Hit by the coho and the camping bug, we decided to head out north again (I also wasn't quite ready to get back to work at Snettisham).  Saturday morning dawned overcast after three very rainy days (following the flawless summer weekend), but it started to break up as we drove to the North Douglas boat ramp.  We'd trailered the boat at Douglas Harbor that morning with no hassle, and nearly as easily loaded it up with gear and got it ready to launch again (the only hindrance being the sudden dysfunction and subsequent replacement of the bilge plug).  On Thursday I'd visited the boat and replaced the bilge pump fuse, then fueled it up and played with the fuel line again while the bilge pump worked and worked and worked and worked to rid the boat of the two days of rain accumulation (I hadn't replaced the fuse when we tied her up on Sunday).  At one point I even stopped and helped bail to avoid draining the battery!  In the end, it seemed that the old fuel siphon just wasn't working.  I'd emptied the fuel filer and found no clog, and still couldn't get anything to pump through the hose.  Perhaps there's something obvious I'm missing, but we got underway with the same direct feed from the gas tank to the engine with the spare siphon we'd used to get back to Juneau the weekend before.  It was like having a whole different engine to work with.  Always in the past, I'd used a lot of choke to get the engine to catch; now I don't have to use any, even when the engine is stone cold.  Fascinating stuff.

The water out in Saginaw Channel was flat calm, and equally so in Lynn Canal.  Our first stop was Cordwood Creek on the back side of Admiralty, where trollers had been slaying cohos.  The creek itself supports cohos, so we thought we might see if any were entering the creek yet.  We wove our way between all the small boats and on to shore, but there were no fish to be seen.  The picturesque array of soccer ball sized rocks had barely a trickle of tannin saturated water around them--hardly enough for a fry to survive, let along an adult coho.  The creek must transform with the fall rains in order to support spawners!  So we turned and headed over to Robinson Creek on the Chilkat side where my dad used to fish many years ago, and which runs down a wide, gorgeous valley.  It was close to high tide when we arrived, so we pulled up between the gravel banks of the beach and landed on a rocky spit attached to a grassy meadow beyond where the creek curved a bit to the north before turning back into the valley.  On the other side of the creek was a tiny, ancient, gray cabin on a log float that my dad had seen back in the day.  The only sign of life was an intact "private property, no trespassing" sign. 

 The creek itself was full of salmon in all stages of spawn; we carried a pack, the poles, and the tackle box to shore and soon started casting from the edge of the gravel bar and the meadow.  It wasn't long before Chris caught a dolly and we both caught pinks.  The creek, of course, was packed with humpies, but no other salmon seemed to be there.  It's awfully fun to hang out near an active salmon creek, though, especially when the water is clear and you can see schools beneath the surface.  We fished there for a bit, then moved a little farther upriver, tramping first through the meadow grass, then through dense willows to come out on a lovely gravel bar with a small hole on the opposite side.  We stopped there for a bit, then tried to make it further upriver, but another 50 yards upcreek the gravel bar we were walking on gave way to a cut bank overhung with shrubs where the river curved.  The lovely gravel bar had moved to the opposite side of the creek, and it was just a little too swift and deep to cross in xtratuffs.  So we went back downriver and hung out on the first gravel bar for a bit.  I was a little grumpy because I'd slipped in the creek and filled a boot with water, soaking my pants and hoodie in the process, but the sun and the glorious location soon eased my temper.  It doesn't take much to overwhelm my peace of mind after a stressful week at work followed by adventure preparation. 

There, too, we caught only pinks, and enjoyed watching them rest in the creek, float downriver in a near-death state (or actual death), and chase our lures.  After some time we moved back toward the mouth of the creek and, after hearing an airplane take off, discovered 11 people standing on the opposite side.  The tide had fallen while we explored and the Ronquil was high and dry, tipped a bit precariously on its side.  I lengthened the anchor line and wrapped the other line around a rock for easy retrieval, a little worried about getting out the next day.  The high tide at 11:15 that night was one foot higher than the high tide the next day at 1:15; therefore, if the boat went aground at the peak of the high tide at night, it would be a foot away from floating at the peak of the high tide when we wanted to leave.  But, there was nothing to be done for the moment, so we loaded ourselves up with gear, climbed the steep grassy bank at the edge of the forest, and worked our way down the creek and around the corner onto a beach that was made for camping.  The long, wide, gently sloping beach was edged by a swath of flat sand, sparsely vegetated with beach grass, cinquefoil, and other plants.  We quickly chose a perfectly flat, sandy location for the tent, dropped our gear, and headed back for a second load.  In the meantime, the newcomers lined up along the other side of the creek and appeared to take a lesson in fly fishing.  We were surprised that folks would pay a lot of money to fly fish for pink salmon...but, it was a lovely spot.  When we finished hauling gear (not an inconsiderable distance over uneven ground), we opened our camp chairs and enjoyed the view.  From that vantage we could see the Herbert Glacier on the mainland across the way, most of Admiralty's Mansfield Peninsula, and the islands up to Little Islands.  It was gorgeous. 

