Snettisham 2011 - 8: The Power of a Spark Plug
  September 1-5


Red-necked phalaropes in Taku Inlet

I’m in the lodge at Snettisham as I write this, keeping an eye out for bats.  It’s a calm night, the inlet misty and the rain falling satisfyingly on the roof.  A few minutes ago I saw the first confirmed bat of the season—a very bold individual who swept back and forth inside the porch, disappearing from view above the picture window and maybe even making contact with the porch (I heard little clicking noises when he was up there a few times).  Then he disappeared so fast I wondered if he had roosted?   After about five minutes I finally saw a glimpse of a bat downriver and a few moments later, a bat flew out from my porch!  Of course it’s possible that the downriver bat had flown in without my seeing him, but by that time I was watching at the window.  I think a bat actually roosted momentarily under the porch!  That’s a good sign, as there is no evidence that bats have checked out my bat house this summer in any way.

It’s the end of a long day.  Having made zero progress at Snettisham since mid-June, I’d been pondering a four day weekend over Labor Day to work.  The same projects haunted me that I’d left undone last summer: interior trim (the trim pieces were still sitting on the floor getting in the way) and railings for the higher porches.  For the latter project I’d finally decided to simply hold off installing a railing system on the lodge porch for now, as the top of the rail would badly impede the view, and just concentrate on Cottonwood.  If I ever open it as a commercial lodge, I’ll have to give in, but why rush?  May as well enjoy the view, as a commercial operation is not in my immediate future.

As the week progressed, however, my motivation suffered.  Chris and I had returned from our vacation in Adak early Monday morning and gone straight to work.  As Adak was full of adventures, I never got enough sleep, and work was exhausting when I returned.  Consequently, I began to ponder a Friday departure instead of Thursday night, and even considered calling it off if the weather was poor.

Which it looked to be.  Friday was supposed to have four foot seas, which were to keep up all weekend.  On Wednesday night, the forecast called for seas two feet or less (the best possible forecast) for Thursday night, apparently the calm before the storm.  It said the same thing Thursday morning.  It seemed that I had to leave that night if I was to get to Snettisham over the weekend (a forecast of four foot seas in September is quite likely to be accurate).  And so I spent a long lunch hour tracking down porch railing material (a hand rail for the stairs and 2x4s for the horizontal pieces to support the balustrades at Valley Lumber and 4x4 posts for the corners at Home Depot, all cedar) as well as PT 2x4s for the bottom my future shed, another project I’d been pondering.  I also filled jerry jugs with gas and packed up at home.  September brings early nightfall (sunset that night was at 8:00) which makes it stressful to leave after work.  The endless summer evenings I can rely on earlier in the summer have passed and it gets dangerous on the water after dark.  So I wound up going back to work for two hours, then leaving early to finish packing, load the boat, fuel the boat, and get underway.  For once I loaded at an extremely high tide, which made the ramp almost horizontal (and carrying lumber easy), but made me very nervous about the state of my skiff sitting on the beach at Snettisham.  Would it be floating?  Did I leave enough slack in the anchor lines on either side of the boat to allow it to float with the incoming tide or would they hold the boat down and allow water to flow over the sides?  Would the bilge pump, after all the heavy rains, still work? 

There was only one way to find out.  I met my goal of leaving the harbor around 5:00, giving me three solid hours until nightfall.  In my haste I’d left out the liquor store stop, so I drank water instead of beer to celebrate leaving the harbor.  The water was calm, the afternoon lovely.  It was, in fact very close to a perfect September day.  The ocean was glassy, the air sharp and crisp with fall, the sun yellow and bright as it dropped to the horizon.  The clouds lingered, however, revealing pockets of blue sky but hanging low around the mountains and hiding the sun behind a high haze over Admiralty.  In Taku Inlet I saw splashing and quickly recognized the characteristic rooster tails of Dall’s porpoises!  I politely slowed and moved past them—a group of four, I think, with one smaller individual—watching their white sides gleam in the sunshine.  They passed through my stern wake and kept going, disappearing for a few minutes before resuming their zooming closer to Point Arden.  After waiting for them to reappear one more time, I left them to their fun and continued south.  Taku Inlet was full of debris, presumably from the heavy rains flooding the Taku.  Among the flotsam I came across several flocks of red-necked phalaropes charmingly paddling about—en encounter that’s becoming a fall tradition.

