August 14-18
Mama bear and cub on Sweetheart Creek
Snettisham
2009 - 8: Welcome to Fall
August 14-18
Mama bear and cub on Sweetheart Creek
Summer
always ends, even one as wonderful as 2009. Usually somewhere
in the first few weeks of August the air cools and starts to smell like
fall,
alder leaves begin to drop, and the goat's beard in the ditches turn
yellow. But it was still high summer when we left
Inside Port Snettisham we saw whale blows and watched a pair of
whales--which turned into a trio--come up for several breathing
cycles. I
got blurry shots of two tails, one with big white spots, the other with
a
little blush of white on the upper edge of each side. We saw
another
whale as we turned around Sentinel, but were pretty chilled and ready
to get to
shore. We arrived around low tide, but it was an unusually high
low tide
and there was only a difference of about nine feet between high and
low.
We landed close to shore and I dropped the gear and the boys off,
grabbed the
kayak, and anchored the boat. Chris took Brian on a tour around
the
property to choose a cabin and I opened up and started the
systems. I was
disappointed to see no rush of water through the filters when I opened
the
valve and, sure enough, no water was making its way to the
faucet. When
the boys came back we lit the 
pilots
on the range and put Brian in charge of
lighting a fire while Chris and I hiked up to the creek to take a look
at the
olive barrel situation. I hadn't cleared the trail this year, so
we
fought a lot of devil's club on the way. Sure enough, the water
level in
the creek had dropped and the barrel sat in a shallow depression, the
outlet
pipe several inches above water level. We manhandled the barrel
off to
the side and set about scraping out the hollow which was filled with
small
shale rocks and the larger rocks that had held the olive barrel in
place.
There was already a bank of small rocks along the right side of the
creek, so
we decided to use that as a sort of dam. Chris scooped rocks with
his
feet to build up that side and I pushed excess rocks down the middle
where a
break in a few large rocks allowed the outlet pipe to drain downhill
below
water level. A large flat rock inhabits the left side of the
creek
against which the olive barrel rests. Once we'd scraped what we
thought
was a suitable hollow, we replaced the olive barrel, let it fill with
water,
and weighted it down in the front. Then we filled the area around
the
outlet pipe with a few stones and lots of small rocks to make a dam and
effectively raised the water level by several inches, satisfyingly
above the
pipe.
Pleased with our work, we descended through the wet forest to warm up by the fire, first discovering that a naughty bear had bitten through the water pipe right near the valve on the back of the lodge and water was spraying with force against the side of the bear proof box. The metal roofing I put on the sides of the box suddenly became very functional. Inside, Chris and Brian started playing gin and eventually I joined in. After one game of the sort that two people normally play we decided that gin rummy would be a better fit for the three of us, so we pooled our memory about the rules and started a game to 300 points. I think Chris won. We started another game, then broke for Philly cheese sandwiches roasted on the wood stove. The weather had improved a little and it was crazy hot inside, so we ate the second round of sandwiches on the porch, finishing the game of gin rummy afterwards. Then we played a round of Cranium before bed.
 Whale fluking in Snettisham |
 Tail 1 |
 Tail 2 |
 Olive barrel in the creek gone dry |
 Olive barrel in the creek dammed up |
 Debbie hiding in a big tree |
I slept as long as I wanted to the next morning (summer was catching
up to me), then made my way to the lodge with the intent to fix the
holes in
the water pipe. When I went inside and turned the water on,
though,
nothing came out, and there was no water shooting through the holes
outside. I had intended to turn off the valve at the top and let
the pipe
drain in order to fix it, but this worked just as well.
Unfortunately,
the bite holes were very close to the valve and there wasn't enough
pipe left
to splice in a new coupling as I usually would--a long term fix would
involve
cutting the coupling off the valve itself, which was more work than
I was
in the mood for. Instead, I decided to patch it. 
