Weather in Alaska is notoriously unpredictable, but there are times when the forecast seems a little more likely to manifest.  The marine forecast on Thursday called for four foot seas in Stephen's Passage, apparently the result of a front moving in to replace the pleasant low pressure system we were then enjoying.  With two days to go, it seemed likely something would change by our departure time of 1:30 on Saturday, but Friday's forecast was similar, pushing the front back only a few hours.  I consulted a weather forecaster directly (the husband of a coworker) and he said we'd see 20 knots by 9:00; that would be okay if we left early, but because we were headed up the Taku with the tide, a morning departure was impossible. 

And so I continued to get ready for the trip I'd been prepping for and dreaming about all week, knowing that there was a solid chance we'd be turning around at the end of the channel, and that this was probably my last chance to go up the Taku this year.  Sarah had showed me a map on weather.gov that allows you to click on a section of water and get a forecast for that specific area--the heartening news there was that this system called for 2-3 foot seas consistently in the area we were to pass through.  Perhaps we'd get lucky?  When Saturday morning came around, that didn't seem likely.  I got up early and went down to the Ronquil with a new fitting for the main fuel tank with the intent to head down the channel for a test drive to see if the new fitting fixed the fuel flow problems that had prevented use of that tank since June.  The channel was so choppy, beginning to form white caps, that I turned toward Juneau Harbor rather than fight my way through the chop, gaining what shelter I could from Mayflower Island and the new breakwater out front on my way back.  The good news was that the engine never failed during that (albeit short) ride, so the part might be doing the trick; the bad news was that there was no way I wanted to fight that chop down the channel for even a few minutes.  I decided that I would ask my parents to use the Kathy M, both to give us more of a fighting chance to make it and to make whatever foray we made infinitely more comfortable.  I carried up the two jerry jugs I'd just brought down to my boat with a sinking heart.  Thankfully, though somewhat reluctant on account of the weather, my parents agreed to lend me their boat.  One of the reasons I hesitated to use the larger boat was because it takes a lot of time and effort to fuel, but my mother pointed out that I had jerry jugs already full for the Ronquil and that I could fill it from those.  We pushed the departure time to noon; I took my gear and the fuel down at about 11:15, put in 20 gallons, filled the oil, and got everything ship shape with five or ten minutes to spare before Torsten and Sarah arrived.  We pulled out at 11:55.

I was not optimistic.  The wind was howling at the harbor, tearing across the ramp, and I braced myself for disappointment.  The trip down the channel, however, was pleasant in the heavy boat, the chop hardly noticeable.  As we rounded Salisbury Point my spirits rose--we found ourselves in two foot seas perhaps, but hardly enough to slow us down much.  I tried to call my parents, but I'd just lost cell phone service.  By the time we approached Bishop, and the end of the worst leg of the trip (in a southeasterly), I called for a celebratory beer.  The chop picked up around the point, but soon lay down again.  We were so early (the tide wasn't until 2:33) and the weather was so reasonable, that I crossed the inlet to creep along the bottom of the Scar for Torsten and Sarah.  I was surprised to see quite a few gulls up on the cliffs this late in the year--they must use it well beyond the breeding season.  From there we headed north, closer and closer to the great looming Taku Glacier.  It was fun to bring people completely unfamiliar with the area, or with advancing glaciers.  I stayed in the middle of the river past Hut Point, glancing back at my wake now and again to see that it broke over no nearby sandbars; we made it all the way to the cabin moorage with no incident.  There we offloaded all our gear, tied the Kathy M to the side of the riverboat at two points, and managed to carry all our gear to the cabin in one load.

After a flurry of settling in activities (turning on the propane burners for the refrigerator and stove, turning the water system on, putting sheets on the beds, etc.), we all relaxed while the fire Sarah started warmed the cabin.  That evening, Sarah made bison meatballs, couscous, and rice for dinner, and afterwards we rallied ourselves for a very wet walk down to the slough.  My dad had years earlier raised the idea that cohos might rest at the mouth of the slough and, the more I learned about coho behavior, the more likely that sounded, even if none actually spawned in it (though there are gravely areas farther in that might attract them).  The rain, which had surprisingly held off on our trip up the river, was coming down steadily.  The trail took us as far as the little guest cabin, and from there we pushed our way between the young spruce trees growing up over the strawberry meadow along the riverbank.  Although it's seen unprecedented intrusion of trees in the last decade, the way was still relatively easy and familiar and I found the path through the alders and into the fireweed meadow with no trouble.  Most of the shorter fireweed was bloomed out like in Juneau (casting a pleasant, pale burgundy wash to the scene), but a few of the taller stands still had blossoms.  We made our way through the fireweed and the fringe of alder separating it and the grass meadows at the edge of the creek.  Although it was more than four hours after high tide, I was disappointed to see that the slough was still silty, our first indication that the river was high.  We spread out and cast for about 15 minutes before Chris, Sarah, and I decided to head back to the cabin.  Cailey was particularly soaked, not just wet but also quite silty!  On the way back we encountered a little rise by the river before we hit the fireweed that was covered in ripe strawberries; Sarah was so engaged by them that she stayed behind to pick them and walk back with Torsten. 