At Grave Point I saw the blows—a line of them in the distance against the dark shore of Port Snettisham.  Having seen none so far, I thought this was a good sign that I might catch a glimpse of the Stephen’s Passage Group Up.  I found them at the bight south of Limestone Inlet, five whales together, all but one of which had white spots on its tail.  The air was so calm that their blows ascended straight into the air and lingered there.  I puttered after them, hoping for a closer encounter, but they fooled me and turned around, coming back up far behind me and closer to Limestone Inlet.  While shut down and waiting, however, I counted four or five other whales farther away, their blows giving themselves away even when I was too far to hear them.  The low sun, glassy water, and clouds made serene and stunning scenes all around me.

At the homestead I unloaded the lumber and gear, saw that the riverboat appeared to be where I’d left it and in good condition, and quickly anchored the boat.  When I went to turn the on the water valve behind the lodge, I failed to hear the reassuring gurgle and rush of water that usually indicates a good flow.  Sure enough, no water ran out when tried the faucet.  So I clambered my way up the trail to the water source and discovered, not surprisingly, that the torrential rain we’d been having had washed the olive barrel down the creek.  It had moved down about 40 feet and was lodged against a log.  Thankfully the flexible hose survived and I was able to manhandle it up the creek and back into position.  The water was too swift to dig out its hollow, but it seemed to be deep enough and I reinforced it again with rocks.  Exhausted, I read a little back at the lodge, ate some grapes for dinner, and headed to bed. 

A fine day, looking between Grave and Grand	Dall's porpoises' rooster tails	Devil's Paw (looking up the Taku)
Red-necked phalaropes	Whale	Blows
Admiralty Island	Mainland shore	Olive barrel stuck

In the night it rained hard for a little bit, but ceased by daybreak.  With the first opportunity to sleep in in several weeks, I lounged around in bed for a long time, so long I thought it might be close to noon by the time I checked my watch.  It was, in fact, only 9:30!  Eventually I made my way to the lodge, started a fire, and then (having used up the remaining wood) brought in all the firewood stacked under the front porch.  Then I started getting ready to work on interior trim.  I inspected the stacks of trim I had, identified the corner trim, floor trim, and window trim, put the miter saw on my new work bench/kitchen counter, moved a number of items from against the walls so I could access the whole floor, picked out the trim I wanted to cut, read the miter box instructions, and managed to get all its moving parts working.  The latter involved a lot of unscrewing screws, puttering about, and yanking until, magically, the arm finally raised up like it’s supposed to.  I still don’t know what did it, but I carefully rescrewed everything in place and was ready to go. 

While I worked on these tasks, I was often distracted by the bird activity outside (fall seems to bring an unusually large and lively bunch of sparrows, warblers, thrushes, and other song birds to feed on the nearby currents, seeds, and insects), and whales.  Much to my surprise, two whales had been feeding in the inlet and Gilbert Bay all morning, a phenomenon that rarely occurs much past June.  The first one I saw made me suspect minke whale, due to its quick disappearance, low profile, and silent blow.  However, all whales turned out to be humpbacks, but the conditions kept even the close blows silent.  I was also pleased to see a beautiful, dark juvenile eagle fly past and, to my delight, land near the resident nest under the eyes of the two adults!  So they had raised an eaglet after all.  Since I’d not seen nor heard an eaglet in August, when most eaglets are showing up at the edges of their nests, I thought their efforts had failed.  But here he was, flying back and forth, screaming in the trees to the left of the lodge and near his nest, key locations in his parents’ territory.  I named this formerly quiet fledging Charlie.  I also had a junco hit one of the windows and fall, stunned, to the ground.  I brought him inside and placed him in a tote to recover; after about 20 minutes he was pecking at the corner of it, so I took it outside and he flew to a nearby branch where he stayed several minutes, long enough for me to photograph him.  He seemed no worse the wear.  I have no known window fatalities this summer since I put up the reflective decorations on the outsides of the windows.

Outside I checked the oil on the generator, filled the gas tank, and….cranked and cranked.  I knew someday that my extremely reliable little generator would fail, and today was that day.  I dug around until I found the spark plug removal tool and, after satisfying myself that I had no spare generator spark plug, removed the existing one and cleaned it as well as I could.  It was, not unexpectedly, rather dirty and corroded.  I wiped it down, cleaned out the gap, and tried again.  Nothing.  So I tried again. Nothing. 