Apparently
old
rubber bicycle tires work pretty well for this, but lacking any rubber,
I
resorted to duct tape wrapped several times around the area secured
with a hose
clamp. This accomplished, I moved on to another task. The
next
big
project I wanted to undertake this summer was installing the hemlock
paneling
over the ceiling. I'd cut most of the boards I needed for it in
June, but
they still sat under a tarp on the new deck. I took a look at the
ceiling
plan and the dimensions of the boards I would need, and moved a stack
of each
size onto the top deck so they'd be handy when we started.
That
was about all the energy I had. I ate some breakfast and
collapsed on the couch for a bit. At about 11:30 Brian came over
and that
roused me enough to hike to the olive barrel, slowly hacking with a
machete to
clear the way. I saw nothing out of order when I reached the top
and our
dam still functioned beautifully. When I returned to the lodge
water was
again flowing through the system and a tiny drop was escaping from
beneath the
hose clamp. The whole water system is a bit of a mystery!
I made quesadillas for lunch, then Brian and Chris decided to go for
a
kayak. Although it sounded like fun, I felt like I needed to get
some
more work done, so let them go without me. I suggested they head
upriver
and across, unfortunately steering them wrong in terms of the tide,
which was
still dropping. They played with lots of seals, visited the big
avalanche, and went as far as the huge sandy beach near Whiting
Point.
Meanwhile, I went for a COASST survey and watched them from shore when
I
reached the grassy point upriver. I didn't find any dead
seabirds, but I did
find some mammal tracks and paused to observe a lovely spotted
sandpiper
foraging along the shore in clumps of seaweed. Sandpipers
followed me for
the rest of the weekend. Back at the
homestead I rearranged all
the loose
boards on the new connecting deck between the stairs and the big deck
and
nailed the ends of them in. Then I had a diet coke and went to
Sweetheart
Creek.
So I'd been a
bit discouraged by the hordes of people (and no hordes
of
sockeye) at Sweetheart this year and was considering ending our annual
fishing
tradition. But, I've always said that the way to harvest at
Sweetheart
(if you're as lucky as me) is to swing by while at the homestead for
other
business. That way, I've already spent the gas for other reasons,
there's
no pressure (and, hence, no need to get up at 3:00 am to stake out
fishing
points), and if you catch a few sockeyes here and there, that might be
enough,
given that you're only harvesting for yourself. In truth, just
bopping
over to Sweetheart Creek like that isn't as simple or quick as it
sounds, and
it's hard for me to take the time on an already short weekend to go
there when
I have work to do. But, with Brian and Chris otherwise occupied
on the
kayaks, I figured this was the right chance. I kayaked out to the
boat,
drug the kayak onboard, pulled anchor, and headed away, reminded of how
simple
it is to go places on my own (without having to pick up and drop people
off). I had to stop a few times to rearrange the kayak so it was
balanced
in the back, though. Nigel was back at the lodge. When I
arrived at
the flats I passed one yacht at anchor and saw a small open boat just
leaving
shore. I quickly set anchor, hoping to kayak by the latter boat
for a
fishing report. When I asked how they'd done, one of them threw
up his
hands in a gesture of defeat and said that they'd seen two sockeye
falling or
something (I couldn't understand), and told me that I'd have to go all
the way
to the top to find them. I figured he meant that all the sockeye
had
already made their way past the series of lower falls and were now
milling
around the bottom of the big falls where they can't pass and where it's
pretty
difficult to fish.
But,
I was there, so I figured I'd give it a try. The tide was rising,
so I drug the kayak up some distance and tied it around a rock.