By the time Chris and I got back to the cabin it was already getting dark; I dried the dog off a little and made brownies.  When Torsten and Sarah arrived in the half-dark, we sat in the living room and took turns reading chapters of The Sheltering Desert by Henno Martin.  Sarah later served us brownies with fresh strawberries. 

Cliff near the Scar

Cailey romping in the fireweed

Torsten and Cailey at the cabin

The next morning, Cailey thought that 6:00 would be a good time to wake up, despite all the intense activity well past her bedtime the evening before.  I eventually put her outside, only to hear her rooting around in the firewood.  I brought her back in and managed to get a few more minutes of sleep before rousing myself at about 8:30.  Torsten made a robust breakfast of peanut butter and jelly cornmeal pancakes that fueled us for the adventure ahead.  Unfortunately, the water had run out the night before, so I dug out the directions my mom had given me about the water pump and headed outside to fill the tank.  Sarah came with me and, while the tank filled, we restacked the firewood that had fallen off the porch earlier in the summer.  At about 10:00 I started to get the riverboat ready, borrowing life jackets, oil, gas, funnel, oil measurer, and cooler from the Kathy M and paddles and screwdrivers from the shed, finding the two most likely keys for the engine, and packing my backpack for a fishing adventure. We planned to head to Johnson Creek in hope of cohos.

By 11:00 I was ready, and so was everyone else.  The river was still several hours from high tide, but I was less concerned about that with the riverboat, and at least the tide was rising.  I'd been checking out the river all morning trying to decide which side of one of the nearby sandbars was the better route.  It was difficult to tell, but I chose the inside, which I'd seen someone use the evening before.  We untied the Kathy M from the riverboat and retied it to the shore and the anchor line directly, then tied a line from the riverboat to the back of the Kathy M so we wouldn't drift too far if the engine wouldn't start.  As it turned out, the engine started just fine.  We puttered downriver, and then the engine stopped.  It started right up again, then stopped, and this repeated several times.  After a little puttering, I saw that the fuel line connector on the engine side wasn't fastened securely to the engine; the metal liner on the inside of the tube was sticking out, so the clip couldn't get purchase.  I used one of the screwdrivers to nudge it back in and we were off.

The view upriver was spectacular.  A low rainbow arched over Sockeye Creek and, as we approached, over the bottom of Hole-in-the-Wall Glacier.  After the heavy rains the night before, the morning had brightened with a patch of blue sky and sunlight on Taku Glacier.  We got sprinkled on here and there on our way upriver, but hardly anything of note.  We went up the inside of the sandbar with the log on it, turned left to cross the river, then followed the shoreline north again.  A sandbar blocked our way as we approached the glacier, though, so we veered to the right and met back up with deep water on the other side.  Another boat had turned upriver before reaching our shoreline and taken a route through the sandbars which I'll have to watch for next time.  It could be that the main channel is moving off the bank of the glacier again and keeping more in the center of the river.  That boat sped away upriver, hugging the shoreline beyond the turn to the lodge.  I wondered if that part of the route had changed too, but had no idea what the other boat's destination was, so stuck to the known path and crossed the river with no incident below Seal Sandbar, which at that moment was housing about 50 harbor seals.  We sped by the lodge and headed upriver, suddenly fighting our way through 1-2 foot chop!  The winds had evidently picked up and built to seas the size of which are rarely seen on the river!  I was just as happy to leave them behind as we neared the lower entrance to Johnson Creek.

Chris and I had laboriously made our way up that entrance two years ago around the same time in the canoe, going aground a couple of times even in that shallow craft!  I was nervous about it and had carefully studied googleearth images to memorize how far upriver the upper entrance is, which is really just a parafluvial branch of the main river that cuts through flat lands to meet up with the mouth of Johnson Creek at the mountainside, then braids a little and shallows up as it makes its way back to the river, i.e., the lower entrance.  When I'd visited Johnson Creek the previous June we'd taken the top entrance, which impressed me with its swift current and narrow channel, boding well for deep water.  But, it was a sizable distance upriver in unfamiliar territory.  We reached the lower entrance and decided to give it a go--all indications were for high water and it certainly looked ample.  I did my best to pick the deepest parts of the channel but one way or another there was plenty of water and before we knew it we'd nosed up at the edge of brown water.  It was obvious then that the river was high, as there was almost no beach to walk on where Chris and I had plenty of room two years ago; the photos from that time show the lower entrance as green water too, whereas this time it was indistinguishable from river water, a good clue for next time. 

