People for Puget Sound recently received funding for nine more such projects, and more funding is expected for additional habitat restoration for all species. "Rather than keeping people away from habitat areas, we want to make them more publicly accessible," Cummings said. Human-use considerations include native plants, art, seating and interpretive signs to help people feel more welcome.

Restoration on a river

Whittaker directed us to the Herring's House shore, and we disembarked on a muddy swath of beach. As we slip-slopped up the slope (flip-flops not recommended), I pushed PCBs out of my mind, thankful for that replaced soil.

"I'm surprised it's so green," said Gurmeet Singh, a first-time kayaker who had never been out on the Duwamish. "This is not too far away from where I live, and I didn't even know about it."

"Most people don't know about the Duwamish," said Simson. "But restoration work is making river parks more accessible."

As we relaxed in the shade, munching on bagel chips with hummus, Whittaker explained that we were viewing the only remaining natural oxbow bend of the original lower Duwamish. Across the channel was Kellogg Island, the remaining half of a natural island (the other half scooped away long ago). Purple martins swooped around nesting gourds placed on pilings along the island's edge as Caspian terns splashed in the shallows.

"You wouldn't think you'd see so much wildlife in such an industrial setting," noted Eric Epperson, a visiting paddler from Joplin, Mo., who liked the "unparalleled views of Seattle's distinct and iconic skyline."

Back on the water, we edged around the south end of Kellogg, surprising two herons. Watching these birds it was possible to be hopeful about the future of our city's river.

"We're committed to the idea of a string of green pearls all along the river," Simson said. "Yes, there's going to be a cement plant, yes, there's going to be a drywall factory, yes, there's going to be a container-shipping facility. But in between these places and even on their property's unused shoreline, there can be restoration. You can have both of these things at the same time."

This thought fueled my paddling as a north wind challenged our return journey.

Freelance writer Kathryn True, of Vashon Island, is a regular contributor to NWWeekend.