Tromping
through the forest over the peninsula I made ridiculous conversation to
bears
(as I knew there were few if any other people on the creek), then
stepped out
onto the bank of the creek to the din of a huge flock of gulls feeding
on
salmon. There were plenty of carcasses and the creek was full of
fish
activity--but, after a moment's excitement I realized that they were
probably
all pinks. I searched the shallows for flashes of silver, but
couldn't
make anything out. Nevertheless, sitting by the creek and
pondering my
existence didn't seem like a poor alternative to fishing, so I
continued on my
way, scaring away bunches of pink every time I stepped in the
water. I
scaled up the slippery rock on the first point, then made my way around
the
familiar trail to our favorite fishing point upriver. As I was
approaching the end of it, just a few feet from descending to the
creek, I saw movement
close by on the left and realized that I wasn't alone after all--the
folks from
the yacht must be there, I thought. But when my eyes focused I
discovered
that I was, instead, eye to eye with a large, sleek brown bear about 20
feet
away. With a rush of adrenaline I started hollering a little and
the bear
paused and reluctantly turned away, heading along the edge of the rocks
toward
the forest; on the next point up I could see a cub devouring
salmon. I
scurried down to the water and looked back to see another cub coming
quickly in
my direction, looking curious and not at all cautious. It took a
lot of
waving and yelling to get the cub turned around, but I surely
didn't want
to make mother nervous. A third cub was nearby at the end of the
little
inlet that separates the two points. Soon all three cubs joined
up there,
one of them tearing away at an old rotten log and the others playing
around
below it. Mama bear came back over above me and finished what I'd
interrupted,
which was simply to walk straight down the side of the rock about 20
away and
slowly cross the creek toward the upper point. She looked like
she was
walking on water, standing on rocks I didn't know were there. One
of the
cubs waded out to follow her across and passed her to stand on the
shelf by the
falls while she remained on the rocks in the river. The salmon
like to
run up the falls there, passing by the rocks she was standing on and
making
easy pickings for fishing bears, or dipnetters. Mom and her companion
were
actively searching for fish in the water. Mama bear plunged in
and looked
around a few times, but it was the cub who alerted her to a fish in the
shallows near the waterfall. He lunged toward it a little and
squirmed
before she came over, plunging her head in and emerging with a
wriggling
fish. One of the other cubs had found a roll of duct tape to play
with
adorably nearby.
This was all
pretty exhilarating! I was very much alone on the
creek
in terms of humans, with a mother bear and three young of the year
cubs.
When she crossed the creek I could see three rows of nipples
protruding, so it
was clear she was still nursing despite the ravenous salmon-eating
cub.
Downriver there was a stump on the rocks that looked all the world like
a blond
dead bear washed up and it was terrifying. I was a bit on edge,
but after
I watched the bears for a while I figured I'd try to few casts.
After
all, it was clear that there was no shortage of food! The water
was
absolutely alive with pink salmon, solid masses of them that choked the
creek. I could see hundreds, maybe thousands, in the clear water
downstream
of the point. I again looked for silvers among the dark pinks,
and liked
to think I saw some, but it was pretty hard to tell. All along
the falls
just upstream salmon were jumping and 
wriggling
their way up and salmon were
finning everywhere. Farther up at the large falls fish were
leaping high
into the air in a fruitless attempt to reach
Chris and Nigel met me outside and I told them about my adventure
and we
agreed that we should all go over there the next day. We ate some
Sweetheart sockeye (from a few weeks prior), stuffing, and zucchini for
dinner
and played Scattergories before bed. Nigel was eating pretty
well,
too. Just before leaving
 Ceiling panels laid out on deck |
 Spotted sandpiper |
 Sweetheart Creek from the point |
 Eagle being harassed by a gull |
 Chris and Brian kayaking |
 Pink salmon packing Sweetheart Creek |
 Connecting deck |
 Mama bear and cub fishing |
 Mama bear fishing |
I
rose earlier on Sunday to get ready to take the boys to Sweetheart
Creek. Chris and I had oatmeal and orange juice for breakfast,
then Brian
came over and had oatmeal and Russian tea. We left the homestead
at
10:30. Brian didn't have boots, so Chris piggy-backed him to
shore, but
he still wound up with water over one boot. When I was kayaking
in I
asked him if he still wanted to go to the creek with a wet foot and his
answer
was "absolutely!" so maybe he's picked up some of his brother's
enthusiasm for adventure. We talked to the bears as we crossed
the
peninsula to the creek, passing more carcasses, bear poop, and gulls
when we
arrived. We set up on the point again and Chris took the first
cast,
coming in with about ten wriggling pinks. I warned them after
that that
there was a hole in the top of the net, so if a sockeye happened to
show up, we
needed to make sure we pulled the net up out of the water and not let
any
escape. It was a well-timed warning. Chris cast again and
came up
with a beautiful sockeye. We were all set to bonk, bleed, and
string it
up. It was a bit unfortunate for the pinks that came in with it,
as they
had to suffer a little longer before we let them escape. Our
system was
to bonk the sockeye until it stopped wriggling, fish it out of the net,
then
set the others free; other than one pink that cut its gill while
tangled in the
net, I think all the pinks were released more or less unscathed.