We spread along the beach at the entrance and started fishing, myself targeting the area where Chris had caught a coho two years ago near a submerged rock.  I can't have cast more than ten times before I had a fish on, which flashed beautifully underwater and couldn't have been anything but a coho.  I called Chris to get the bonker out of the boat (one of the lengths of 2x2 cedar I'd cut at Snettisham earlier this summer) and he met me on the beach as I fought the fish and brought it in.  I was so terrified of losing it that I kneeled down in the water and got my shins wet to secure him.  And so we had our first fish.  I got to stringing it and before I was done, Sarah had a fish on.  Chris hadn't even had time to start fishing again and he was back helping someone land one!  Then Torsten brought one in from just upriver, and before long I brought in a second coho.  And then three cutthroat were caught in close succession by me, Sarah, and Chris, two of which were quite large and all of which were stunningly beautiful.  I love all the spots and the yellow color on the sides!  Being in the midst of cohos and uncertain about species (none of them had the characteristic red stripes on the throat), we let them all go in good shape (though we had to nudge one in the right direction after it nosed up into some vegetation in a few inches of water to rest).  I did notice how far the jaw extended behind the eye in one of them, but I couldn't remember if that meant cutthroat or steelhead (cutthroat it turns out), so we didn't ID them until later. 

And then Chris, from his perch on a rock close to shore (where Sarah had caught her fish and below which I caught mine) got a mysterious fish on.  I watched hopefully from downriver as the water twisted above Chris's fish.  He called out that he thought it was a trout, as it wasn't giving up much of a struggle, nor was it showing itself at or near the surface.  It seemed reasonable given the recent cutthroats we'd brought in.  After a surprising amount of time, the fish suddenly started fighting and at some point it leaped and splashed at the surface and we could see that it was an enormous, pink coho!  The fish, later named Salmonsaurus Rex, then gave Chris a long and arduous fight.  It zipped away over and over again and twisted at the surface repeatedly before Chris could even bring him close to shore.  And every time he came in, he twisted and turned and took off again for another run.  We were both worried we'd lose him but eventually Chris brought him in and we scooted him onto shore.  I wasn't sure how turned he'd be, given his rosy color, but one look at him on shore and I knew he was a keeper.  He was rosy all over and had a bit of a hooked jaw, but was otherwise in great shape.  He was by far the biggest coho we'd ever caught.  Chris held it up for a photo and Cailey joined in the shot to lick the blood dripping off the tail.  Thankfully she otherwise didn't bother the fish, which by that time we'd moved from a nearby log to the side of the boat where there was more water.  Soon Chris brought in a dolly that was hooked through the eye, so we agreed to keep it for dinner.

In the meantime, Torsten had brought in another coho and Chris soon brought in his second.  It was good fishing!  And then suddenly it wasn't.  Cohos splashed and finned all around the hole, but no one was biting.  Sarah, Chris, and I fished that hole for quite a while longer with only an unsuccessful bite or two while it was alive with fish.  In the meantime, Torsten had hiked around the wide pool at the mouth of the creek and was fishing where it narrowed up again across from some large root wads that created big pools behind them.  We watched him land two, an indication, perhaps, that those fish were locals rather than upriver coho nosing in or resting.  One of the fish dropped the hook while still in the water, but didn't move, so Torsten managed to scoop him up onto shore with his hands before it swam off!  As departure time neared, I cleaned our fish and iced them in the cooler, immediately discovering that Salmonsaurus Rex was simply too big to fit in it whole!  I put the other three in, which nearly plugged it, and left him in the water.  The day had turned out to be overcast with only occasional sprinkles and when I wasn't focused on fishing (which was rare), I tried to take in the setting--the slow moving brown water, the cottonwoods lining the sandy banks, the mysterious bird call downriver, the absolute lack of any other people or evidence of any other people.  It was an idyllic scene, the fishing I'd been dreaming about all summer.  Cohos biting on a clear creek with nobody (but us) around: it doesn't get much better.  And it didn't hurt that we had more fish in my freezer than my best case scenario for the summer!  Torsten said it was the most fun salmon fishing he'd had in a long time.