After a little break, we strolled down to the edge of the creek (the tourists had thankfully disappeared upcreek).  A big buck pink salmon, gray with decay, swam right up to Chris while he was standing in ankle deep water and proceeded to flop vigorously until he'd worked himself onto the rocks--it was hard to tell whether he was flopping because he'd wound up swimming onto shore unintentionally, or if the flopping was designed to bring him to shore.  Either way, he was soon stranded of his own design.  I walked up to him some time later and found him about three feet from the nearest water (with the falling tide), motionless except for widely spaced flexes of his gill covers searching for oxygen.  He was dead when we left.

Cordwood Creek	Cabin on Robinson Creek	Robinson Creek
View of Herbert Glacier from the beach	Debbie at the mouth	Samuel the salmon

Back at the camp site, Chris started setting up the tent while I went in search of firewood.  I was less successful in finding dry wood than on previous camping trips; the forest was more open and wet, so what dead spruce branches I found were soggy.  Nevertheless, I came back with a few handfuls of dry tinder and some larger branches.  The edge of the forest was dense Sitka alder and black currents, hung with ripe berries.  Inside the alders was a well-trodden game trail; the forest itself was bright and lovely.  I made a couple of trips into the alders for wood (we were planning an epic bonfire), and everywhere I found black currents (i.e., gooseberries).  I've never seen very many around Juneau and those who enjoy them keep their highly-coveted patches a secret, so I'd never eaten very many.  Here they were super-abundant.  The ones with the most sun exposure were a little over-ripe for my taste, but the ones just inside the shade were tart and delicious and I started to think about what I could pick them in.

After a few loads from the woods, I started to look for more wood on the beach, both from branchy logs and driftwood.  While exploring one log I spied far down the beach a rather distinctly shaped object and walked down to the point to investigate.  A Macintosh computer monitor gazed out over Lynn Canal!  I'd seen a monitor drifting around in Icy Strait years ago--could it be the same one?  When the tent was up and the pads inflated, Chris joined in the hunt for firewood and we soon had a comfortably large pile.  He set to work starting the fire and I began heating water for macaroni and cheese in the intertidal zone.  We were soon sharing a pot of creamy deliciousness and a bottle of wine around the campfire.  Which was pretty nice as far as campfires go.  The pile of embers by the night's end mounded up a good four or five inches above the hollow where Chris started it.  As the evening wore on we began to burn huge pieces of driftwood and made our way through most of the pile.  I carefully tended my felt insoles and rubber boots until they were dry (and were victim to only a minimum of charring).  The nearly full moon rose over the mountains to the south as the sun set, turning the hazy clouds pink in all directions.  Soon it was dark and Venus, the big dipper, and a few other stars made an appearance. 

The whole time I was vaguely uneasy about my boat.  At 10:00 we set out on an expedition to rescue it from the creek and bring it around to the beach in front of us.  I was not at all looking forward to it.  Not only was it a significant walk in the dark to a salmon spawning stream (i.e., bear territory), but rising tides are fast and terrifying to deal with--everything changes so quickly, and it doesn't help when you can't see clearly.  Using my new headlamp for light, we stumbled over the cobble beach and through the tall grass until we neared the creek, then turned inland for the last leg.  Here the grassy strip was only 10-20 feet wide between the forest and the water.  As we reached the end of it and came alongside the boat in the middle of the creek, Chris heard something and we stopped and listened.  From just inside the trees, about 10 feet away, we heard the unmistakable crunching sound of a bear eating a fish.  (Or maybe it was an otter, but something carnivorous was definitely having dinner.)  We hastily retreated back downstream about 25 feet, then stopped and scanned the area with light and listened carefully (between loud chatter to alert the bear to our presence).  We heard and saw nothing, but were not anxious to pass that narrow section of beach again so close to the woods.  Instead, we stepped down the steep bank to the edge of the stream where we could either walk on a few slippery cobble rocks or wade in the creek.  Now from the creek we heard noises--rushed, chaotic splashing, which terrified me (the noise sounded like salmon fleeing the advance of a bear).  Chris finally worked out that the salmon were, in fact, fleeing from our light.  Although I now knew it was harmless, the sound continued to unnerve me.