I
enjoyed gently holding the more stunned ones in the water until they
finned
their way down to join the others. Some of the pinks had huge
humps and
they were all mottled olive. Spotting an ocean bright sockeye in
a net
full of pinks was like seeing a thoroughbred horse standing in the
middle of a
bunch of short, shaggy ponies (that was the best analogy I could come
up with,
though it'd be better if thoroughbreds were gray). Sockeyes shone
solid
silver and vastly outsized all their drab, spotted cousins (you can get
a glimpse of one in the photo of netted fish below, dead center).
In
the turbid
opaqueness of the water, sometimes we could see a flash of silver as we
pulled
in the net, evidence of a sockeye inside. Spotted sandpipers
zoomed up
and down the creek, landing on the rocks downstream before disappearing
down
the creek.
Chris cast for a while, then handed the net off to me and asked me
to
demonstrate an ideal throw. Somehow I managed to pull that off,
and my
net opened into a beautiful circle in the upper pool. Sure
enough, I
caught a mess of pinks and one sockeye. Given that we really
hadn't
expected to come back with any sockeyes at all, this was pretty
exciting!
I cast for a while, then gave the net back to Chris and suggested that
he try
to release the net with his right hand parallel to the water (something
I
learned after several years of casting at Sweetheart Creek. He
gave that
a try and the net opened perfectly. As he let it soak (before he
pulled
the rope and pursed the net) I saw a big flash of silver and wondered
if there
was a sockeye in there. Sure enough, he came back with lots of
pinks and
one enormous sockeye that was just started to get a hook in his jaw and
was
slightly more olive than the others. As I strung him up I spotted
a brown
bear on the point downstream, scaling the cliff down to the
water. I
hollered across the noisy creek to let her know we were there.
She
glanced at us, then plunged into the water and emerged with a wriggling
salmon. We watched as she devoured it there on the edge of the
cliff,
casting it aside when it was half eaten and plunging back into the
water.
She was below the lower falls there and disappeared from sight when she
was in
the water, but every few seconds we'd see the top of her head pop up,
then disappear
again as she leapt back into the water. We watched her catch two
more
salmon before she wandered back into the woods. I confirmed that
she was
the mother from the day before when I saw her nipples again, but the
cubs were
nowhere in sight. Twenty minutes later we saw her walking along
the edge
of the creek toward us and had to yell quite a bit to convince her to
turn
around. With a look of resignation, she finally ambled off.
So
we continued fishing, having a blast catching and releasing a ton of
pinks,
and landing three more sockeyes. There was a little fish-sized
pool in
the rocks near the water and we started bleeding them in there before
we strung
them up. After we had five fish on the line, I cleaned and
clipped their
tails while Chris continued casting. People aren't supposed to
clean the
fish in the upper pools, but I think the reasoning there is mostly
about not
creating bear attractants where people fish. I figured there was
no
chance I was going to do anything to encourage more bear activity, and
no more
people were coming to the creek; plus there were already carcasses of
pink
salmon everywhere. The two largest fish were males, the rest
females, and
both the ones I'd caught the day before were females. We threw a
few roe sacks
in the water to see if the pinks were interested in munching them, but
it was
hard to tell and we were soon distracted by the mother bear and her
three cubs
who showed up farther downstream on the other side of the creek.