And so, by noon, my entire weekend plans were shot.  Everything I wanted to work on (trim, railings, and shed) required power tools.  Not even the breaching whale in Gilbert Bay brightened my spirits much (four breaches and a caudal-peduncle thrown).  It was an unhappy time and I seriously considered returning to Juneau right then.  The inlet was perfectly calm with every indication was that the storm hadn’t hit yet.  It might be my last chance, I thought, for a calm ride home, and I could make no progress here.  The only good reason to stay was to work on the riverboat engine and try to get it started—another opportunity for failure.  So that’s what I did, but not right away.  First I had lunch, read for quite a while on the couch, and took a nap.  After all, what was the hurry? 

I woke up at 3:00, geared up (in overall rain pants, rain coat, and xtratufs), and went straight outside.  The tide was creeping up on the stern of the riverboat but I still had several dry feet to work on.  I brought down a hammer, gloves, tote, and a small piece of lumber with me and got to work, watched by a neaby seal (see photo to left).  The whole thing took about ten minutes.  I unscrewed the six screws holding up the foot, as well as the two side screws whose function I wasn’t sure of, but figured it must be related to holding the foot in place.  Then I tapped it gently until it fell into the tote below (which was helping me make sure I didn’t lose any parts).  Then I placed the piece of wood against the impellor, tapped it with a hammer and….it moved.  It moved!  Soon I was able to wiggle it with my fingers, then turn it all the way around.  Lots of sand and grit was revealed, so I sloshed a bunch of water inside to flush it out, cleaned off the foot, and began putting it back on, first making sure that I could also pull the starter cord.

By this time the water was about a foot from the boat and flooding the cracked tote I was using underneath.  When I was finished, I was standing in water nearly over the tops of my boots and it was creeping under the hull.  I wiggled the boat and guessed that I’d be able to push it off very soon.  In the meantime, I checked on a couple of the cottonwoods I’d planted downriver from the lodge.  The heavy rains had created a stream close to the farther one which did not appear to be doing well in its soggy ground; the individual in the log, however, seemed just fine.  Then I puttered around the lodge, moving the lumber I’d staged next to the porch for the shed project back toward the main lumber storage area to put away for the winter.  I also checked on the firewood pile in preparation for moving some under the lodge porch. 

By then it was easy to shove the boat right into the water.  I grabbed my backpack and took off, drifting offshore only to discover that the engine would no longer turn over—the cord was frozen.  Frustrated, I went back to shore, brought the stern in, and started the process over again.  I’m guessing that more grit got lodged in the wrong places in the process of moving the boat and lowering the engine into the water.  This time I thought I’d take the boat for a little spin before putting the foot back on to further cleanse it before going through the laborious process of tightening all the screws (which are so close to the side of the foot that even my smallest socket has trouble).  All went well; I headed to the Ronquil, grabbed a life jacket and my fishing rod, and returned to shore to replace the foot. 

When I brought the stern around, though, the impellor suddenly looked different—naked in fact!  So much more of it was exposed!  What was going on?!  I was confused.  And then it dawned on me….the liner that encloses it was gone (….and that’s when I realized what those side screws were for).  I’d kept unscrewing them, which meant that I left the liner around the impellor instead of inside the foot where I should have left it.  I inspected the area where I’d taken off the foot the last time, but found no liner.  No matter, I could find it at low tide the next day (it had to have fallen off between shore and the boat, which had gone aground that morning), but what to do in the meantime? 

Well, I happened to have a spare.  Actually, the original liner had been replaced along with the new impellor at the shop, so this was the older one, which was still perfectly functional.  I managed to screw it onto the foot and put the whole thing back together again.  Is it shimmed properly?  Probably not, but I’ll worry about that another time.  For now, the river was calm, the water was high, and I wanted to take my boat for a spin. 