Walking along the creek worked pretty well until we needed to cross into the middle of the creek where the boat was resting on a gravel spit.  There was a little slough that cut along the edge of the forest, separating the meadow and its spit from the main shore for an uncertain distance upcreek; at the lower tide, we'd waded this easily.  We had two choices: enter the woods and follow the slough until it shallowed enough for us to cross (for there was no more grassy beach), or cross right there.  We opted for the latter option (due to bear activity), carrying our socks and boots the short distance across.  We both got the bottoms of our rolled-up pants wet, but at least our boots were dry.  We put them back on on the other side and were happy to find the boat just beginning to float.  I gathered up the anchor and the rope and we hopped aboard and immediately began to drift downstream.  At last we were out of the creek and floating!  I didn't want to mess with trying to start the motor and navigate in the dark, so we decided we'd try paddling our way to the beach.  In the meantime, the creek's current swept us along just fine.  Soon Chris and I both noticed that the water sparkled.  Tiny green points of light flashed here and there wherever we looked.  Suddenly we saw an explosion of lights on the bottom of the creek followed by a streak of sparkles shooting away like the Milky Way on a dark night, but at the bottom of the creek!  Pink salmon were stirring up the phosphorescence and creating magical light shows in the dark.  We looked excitedly for more disturbed salmon and soon had the paddle out, creating indescribable swirls and streaks of starry light as we drifted.  It was the best phosphorescence I've ever seen.  Every movement made the water light up dramatically, especially toward the bottom where the fish rested.  We saw another dozen or so fish streaks as we drifted, sometimes more than one at once.

While playing with the phosphorescence, we also managed to paddle toward the south shore of the creek, then around the corner and along the main beach toward our cheery campfire.  I dropped the anchor about 50 feet from shore and Chris paddled us in while I kept some tension on the line.  As soon as we touched bottom I tied off the anchor line, then we both shoved the boat out as hard as we could (the object being to prevent the boat from going aground at the top of the high tide).  It was close to 11:00 by then and we reconvened around the campfire and kept a careful watch on the boat.  It seemed to be content to rest out there sufficiently far from shore; I walked down to the water once more to double check and sloshed around in the shallows a bit to play with the phosphorescence; throwing stones made pleasing circles of light.  While we watched the boat through the high tide and beyond, I stood close to the blazing campfire and dried first Chris's pants, then my own pants and long underwear that I'd gotten wet earlier.  At half an hour past the tide I felt confident that our plan had worked and we turned in for the night.

Firewood

The setting

Camp site

The next morning we slept in a bit; I got up around 9:30 and prepared my pack for a little hike.  While the water heated for breakfast, I headed into the woods to see about those currents.  I've heard locals rave about black currents, carefully guarding their patches, but had never seen any in enough quantities to pick myself.  Here, though, they were ridiculously plentiful (though the most abundant bushes were closer to the edge of the alders and were a little overripe).  I quickly picked about half a cup.  Back at the tent, I made some cafe francais and oatmeal for breakfast and we sat in our camp chairs looking out over the view, somewhat grayer than the day before (in fact it sprinkled a little on us), and watching two or three whales pass in front of the beach (there's not much better than waking up to the sound of a whale breathing).  After breakfast we grabbed my day pack and the poles and headed back to the creek to explore a little farther upriver.  Beyond the rocky beaches where we'd stopped the day before we entered the woods and found a game trail.  Unfortunately, game trails tend to disappear in a hurry as soon as you leave big, open woods behind!  Most of the creek edge was grown up with dense alder, salmonberry, and devil's club thickets with no hint of a trail.  Just when we would get discouraged, it would open up for a few feet, then close in again.  When I'd had about enough, I made my way to the edge of the water and looked upriver to see flat water another 50 yards ahead.  So we kept crashing and eventually found ourselves under some overhanging alders at the bottom of a calm pool.  In front of us we could see scores of salmon resting in the creek, some jumping ridiculously.  The creek split around an island at that point, and it looked like some were making their way up from downriver on the other side.  It was a lovely spot.  There was no gravel beach, but we could stand in the shallow water at the edge.  I wove my way upriver another 30 feet or so to get a look at the creek where it deepened; it looked like there was a nice big hole farther up on the other side.  We hung out there for as long as we could, casting intermittently and enjoying watching the salmon half heartedly follow the lures.  Eventually we headed out to make sure we were back in time to strike the tent, pack up, and leave no later than the high tide.

Going back through the dense brush was a little faster, as we didn't have to stop and reconnoiter every few minutes, but still pretty unpleasant.  We talked to bears to let them know we were coming (though a bear would have to be nearly deaf not to hear us crashing through the vegetation).  Back at camp the boat was floating; I packed up all my gear and left Chris with the tent while I hurriedly picked more currents.  In about 20 minutes I'd filled my water bottle (four cups) with gorgeous, black currents, and I'd barely scratched the surface of what was available.  We loaded all the gear in the boat (now only about 30 feet from the tent site), and pushed off for deeper water at 1:00, about 15 minutes before the tide.  The motor started without a hitch with no choke.  The seas were building in Lynn Canal (2-3 feet), but crossing in the trough was not a problem; the ride was fairly smooth all the way to the harbor once we rounded Point Retreat.  As we pulled up to the dock, a trooper walked down to meet us and grilled us pretty good, checking our licenses and looking in all our coolers, though we told him we'd not caught any fish.  He also asked if I'd been drinking (presumably because I was driving).  From there, to Douglas Harbor to put the boat back in its slip, and then home.  We arrived around 3:00, lit a fire in the fireplace, and had a leisurely afternoon.

Whale passing the beach

Pinks in Robinson Creek

Black currents