I have a
theory that this is a resident brown bear that I've seen several times
at
Sweetheart Creek. I can't substantiate this, but here's the
theory.
In 2006, a beautiful, dark, sleek female brown bear lingered just
across the
creek from the group while we were fishing on the point and I got some
great
photos of her there, and later fishing (with her head submerged)
farther
downstream. In 2007, a mother brown bear and three cubs showed up
on the
peninsula side of the creek just as we were ready to go home, causing
an
arduous kayaking adventure at low tide through Sweetheart Flats.
She
looked a lot like the bear I'd seen the year before, and a lot like the
bear
this year. It would make sense that she would have young cubs
again this
year, and I've heard that bears that throw triplets (less common than
twins)
tend to do so consistently. She is certainly at ease with the
human
fishermen
at her creek.
Around 2:00 I
suggested that we'd better head back, as we still
needed to
pack up at the homestead and make it to town. Chris wanted to
cast a few
more times and so did I. When I took the net I said I'd do two
casts and
call it a day. The first cast brought in a bunch of pinks.
On the
second cast, the net barely opened at all, landing like a big flat taco
in the
water. Chris sympathetically said maybe I could do one more after
that
and, as I pulled it in, I was thinking of what to say if I'd happened
to land a
sockeye. I pulled the net into the shallows and inside was a
single
fish--a beautiful sockeye--and I said "no, I think I'll just keep this
one
and call it good!" I know, you'd think I'd have come up with
something a little more witty, but I really wasn't expecting a
sockeye.
But, this fish was escaping through the hole in the top of the net
pretty
effectively. Brian and I pounced on it, frantically trying to
hold it
down as it wriggled up the rocks and Chris grabbed the bonker, quickly
subduing
it. It was a brilliant ending, the kind you always hope for when
you do
that "one last cast." So we cleaned the last sockeye and
gently put the fish in my dry bag. Chris gallantly carried
them all
out. We chatted up the bears on the way to the boat, but they
left us
alone. On the way I came up with a plan for icing the fish, which
was
awkward with only one cooler on board and no other containers to hold
the ice
and two fish iced on top already. Back at the homestead I had
Chris run
up and empty the food cooler at the lodge while I held the boat off
against the
falling tide and bring the empty cooler back to me. I anchored
up, then
moved the two iced fish into the new cooler, and iced four more on top
of
those, which pretty much filled it up. The last two fish I iced
in the
original cooler with the balance of the ice.
Back
at the homestead there was a fire and we all put our wet gear around it
to dry (it had been raining all day) and ate quesadillas for
lunch. Then
we all packed up, Chris
helping with the sweeping and other
chores. I
went to get the boat while the boys brought all our gear down to the
water and
we took off into a brisk southerly breeze that created a bit of a chop
on the
river. The homestead is pretty protected from the wind, so it's
really
difficult to tell what's happening outside without going and checking
it
out. As we neared Sentinel Point we started to run into some
gentle
swells, which was not a great sign, then choppy two footers beyond
that.
It was pretty uncomfortable, so I crossed the Port to see if we could
seek
shelter behind
A batch of good, Mexican hot chocolate was in order. Just as I
was
sitting down to enjoy it, I realized that I'd left the satellite phone
on the boat,
which we needed to alert people of our situation per the plan we'd set
in
motion before we left. There was no way I could relax knowing I'd
have to
kayak out there, so I left my hot chocolate to cool and kayaked out to
pick up
the phone; my hot chocolate was lukewarm when I returned. For
once we
found a great signal on the satellite phone and I managed to talk to my
parents
for a few minutes and Chris called his mother to let her know that
Brian
wouldn't make his flight. I even talked to Dru about dropping off
his
vacuum packer the next day so I could process the sockeyes as soon as I
got to
town. The fish were worrying me a bit--I don't like to keep fish
unfrozen
for more than a day or two and I knew that my limited ice supply would
only diminish.