Had I gotten underway a little earlier, I might have headed out into Gilbert Bay first, but the tide was already about to turn, so I decided to head upriver first.  It felt wonderful to zoom along with a working riverboat again.  I went straight to Whiting Point and then over to the southern shore, taking advantage of the tide to check out the biggest creek coming down on that side, where I think my dad says there are trout.  A bunch of rocks marked the outlet of the stream and, just upriver, an enormous sandbar blocked my way (see photo to left).  I saw it coming and shut down, drifting back into deeper water again before starting the motor.  This time I headed back to the main channel and, failing to see any deep water crossing the river, headed straight up the obvious deep channel toward Seal Sandbar where I could see them lying.  Many seals occupied the channel on the way and were amazingly unafraid, peering at me for long periods of time as they swam.  They seemed less afraid of me when the boat was running, surprisingly, than when I was shut down.  I slowed down as I neared their haulout (barely underwater), then crept forward slowly.  Somewhat past their sandbar, the deep channel ended in a point; the seals beyond that hunched themselves through the shallow water.  Nor could I see any more promising leads toward the other side, so I was stymied again.  It’s all very puzzling.

The current was carrying me back down, so I shut down and drifted, thinking I’d be able to keep a close eye out for deep water channels connecting to the one I was in.  The drizzle at the start of the trip had turned into a long term downpour by then.  But the seals were all around me, so I got out my camera and became absorbed in trying to photograph them.  In the meantime, I wasn’t paying attention, and finally noticed that I was drifting nearer a sandbar and would need to move to one side of it or the other, both of which seemed promising.  I started up the engine before it occurred to me that I should check the water depth.  It was still green and appeared deep there, but it turned out that I’d already come up on the edge of the sandbar.  The water roiled brown and I shut down, but too late.  The engine was full of sand and stuck.

Shocked by being in the same predicament as before, for completely unnecessary reasons, I first tried to paddle, then walk my way off the sandbar.  I first started heading to the middle of the river and the seals, but quickly turned around and headed back to the shoreline where there were several grassy beaches which seemed like good places for boat work.  I didn’t want to work in the swift water and rocky shoreline closer to Whiting Point, which is where I would have wound up in the other channel.

But, I was still a good distance from shore and it took quick a bit of paddling, rushing from one side of the boat to the other to keep a straight trajectory.  The current became swifter close to shore and I missed the first two beaches I had in mind.  The third turned out to be a winner, though, with deep water close to shore on one corner of it.  I brought the boat in, turned it around, and started taking off that darned foot again.  This time it didn’t even take a hammer to move the impellor once the foot was off—I could do it with my hands.  I rinsed it all off, rinsed the foot off, and put it back on again, checking periodically to make sure the starter cord still worked.  Fifteen minutes after reaching shore, I pushed off, pointed my way downriver and away from the sandbar developing offshore and….the starter cord wouldn’t move. 

It was the same thing that had happened the last time, probably for the same reason.  Furious, but also resigned, I padded back to the beach and did the whole thing over again, more carefully flushing the impellor once the foot was off.  I checked the starter cord after every screw went on and all seemed to be going well.  This time when I set out I very, very gently let down the engine and it started without a hitch.  I was off, and would return home under power!  I let the engine warm up a bit, then got up to speed, cruising past Whiting Point with the seals.  I could see the tops of logs sitting on emerging sandbars to the left, so decided to follow the main channel, even though it was not at that time outlined with visible sandbars.  I crossed almost straight to the meadows above Nigel Falls and Ox Point where I hugged the shoreline and then cruised downriver past two points.  I think the channel crosses the river there, so I headed away from shore, but quickly realized that there was still ample water everywhere in that part of the river and made my way straight back to the homestead.

When I got to the homestead, though, I discovered that I wasn’t quite ready to call it quits, so I headed toward River Point.  The storm that had held off all day appeared to have finally hit while I was underway.  The flat river had given way to strong chop as I crossed beyond Whiting Point, but surprisingly the chop diminished the further I got downriver until I found Gilbert Bay and beyond to be flat calm.  Very puzzling.  I zoomed around the corner, past several points and to the first creek along that stretch, curious if the heavy August rains had encouraged any cohos to spawn early.  Unable to resist peering upcreek, I brought the boat ashore, tied its line to a rock, and hustled up the beach until I could see the creek beyond where it turned a corner and entered the woods.  Unlike my visit last September, there was ample water for cohos to make it into the creek as it flushed down over the beach rocks, and the creek above looked ideal.  However, I saw no sign of fish. 

Concerned about the falling tide, I took a couple of pictures and hastened to the river boat.  Back at the homestead, I brought it up onto the beach and anchored it.  The tide early tomorrow morning is much lower than it will be in the afternoon, so it probably won’t move at all and, if it does, it will float again in the afternoon.  Chilled and hungry, I lit a fire and a couple of propane lights, had dinner, and started typing.

