Snettisham 2010 - 12: Creekin'
  September 16 - 17


An endless flock of scoters in Stephen's Passage

As I write this (September 19), I'm looking out at a brilliant blue sky and swirls of falling leaves stripped from their branches by a relentless north wind.  Although we've had a ridiculously long stretch of unseasonably warm, sunny weather, we have yet to see any calm seas.  The weather cleared up while I was up the Taku on the 12th, and the north wind started to blow.  The weather forecast on Monday and Tuesday that week called for seas between three and six feet through the weekend.  I began to get anxious that I wouldn't find my window of calm weather before I left for Anchorage the following week.  Everyone around me waxed rhapsodic on the incredible weather while I scowled inwardly as I pictured four foot seas curling over themselves in Taku Inlet.  On Wednesday, I finally emailed a friend at the NOAA weather center and asked his advice; he said  the wind would be kicking up unpleasantly over the weekend (four footers for sure), but that three foot seas in Taku Inlet (and less elsewhere) looked likely for Thursday and Friday.  And so I jumped on it.  Since it was to be a solo trip, there was little preparation necessary.  I fueled the boat at lunch on Wednesday and stopped by the hardware store after work for door hinges and drivers to fit the cabin kit screws.  That night I also ran by the store for toilet paper, paper towels, and garbage bags (all needed at Snetty), and bread.  The next morning I managed to leave the house around the same time I would for work, and left the harbor at 8:35, PBR in hand (after all, I needed something to make an offering to the weather gods).  The channel itself was flawlessly calm (see photo to left) and everything was so bright ahead that my optimism grew that I might sneak across the Taku without encountering any noteworthy seas. 

I was soon disappointed (as I usually am when foolishly optimistic about the weather).  I went through a series of two foot swells, then a calm patch, then as I approached Point Arden, the seas built to three feet--curling, close swells that kept me on my tows all the way to Taku Harbor (see photo to right).  Turning around occurred to me a few times (mostly in fear of coming back through that the next day), but at that point I was closer to calm seas to the south than I was to Juneau.  I gritted my way through it, grateful when they came on the stern a bit farther south, or slightly to the quarter from across Stephen's Passage below Grave Point.  Inside Snettisham it was still a tiny bit choppy and it wasn't until I reached Sharp Point (the juncture toward the Speel Arm) that I was back on flat calm water.  On the way I passed a pair of whales in the middle of the entrance to the Port and just as I was passing I saw another splash nearby.  It wasn't quite right for a blow, almost like an errant white cap.  Then I saw it again near the same spot, but still wasn't certain.  Finally on the third splash I was able to verify--porpoise!  But what kind!?  99% of the time you see porpoise splashing it's a Dall's porpoise (they break the surface with their chins when they breathe, making the signature "rooster tail"), but I've seen harbor porpoise occasionally get feisty enough to do the same.  I ambled after them in the hopes of identification.  A minute later two individuals surfaced near each other several times in succession--Dall's porpoise!!  Not only have I not seen Dall's porpoise in my section of Stephen's Passage for at least eight years (where once I saw them regularly), I've never seem them in all my time in Port Snettisham.  Pretty neat!  In all there were five whales feeding in the entrance to the Port along with the porpoise.