That night we played a lot of gin and ate salad and some real emergency
food--delicious pasta.
My
dad had recommended that I get up really early, as winds often
die down
at night and pick up again as the day progresses, so I set the alarm
for six
and headed down to the river to scope it out, surprised to find that
the boat
was aground. The high low tide trend was clearly passing.
It would
be another hour before it would float. I figured this was a good
opportunity to drain the boat, but the boat was aground perfectly
level, the
v-shaped hull sunk into the mud (it usually leans to one side), which
mean that
the plug was in the mud. It had been raining rigorously all
night,
though, so I wanted to do what I could. I excavated around the
plug and
stood in the steady wind and driving rain scraping channels away from
the drain
with the heel of my boot. When I plugged it again some minutes
later, my
pants were completely soaked and I'd decided that, with or without
water, we
clearly weren't going to make it to town that morning. I slunk
back to
the cabin and crawled into bed.
I
don't remember what time Chris and I reemerged from the cabin to make
our
way to the lodge and light a fire. Everything was gray, spirits
were a
bit low. We were sitting around the living room in the lodge
about dig
into some fresh biscuits I'd made when a Ward Air Beaver buzzed
us.
I donned raingear and boots and headed down to the water, telling Chris
to have
Brian get ready to go in case it was for him. Drenching rain
outside.
I held onto the plane and helped turn it around (nose out) and then
told the
pilot I wasn't expecting a plane and asked what was up. His
answer:
"Your pop told me to come and get you." There was no message
from my parents. I was puzzled and a little annoyed about the
change in
plans--chartering was not something I'd talked with my parents about
the night
before and there was no message to explain the plane's arrival.
Was there
a flight home for Brian at the airport? Did my parents expect me
to leave
my boat and come home on the plane for some uncertain reason?
Chris came
down and I told him what little I knew and asked him if he wanted to go
too. Of course he had to go with his brother, given the
uncertainty of
the situation,. That was a sad realization for me. I left
the pilot
there and went up to the lodge to try for a satellite phone signal
while Chris
quickly packed his gear, but I never got a signal. I tried for as
long as
I could, then had to send them on their way with no information.
It was a low moment for me, unexpectedly and confusingly alone at
the
homestead, trying to decide what to do. There was still a breeze
on the
river, but it seemed moderately better, so I soon packed up and carried
my gear
down to the river, not doing as thorough a job as usual with the
cleaning up
this time. The tide was falling, so when I brought the boat in I
pushed
it off the beach a little while I hauled the kayak up. By the
time I came
back down it had drifted just a few feet farther than I could reach
without
getting my boots wet, so I had to tromp up for the kayak again, towing
the boat
to shore with it, then hauling it up above high tide again.
I took
a quick look in the smaller cooler and was horrified to see my fish
floating;
the ice had melted overnight. Needless to say, I was pretty tense
and
frustrated. It was the first time I'd been along down at
Snettisham in a
long time. I used to be down there along quite often, but not
this
summer, and I missed having someone to bounce ideas off of, to talk
about
possibilities and offer moral support. I didn't have enough fuel
for
endless trial attempts at making it back to town, and it was so hard to
know
whether to go or not.
And so I headed out with prayers to the gods for decent seas.
The radio
made noise for a couple of seconds, then went dead. At River
Point a
sandpiper darted across my bow like a warning shot. The rain came
down in
droves, but the water was nearly calm most of the way to Sentinel and I
was
mildy hopeful. Then a gull shot across my bow like another
warning shot
and the visibility dropped so I lost sight of Sentinel Point for a
bit.
When I crossed beyond the point I hit gnarly 2-3 footers with
chop.
Looking through the misty gloom toward Stephen's Passage I saw a bright
light
glowing in the rain like a brilliant beacon of hope--the mast of a
ship!
My first thought was that the Coast Guard was coming to rescue me, but
I
realized immediately how ridiculous that was. It must be a
fishing boat,
I thought, seeking shelter in Snettisham during the storm. Maybe
they
could tell me what the weather was like in Stephen's
Passage!