Thrush	The junco that hit the window	After fixing the engine
Seals on Seal Sandbar	The channel ENDS	Looking upriver from Seal Sandbar

The rains started in the middle of the night—hard, solid rain drumming on the metal roof.  There isn’t anything cozier, and it contributed to a sound night’s sleep and rare lie-in.  The rain hasn’t stopped since (it’s now mid-afternoon), possibly some of the heaviest and most persistent I’ve seen at Snettisham.  The inlet is misted in, but I still see little sign of the storm that is supposed to be curling over the seas in Stephen’s Passage.  Everything is wet, the mucky areas are pooling up, I can see waterfalls I’ve never seen before across the river.    There’s only one way to start a day like today: gear up and work.  Don’t come inside, start a fire, and have something hot to drink—nope, just get to it and look forward to the fire later. 

So I had a chunk of bread smeared with nutella and peanut butter, grabbed my (formerly) waterproof oilskin hat, my bib rubber rain pants, and oversized red raincoat and headed outside.  I actually like working in the rain like that!  I started out by bringing firewood from the staging area near the start of the boardwalk under the porch via wheelbarrow.  Both my attempts at making a ramp between the boardwalk and the top of the deck failed (I think the boards were too slippery), so I wound up just lifting the front of the wheelbarrow up each time.  By the time I’d brought over two loads of the bucked up branches that the boys cut in June, I had to stop and take off my warm shirt.  I worked in a t-shirt (under the raincoat) from then on.  I also stacked up the small bit of alder they’d cut and the rest of the longer pieces of lumber I’d had stacked under a tarp nearby for making bonfires.  Then I finished the job by bringing over all the firewood that Gabe chopped last summer, making a nice stack for next summer.  I really enjoy homestead-like tasks like that….getting ready for winter (even though I’m not here during the winter).  I carefully covered all the remaining rounds and the branches that are too big for the wood stove and weighed down the tarp. 

At that point I took a break from heavy labor and went on my COASST survey, finding a couple of full salmon carcasses along the way.  Back at the lodge I found several pieces of 2x8 PT scraps and nailed them against one another on the side of the tree I’d been using to winch the riverboat in.  I haphazardly attached the winch to the top with nails and gave a trial run with a branch.  We’ll see if it works with the boat, but so far so good.  I think it’ll be much easier to haul the boat in with a stable platform like that than with a freely-suspended winch.

Then I unhooked the hose from its Freshet Jr. duties and hauled it to Harbor Seal where I used it to finally rise the silt and salt from the front wall in preparation for protecting it over the winter.  I stowed the hose inside to keep it safe from bears and, on the way back, wrapped up the cabin outhouse for the winter.  I also sprayed all the doorknobs, door hinges, and water system valves with WD-40 to help protect them over the winter.  Finally, I laid out the pieces of asphalt shingles I’d cut to add traction to the boardwalk and nailed them down with joist hanger nails.  It looks a little busy, but I think it’ll be functional.  It was nearly 2:00 by then, and I was ready for a break after sitting on the boards for half an hour pounding nails.  I was, in fact, rather sore all over from whatever I was doing yesterday.  As I shed my gear on the porch I realized that I was, in fact, getting rather chilled.  Despite the raingear, most of my pants were wet along with my socks and the back of my t-shirt.  I lit a fire, changed clothes, and had lunch in front of the wood stove.  The rain continues and I’m out of outdoor chores for the moment, so I’m inside until high tide when I’ll bring the riverboat back up on the beach.

Self-portrait: I'm very wet

It's very wet outside

Harbor Seal door protected for the winter

7:40 pm
This afternoon finally saw the arrival of the storm I’d been expecting since yesterday.  Strictly from the perspective of the homestead, I would have said that it was flat calm all yesterday and through the morning—dense rain, but no apparent wind.  Late this afternoon the Ronquil began rocking at anchor, pushing around by the seas coming from across the inlet and slightly upriver—precisely a southeasterly.  While that’s the dominant weather system in Southeast Alaska, I almost never see the wind coming exactly from the SE here in Snettisham.  Usually the local wind (whether originating from the south or north/west) comes up the inlet from Gilbert Bay.  To have this sea apparently originating here in the narrow inlet is surprising and my little boat is bouncing around out there.  As the light falls, gulls began arriving from the direction of Gilbert Bay, I like to think seeking refuge for the night from the ravages that must be Stephen’s Passage right now.