I made a swing left around Sharp Point to glance at some creeks I was interested in exploring, then made my way to the homestead, arriving around 11:30 am.  The tilt on my engine was still broken, so I carefully drifted in, pleased that the motor didn't go aground until the bow did.  I hastily unloaded everything (it was a falling tide), ran up to the lodge to get the kayak, and pushed off to anchor in the middle of the river.  Back on shore it was time to get to work.  My first task was to put new hinges on the door to Harbor Seal.  Situated on the point not far from the river, this cabin gets the worst of the weather in the winter, evidenced by the weathering of its stain and the rusting of its hinges and door knob.  The hinges had rusted so badly that one had ceased to function altogether and the door could not be shut at all (I'd had a rock in front of it to keep it from blowing open all summer and I wanted it a bit more stable for the winter).  On the previous trip, I'd tried to take the hinges off, but the Canadian screws have square holes, and I had no driver to fit them.  So this time I trooped to the cabin with new hinges, driver, Chris's cordless drill, my camera, and a screwdriver.  It started out well enough; the Makita was well-charged, the driver fit, and the first screws came out of the wall pretty well.  All screws on the top hinge came out of the wall, but one on the lower hinge was so rusted it was essentially stripped.  Thankfully I was able to work the screw out of the wall until the door was free.  Getting the hinges off the door was a little more trouble, however, as more of the screws were too badly rusted to unscrew and I could get either hinge off.  I had to make a couple of trips back to the lodge for more tools (hammer, chisel, crow bar).  I made side errands on both trips, and wound up wrapping both outhouses in tarps and tying them down before I finished the hinge chore.  With the chisel and hammer I pried off the offending hinges, then had to devise a way to mount the new hinges and the door.  With the tools at hand I couldn't get the pins out of the new hinges, so decided to give it a shot all at once.  First I screwed the hinges to the door (after trooping up the hill to look at the hinges on another door to make sure I mounted them correctly....which still took me two tries!).  Then I propped up the door on a couple of piles of rocks until it was in about the right spot, then stared screwing the lower hinge to the wall.  The middle of the three screws lined up with the original hinge, so I was able to place the hinge easily.  Once the bottom was in place, the top went in easily and suddenly I had a fully functional door.  I finished the project by screwing pieces of plastic over the hinges, door knob, and most of the door to help protect it from winter weather.

Pleased with the results, I began a series of close-up chores, including: collecting the mildewed/used linens from all the cabins; sweeping and cleaning the cabins; collecting the trash from the outhouses, sweeping them, and closing their lids; putting all the extra food except for a few emergency rations in totes to take home; sweeping the decks, collecting all of Nigel's food and water dishes; and collecting all the items that need to come to Juneau (rifle, bullets, etc.). I was then getting ready to head back out and do some exploring just after the tide changed, but decided I'd tackle one more task first: winterizing the gray water treatment system.  As you can imagine, this is not a pleasant task!  Just getting the olive barrel out of its home in the bear-proof box behind the lodge is a challenge, as it sits on the ground about 10" below the platform surrounding it.  And, of course, it has a couple feet of water in it.  I suited up in an old rain jacket and rubber gloves and went for it, first pulling out the filter bag on the end of the pipe coming in from the kitchen sink.  It has several cups of disgusting sludge in it.  Then I unhooked the outlet pipe and drug the olive barrel up and out of its hole and dumped the remainder of its contents outside.  Everything smelled like vomit.  That said, it actually went pretty smoothly.  I drug the barrel over to the water filters, thinking I could use the water flushed from the system later to rinse out the barrel. 

At that point it was about three, so I kayaked back out to the boat and took off for a creek around the corner that looked like a fun place to explore.  It was low tide, so the creek made an attractive arch as it ran through a cobble beach to the ocean (see photo to right) where a flock of gulls bathed enthusiastically.  I anchored the boat and kayaked in, dragging it high onto the beach.  Then I slipped into the woods to see what I could see.  The creek was very pretty, wide and flowing over big cobbles.  The surrounding forest was largely free of underbrush, the trees were young and close together, and there were numerous flat-topped stumps covered in moss.  I think the area must have been clear cut back when Snettisham was populated--either for the pulp mill up Speel Arm, or perhaps something was located there, or meant to be located there.  I started hiking up the creek, first on the shore, and then in the water (an activity my brother and I called "creekin'" when we were kids).  The numerous deadfalls crossing the creek supported the clear cut theory.  The creek itself was quite picturesque--right out of one of those fall themed puzzles that were popular when I was a kid.  Interspersed among the rushing cobble-strewn sections were gorgeous pools and occasional waterfalls.  I hiked up some distance before meeting with a plethora of fallen trees blocking the path and decided to turn around. 