Moments later I knew what it was like in Stephen's Passage. I was
hitting
consistent, scary, gnarly four footers and it wasn't going to get any
better if
I went on. I was still just off Point Sentinel where I've never
seen seas
like that. My next thought was for the poor fish in their iceless
coolers
and I momentarily considered continuing on to the fishing boat in the
hopes of
begging ice from them. Although the boat wasn't too far away, it
was
clear that I couldn't safely stay in those seas. I managed to get
a
signal on the radio, but it was not talking about marine weather.
I
sobbed most of the way back to the homestead.
Back at shore, I grabbed the kayak and anchored the Ronquil
in a numb
haze, bringing the handheld to shore in case the fishing boat anchored
in the
river and I could ask him for ice. I did check the cooler again
and
discovered that my initial observation was faulty--there were still
clumps of
ice floating in the water. I opened the other cooler and
discovered much
of the ice remained in a slushy mass around the two fish inside.
I
drained most of the water to protect the ice, transferred some ice to
the
smaller cooler, and moved two of the fish into the 
bigger
cooler.
Everything was, well, ice cold, so I was more hopeful. But that
ice
wasn't going to last long, either, and I really had no idea when the
storm
would pass. I was in a foul mood. I wished that I could
have taken
that opportunity to work--after all , there I was at Snettisham with
nothing
else to do. Unfortunately, I lacked both energy and will to work
on the
ceiling or any of the other myriad projects that awaited me, and that
didn't
help. Nigel's face in the photo to the right pretty well captured
the mood. I lit a fire, spread my clothes out to dry, and
collapsed
on the couch with a cup of wine. Two sips later I was asleep and
napped
there for about 45 minutes. I made dinner when I got up and spent
the
rest of the evening on the couch reading, staring into space, listening
to the
radio, and trying to get a signal on the sat phone. I finally
made it
through to my mother around 7 and talked with her for a while, learning
that
the charter had been an accident--that my dad had talked to Ward Air
about the
potential of sending a plane, but had never actually requested
it. Chris
had successfully asked Alaska Airlines to change Brian's flight without
a
change fee and was at that moment taking him to the airport. She
also
gave me encouragement that my fish would be alright for a few more days
and
told me that the worst of the storm was that day and that the winds
were
supposed to die down over night, then be breezy for the rest of the
week.
I relaxed a little longer, then went to bed early and read there for a
bit.
The next morning I slept in. There was no wind there at the
cabin (a
good sign) but it was still breezy at the lodge. The boat was
barely
floating. I took my time, uncertain and anxious about whether I
should
try to make it out again. I ate breakfast, washed the dishes,
swept the
lodge, covered the windows, packed up, and hauled my gear down to the
water,
again. The tide was rising now, but the water was still pretty
low; I put
the gear about eight feet above the edge and kayaked out to the
boat. On
the way in I went aground and got out to pull the boat farther in,
still some
distance from shore. The water got deeper again in front of the
beach, so
I got back in and poled to shore. The water had already risen
already
around the bottom of the tote and my backpack and the mustang suit had
fallen
off the tote and was getting wet as well. I loaded everything up,
drug
the kayak onto the lodge porch, then lifted the dog into the boat
and
poled out to deeper water. From there I idled down to River
Point, in part
to warm up the engine and in part to save gas. I was escorted by
a group
of gulls (no warning shots this time), and friendly sandpipers; the
seals were
out again as well (I hadn't seen much of them during the storm), all of
which
seemed like good signs. Coming around River Point it was
still
breezy, but suddenly the sky had patches of blue and all the mountains
were
wrapped in rising wisps of mist. In the wake of the storm was
Fall.
There was a bit of chop in Snettisham, but it calmed down near Point
Styleman
and I had mostly calm water all the way back to
 Snettisham after the storm |
 Filleting |
 The catch |
 Mama bear with salmon |