This afternoon I pulled the riverboat up onto the beach just before high tide, a little downriver of its previous beaching spot where the ground has a more gradual slope, and tried out my new winch system.  It didn’t work.  The pull of the boat was too great both for the nails I was using to hold the winch to the boards (I first reinforced them), then for the boards themselves, which pulled away from the tree despite my many nails.  I first went back to the original system, attaching the winch to a chain around the tree, but quickly found that the angle was slightly wrong and the line was fraying itself on the side of the winch from coming in at the wrong angle.  I decided to try another tree farther up that seemed like it would have a better angle, but I found I had overcompensated and had the same trouble in the opposite direction.  I figured I had nothing better to do, so I tried a third tree that was little improvement.  I finally gave up, but the boat by then had crept forward to an acceptable position on the beach.  The tides are dropping and won’t reach today’s levels until the last week of September, when I intend to come back and put it away for the winter.  Thus, it shouldn’t be a problem even if I left it where it was before using the winch.

Once I was satisfied with its position, I set the anchors out to each side just as a precaution, making sure to leave enough slack in case something dramatic happened and caused the boat to float.  I was please to see that the bilge pump was still working, and went through a whole pumping cycle while I watched.  I also determined that, even if the bilge pump failed, the rainwater filling the boat would overflow without doing any damage to the motor. I’ve been impressed with the longevity of the battery, and hope it continues.  At some point I should get a second battery to swap out with this one.

After setting the anchors and tidying up the inside of the boat, I loosened the tension on the line at the winch, covered the lodge outhouse with a tarp (not tied up yet, since it will still see use this season), sat on the porch for a while hoping for a satellite signal, then retreated inside.  I wasn’t cold, but I started another fire just to dry out my raingear.  I’d worn a different set of big rain pants and a different rain jacket, so now everything was wet (including the t-shirt I was wearing), and the wood stove was surrounded by clothing and items from my backpack that had gotten soaked on my riverboat run.  Thankfully my wet t-shirt from the morning had dried out.  It was dark enough that I needed propane lights already (6:30) so I lit a couple, made some rice and peas for dinner, and watched the light fade.  At around 8:00 I decided to retreat to my cabin and write/read from bed (which is where I am now) to avoid the walk in the dark, which I did last night.  I am not generally afraid of bears, but like any human, darkness heightens any nerves and, at that point, the lodge offered nothing that Hermit Thrush did not.

The next morning I’d run low on chores, but I really didn’t care anymore.  I quickly dug into the task I’d been dreading: putting away the lumber for the winter.  At least I wouldn’t have to face it when I came down to close up.  This project involved peeling back three tarps from the existing stacked lumber and finding a place to put all the 2x4s I’d extracted for the shed, the lumber I’d brought down that weekend, and other random lumber lying around.  I wound up stacking it all on the right side on top of the hemlock siding.  The lumber was unfortunately wet from all the heavy rains over the weekend—not the way you want to stow lumber.  Then I tried to adequately cover the gaps between the stacks of lumber with plywood and large boards to prevent rain puddles from building up in the middle and pulling the tarps off the sides of the stack.  Then I carefully recovered everything, adding a tarp I’d found nearby, and weighted it all down.  It’s good to have that done.

I followed up that chore with a cup of Russian tea out on the porch, wrapped in a quilt.  My plan was to watch the myriad birds working the area, including a flycatcher that was avidly hunting bugs from a variety of perches (returning to each perch a number of times before flying off to find a new one), including the winch line on the boat.  What ultimately caught my attention, though, was a funny movement in the water just offshore; something that looked like a fish.  Sure enough, I could just make out a tail and dorsal fin breaking the surface.  I headed down to the water and was able to get quite close to a large salmon swimming in the shallows.  He was acting (and looking) like a spawned out salmon about to die.  Last summer we watched a pink salmon deliberately (or so it seemed) swim onto shore against a falling tide and beach itself, and I wondered if this one was about to do the same.  He would swim against shore for a while, then turn toward deeper water and disappear as he sank below the surface, only to show up a few moments later swimming back toward shore, his dorsal fin and tail breaking the surface as the water shallowed; even the adipose fin was sometimes revealed.  I was able to approach within a few feet of him and hung out there for several minutes before leaving him to his final swim, hoping I’d find his body later.  He was a large salmon with an immaculate tail (other than the discoloration), so I’m guessing it was a male.  No hump, though, so I’m not sure what species.