From there I headed to another, much larger creek I'd spotted a few weeks before at the end of a pink salmon run.  This time I brought the boat as close to shore as possible and anchored it, walking the kayak in.  This creek is about 20 feet wide and shallow enough to walk up comfortably (especially in my new waders).  It runs down a canyon over big cobble rocks and larger boulders, with occasional calm pools of mixed bedrock and gravel.  Gorgeous.  It was a little unnerving to be in a steep-walled canyon like that with its frequents twists and turns--should I run into a startled bear, there wouldn't be a lot of options for movement.  As it was, I quickly encountered a much smaller animal and followed it for the rest of the hike, meeting up with two others along the way.  They were American dippers (aka water ouzels) and they made their way upcreek with me, pausing along the way to dip their heads into calm shallows.  A kingfisher also flew overhead while I hiked.  The pink run was long over, and only molding remains were left to grace the banks or squish into the crevasses between rocks.  A scent of moldering salmon accompanied me on the entire hike--a not unpleasant smell, really, when not overpowering.  After passing quite a few stunning pools and numerous turns of the creek, I finally turned around and made my way back to the beach.  As I was getting ready to try a few casts into the salt water, I heard faint bird song which slowly crept into my consciousness.  It finally dawned on me that I didn't recognize it, but that it had all the characteristics of a dipper song.  Sure enough, there in the middle of the creek was a fluffed up dipper singing very softly (see photo to left).  The few casts I tried yeilded nothing, so I waded out to the boat, pulled anchor, and puttered away from shore.

I'd intended to go back to the homestead, but there before me on the glassy calm sea was Fanny Island.  The tide was rising.  And so I took that opportunity to finally explore the island a little.  Back in the day (perhaps 100 years ago), the tiny Fanny Island was host to a fox farm, which were relatively common on the small islands around Southeast Alaska at the time.  My folks had come across the foundation of a building there and some other evidence of occupation a few years ago.  I brought the boat up to the jumbled, sharp rocks of the southern shore, set the anchor among them, and stepped into the forest.  Along this side of the island there was a narrow shelf of flat land just inside the trees backed by a near-vertical cliff, mostly vegetated with moss, berry bushes, and trees.  I entered in the forest on the southwest corner and immediately found a cluster of rusting corrugated roofing and a huge bale of chicken wire.  From there I hiked up to the top of the island along a well-defined trail.  It was so easy to follow I suspect it dates back to the fox farm days as either a human trail or a fox trail or both.  Such a small island seems like an unlikely haunt for any wild animal that would make a trail that distinct, and it was decidedly easier to follow than most game trails.  The island was covered in hemlocks, with dense blueberries as undergrowth.  I followed a trail along the edge of the ridge for a bit, (discovering that the island was larger than expected), then descended a steep slope onto the shelf of flat land near the southeast corner.  There I found more rusting pieces of metal and a pile of rocks that my dad had described.  Not far away were a couple of flat logs sitting on the ground nearly perpendicular to each other and among them a partially upright door!  Strewn about was more corrugated metal roofing, but there were no other signs of the cabin that must once have stood there.  I couldn't help but think what a wonderful cabin that must have been....and at the same time, what a terrifying spot to build a cabin, on a narrow strip of land perhaps 30 feet wide with a vertical cliff behind and the high tide line in front.  At once freeing and claustrophobic, I'm sure!  I don't know how long the fox farm persisted or how successful it was, but I hope to do more research.  By this time I was pretty hungry and it was after six, so I shoved off and headed back to the river to anchor.

Loading the boat on the way down	Heading down the channel (downtown Juneau behind)	The smaller creek I explored
Dipper Creek	Dipper Creek Canyon	Dipper dipping
Scenic shot looking down Speel Arm	Fanny Island	Scenic shot looking out Port Snettisham (Sentinel Point)

Although I was tired and hungry, the light was rapidly diminishing when I returned, so I decided to do a few more outdoor tasks while I could.  I hiked up to the water source and shoved and rolled the olive barrel out of the creek (where it was still perfectly situated from the spring placement) and into the surrounding forest.  On the way down I noted a spot in the forest where the hose had leaked from bear bites all summer; all the vegetation around it was slimy and dead (I guess that's what happens when you water a forest).  I tried to photograph it, but it was too dark and the flash only picked up the nearest leaves.  I promised to fix it next spring. 

