The first thing that hit me was the cold. Not just a chill, but a deep, bone-searing cold that seemed to hum with the essence of the Pacific Ocean, a vast and indifferent expanse stretching to the horizon. I’d flown into Seward, a small, bustling fishing town nestled against a formidable backdrop of mountains, accessible only by a short hop on a small jet plane from Anchorage, or a long, winding drive. I was here with a group of friends, a mix of curious adventurers and well-heeled tourists, seeking the raw, untamed heart of Alaska. We were staying in cozy cabins, rented for the winter season, a stark contrast to the life I knew.