That afternoon I took some of the porch railing pieces I’d brought with me to Cottonwood just to set them up and see how they looked.  I was discouraged by how complicated it was going to be to put in the stair railing and, in the end, decided that I’d rather put in no railing at all if it wasn’t necessary.  The porch is 29” inches off the ground, and I don’t think you’re required to have a railing unless it’s 30” or higher; I’m not sure about stairs, though.

I spent most of the rest of the day relaxing inside and outside, finishing my book and writing down a list of close up chores for the end of the month.  I also checked on the riverboat and was disappointed to find that the valiant battery had finally died—not surprising given the record breaking rains of August, plus the intense rain I’d just seen.  I unscrewed the bilge pump and float switch, disconnected their wires from the battery, and brought everything inside for the winter.  Without a bilge pump, I went ahead and removed the plug so rainwater could drain out while I was gone (it was impressive how much had built up just overnight).  However, that meant that a high tide would flood the boat, maybe even to overflowing if it was really high.  I scrutinized the tide book (repeatedly, just to assure myself) and made sure that the tide would not reach that weekend’s level until the end of the month, just before the intense equinox spring tide.  I made a plan then to fly down to the homestead during those tides for close up.  Last summer I spent much of the month of September worrying about when I’d be able to make it back down in my boat, daily checking the marine forecast, and ultimately braving some very unpleasant north winds in the middle of the week just to get it done.  I didn’t want to spend another month like that, plus it was a bad time to be away from work, so I couldn’t be as opportunistic as I would have liked.  Yes, chartering was the right way to go; I wouldn’t have to time it right with the weather and I could almost guarantee catching the big tides.  My plan was to utilize the 19’ tides to float the riverboat most of the way to the lodge porch, more than halving the distance I’d have to move it for winter storage.

 That evening I saw another bat at about 7:30 when it was still relatively light.  He only made about a dozen passes before disappearing; I tried for photos, but didn’t have much success.

Clyde the salmon

Wet and out of focus flycatcher on the riverboat line

Bat!

The next morning, Labor Day, I got up early and decided to head home as quickly as I could.  I’d already cleaned the lodge and packed, so it didn’t take me long to get ready and I was puttering away around 8:30.  I’d have preferred to spend more of the day at Snettisham, but I’d observed over the weekend that the mornings were calm and the wind tended to pick up in the afternoons.  Knowing that the forecast had called for four footers when I left, and being generally afraid of September on the water, I thought it best to leave when I had the best chance of catching decent weather.  As it turned out, Stephen’s Passage was quite reasonable, with a light chop from the south.  It was so nice that I felt comfortable straying from my normal route and heading diagonally toward Admiralty Island where the Golden Princess appeared to be stopped.  I thought there was a slim chance she might just be stopped for orcas (it was September, after all), so I headed over there, finding nothing.  I think she was just moving slowly.  In the hopes that I’d hear something interesting, though, I monitored my handheld radio for a bit and listened to the Golden Princess have a couple of conversations with other boats.  I also listened to the weather forecast which called for seas building to seven feet that afternoon in Stephen’s Passage!  It appeared I’d made the right decision.  While I was out there the seas built to two or sometimes three feet, but nothing to slow me down much on my way north.

Since I was already toward Admiralty, I went around the “back side” of Grand Island, admiring the fall colors on the cliffs and discovering quite a few harbor seals and two bald eagles on a large point on the northern end.  As I left shore and headed toward Point Arden I was puzzled to find myself going against the chop.  I kept studying it just to make sure I was seeing/feeling it correctly, but sure enough, there were seas coming straight out of the Taku!  That means that I was constantly at a very ungraceful angle to those seas (mostly two footers or so).  They were tightly spaced, nasty little swells, and I spent a long time with buckets of spray splashing over the windshield and the bow every couple of seconds from banging into their troughs.  I couldn’t see anything there was so much water sloshed against the windshield.  It was arduous, though I kept reminding myself not to gripe about it, as it could have been so much worse!  It was really only annoying, not dangerous or scary.  I later told a friend at the NOAA weather center about it and he was very puzzled and surprised about that north wind showing up in the middle of a southerly system, though he eventually made some sense out of it.  Apparently the Taku was the only place blowing a northerly at that time. 

 
Waterfalls across the river