Back at the lodge I unscrewed the filter canisters from the water filtration system, opened the valve and let the water drain into the olive barrel from the gray water treatment system, then stuffed the holes in the canister-less filtration system with tinfoil and put the olive barrel back in its nook.  Then I took down the stove pipe (which wasn't as hard to do alone as I thought it would be), dumped it out, brought it inside, then screwed a board over the opening.  I also moved the board to cover the picture window onto the front deck in prepartion for boarding it up the next day.  Then I heated up some chili and ate it with bread and a couple glasses of red wine.  I headed to bed early, read a little, and zonked out.  I think I rolled over twice during the night and woke to my alarm at 6:00 am the next morning (at which I inexplicably smiled).  It was barely light, but I dressed and set about packing up the cabin and cleaning it out.  I'd realized the night before that I'd neglected to drain the water out of the hoses that feed all the cabins now, so that was my first task, after which I stuffed all the valves with tinfoil to keep the critters out.  I packed all the gear onto the porch, swept the lodge, covered the windows with newspaper, and then decided to have a cup of cafe francais on the front porch before heading out.  Unfortunately, I'd run out of propane, since apparently the tank continued to feed gas to the stove even when shut (I'd arrived on both of the previous trips to discover that the pilots were still lit).  It was an unfortunate waste of propane.  I removed the tank and put the spare tank into the right spot, but will wait until next spring to hook it up. 

Finally, I did the final task: boarding up the picture window.  This was a little tricky on my own, as the plywood is quite large and heavy, but I managed to set some screws in the corners to get me started and balanced one end on a lawn chair until the screws would hold it up.  I put the chair and the generator inside and laboriously packed all my gear down to the water (I'm spoiled by usually leaving this task to others).  I made one more kayak out to the boat, pleased that the water was still calm, and filled the large tank with 10 gallons of gas to make sure I wouldn't have to switch tanks if I got caught in the weather.  I puttered to shore in the bright sunshine, loaded everything up, then dragged the kayak to the front deck and tucked it under the lodge for the winter.  I took one more look around the inside of the lodge, locked the door, and went back to the boat.  I was zipping up my jacket and picking up speed when I realized that I was wearing my old Allen Marine jacket and had left my good rain coat back at the lodge.  I pondered my options and decided it was worth going back.  I think the round trip time was five minutes, and I was underway again at 8:05.  The Port was glassy calm and I began to be hopeful of finally catching a flat calm September sunny day.  Through a somewhat poor satellite signal, I'd managed to pick up that the winds were supposed to be lessening that day and picking up again on Saturday.  Maybe I could catch the calm between.

 As I neared Stephen's Passage I started seeing whale blows out in the distance and soon stopped near two pairs of whales around the corner from Point Styleman.  Behind me were at least three more, and there were undoubtedly others.  The water was glassy calm and blows exploded, sometimes echoing off the mountain, the mist lingering in the chilly air.  I wound up following the two pairs of whales north to the Seal Rocks--one pair had a black and a white-spotted tail, the other had a white-spotted and a pure white tail.  The latter whale gave me dazzling views of the underside of its tail, illuminated by the rising sun behind me.  The motionless water and the hazy mountains stacking up behind made for some spectacular photos.  The white-tailed whale also kept coming up with its snout above the water so I could see the tubercled rostrum clearly.  I was having such a delightful time and was so optimistic about the weather that I lingered there for about 45 minutes before leaving them to continue their travels.  Once in the middle of Stephen's Passage I saw a whale rise out of the water and slowly sink down like a spy hop, except that there were two parts, like its mouth was open.  It was too far away to tell.  Although the numbers were comparatively few, relative to certain other years, I think I can call this a sort of Stephen's Passage group-up and I was pretty delighted to have one last wonderful whale watching experience for the summer.  I noticed that the water was quite brown--similar to the color of runoff streams filled with tannin after heavy rains. But, not only had it not rained for a week, this was well away from any fresh water source.  I suspect it was a fall algae bloom, which may have supported the critters that attracted the whales.  Along with the whales was perhaps the largest flock of scoters I've ever seen.  Once flushed (not by me) from their raft around the Seal Rocks, they made a seemingly endless flight in front of me, their characteristic squeaky flight filling the air for minutes I think.  There must have been thousands upon thousands, and they just kept coming.

From the Seal Rocks I headed west across Stephen's Passage to the shore of Admiralty just north of South Island and began running into chop coming down Stephen's Passage.  I passed another little salmon creek, hardly a trickle, in the cove around the island, than beat my way north along the shore of Admiralty for some distance.  The water had gone from glassy calm to nasty chop in just a few miles and I banged my way against it.  I'd come up with the plan to hug Admiralty the day before in my dread of making the long crossing from Grave Point to Arden in the direct path of the winds driving out of the Taku.  If it was anything like the trip down, I thought, I'd be able to cross Stephen's Passage easily near Snettisham, and wouldn't have to leave the shoreline until I made the comparatively mild crossing from Arden to Douglas.  Doing so would involve a longer trip (ducking into and around Doty Cove), but I figured it was a good option.  What I'd found along the Admiralty shore was a 1-2' chop, nasty and tight, and there was no shelter from it anywhere.  But, it wasn't so bad that I felt compelled to hug the shoreline all the way up (not dangerous), so in order to shorten the distance, I cut a path straight to the northwest corner of Grand Island from which I could make the crossing to Arden; I really wasn't motivated to spend any more time than necessary in that chop, and whether I was moving along the Admiralty Shore from Doty to Arden or crossing from Grand Island, I'd still be in the brunt of the waves. 

Approaching Grand Island, I noticed an elegant silhouette at the edge of the handsome rocky cliffs on the back side of Grand Island and immediately remembered that a flock of cormorants often settles there in the fall.  I took some photos of the cormorant as I approached, and discovered that it was one of a flock of a few dozen that clung to a particular indentation in the cliff face, their habitual occupation evidenced by the white guano dripping down the rocks.  I managed to snap a few photos as I passed, unintentionally flushing them from their nook, then had to turn my attention to the Inlet.  My hopes for a mild crossing faltered quickly as I began rolling and crashing over steady three foot seas out of the Taku.  It was slow going as I continually had to turn 90 degrees from my heading to face triplets of larger swells every minute or so (see photo to right--but you should know that photos never do the seas justice).  The boat rose up each of these swells, then crashed brutally in the trough, only to rise up on the next one and smash down again, and again.  Once I tried to maintain my heading toward Point Arden and slide up sideways on these larger swells, but once was enough!  My boat rose up the side precariously, trying to scoop water over the sides as it went.  I also tried to go as slowly as possible when heading over the larger swells to reduce the beating on the other side (ideally I could simply slide up and down the crests without smacking down between them), but they were too closely spaced; then, at the slowest idle possible, I lost control of the boat and it turned sideways in the trough, which I'd already learned was undesirable. Thankfully, I was able to make some headway in the smaller troughs between the larger trios of swells.  All in all, it was slow and painful, and I anxiously watched the gap between the points up Taku Inlet close to once again hide Taku Glacier, and gradually the swells became less fierce and I crossed Point Arden.  From there I was pleased to find that the seas out of the Taku turned north around Point Bishop and followed me into the flat calm Gastineau Channel.  I made it to the dock around noon and headed home with an enormous sigh of relief.  And so the advenures end for another year...

White tail	Black tail	Spotted tail 1 (with white tail)
Spotted tail 2 (with black tail)	White tail	Three of the four
White tail pair (White tail nose up)	Cormorant	Cormorants

Fall whales