Not long after he returned with his two fish, we decided to explore upcreek a little before heading back out.  It was then a little after high tide, but with the water levels high and the riverboat, I wasn't concerned.  Not far up the creek Torsten spotted a bunch of cohos in the creek and a downed log blocked our path, so we put the boat ashore upcreek from a tributary that poured over a beaver dam about 40 feet up.  By that time I was pretty exhausted, but Torsten got excited about a deep pool in front of the dam, so I hiked over there to take a look.  Sure enough, it must have been full of trout and it was fun watching them emerge from the depths to follow my lure in!  I wasn't wildly enthusiastic about catching more trout, but we did need another fish for dinner.  After only a handful of casts, I decided I'd cast just once more and, if any fish showed interest, I'd keep fishing; otherwise, I'd leave them be.  Well, a lovely little 14" dolly swam up and struck and I opted to keep him.

Taku Glacier from Bullard's Landing	Debbie and Cailey (Sarah's photo)	Sarah
On the way upriver (Hole-in-the-Wall Glacier)	Taku Lodge (Sarah's photo)	Mouth of Johnson Creek
Entrance to Johnson Creek	Cutthroat trout	Chris pulling in Salmonsaurus Rex
Chris and Salmonsaurus Rex	Cailey licks the blood off Chris's second coho	Sarah and Cailey

Chris and I retreated to the riverboat for a rest while Torsten and Sarah crossed the dam and fished in the area where Torsten had seen the coho.  They fished for about 20 minutes before we picked them up to head out; just as we got going, though, we saw a couple of coho shoot by which got us all excited and we wound up drifting most of the way out of the creek and casting from the boat, to no avail.  By then it was an hour and a half past high tide, but we zipped out and down the river with no problem.  Poor Cailey was wet and cold and predictably started shivering on the ride back.  Sarah dug her fleece jacket from Torsten's pack and put it on her, shaking her head at the silliness of it.  But, it did the trick and warmed Cailey up and, if I may say so, looked pretty stylish too!  Torsten asked to stop by the glacier as we passed, so we pulled up to a cut bank, tied the riverboat to a stump, and headed over the sedgey mudflat to the morrain about 50 yards away.  The morraine was about 15 feet high and sloped down on the other side to the toe of the glacier.  I mostly stayed on top of the morraine and watched.  Sarah hiked around on the ice while Chris and Torsten played in the mud, making it collapse from the side of the morraine into bizzare flowing rivers (quick mud, apparently).  After about ten minutes we headed back to the boat, romping in crazy circles with Cailey, and finished the ride back to the cabin on higher water than we'd departed on.  It had taken us 45 minutes to get up to Johnson Creek and 20 minutes to get back to the glacier (so 25-30 minutes to get all the way to the cabin).  Back at the cabin, we reversed the operation of the morning, anchoring and tying the riverboat up and and tying the Kathy M alongside.

I think we were all pretty worn out by then.  Chris and I made it back to the cabin before the others, in time to dry and feed the dog and light a fire.  Since we couldn't fit Salmonsaurus Rex in the cooler, we decided to process it there since we had access to the freezer; I laid some cardboard on the front porch and filleted and portioned him, wrapping the portions in saran wrap before placing them in the freezer.  We rested for a little bit, then I stirfried some veggies, cooked the two dollies, and warmed some tortillas for fish tacos.  I think the fish were the most delicous dollies I can remember!  For dessert I made a crumb cake (kind of a Taku tradition) and we read more of the book out loud to each other.

Fishing hole	View up Johnson Creek	Torsten on the bow near the glacier
The riverboat at the glacier	Chris and Torsten near the terminal morraine (Sarah's photo)	Sarah on the glacier
Torsten playing in the mud	Hole-in-the-Wall Glacier	Romping in the meadows at the glacier
Salmonsaurus Rex and the dollies	Sarah and Torsten's catch	Dolly Varden for dinner

Cailey let me sleep in a little longer the next day, but I still had to let her out earlier than I would have liked.  Surprisingly, we all got up earlier than the day before and were downstairs around 8:00.  Sarah made a delicous quiche for breakfast.  At about 10:00 we all headed upriver to look for nagoonberries.  We followed the trail I created two years ago easily enough and broke out into the meadow I'm trying to maintain, the only clear area in what is now a patch of dense, young spruces.  I was pleased to see that there were abundant ripe and ripening nagoonberries in that meadow along with ripe strawberries!  Perhaps my efforts to save a patch of that once-abundant meadow will pay off after all (in berries, which is not really the intent).  From there we headed inland to what used to be the trail upriver.  I lost it pretty quickly and we wound up first passing through a marshy area and then through dense, dense brush and spruces before finally breaking out into mixed meadow and young spruces.  In a few years that too will be all grown up, but for the moment we found many nagoons between the trees.  Thankfully, the spruces dispersed a little farther on and it became more meadow-like and the berries only became more and more abundant--the meadow was alive with ripe nagoonberries!  I could have picked and picked and picked, but Sarah and I had only two tubs apiece, so we picked all we could, then ate some more, and then we all wandered down the trail toward the lodge a little before turning around.  I was pleased also to see that there was no evidence of vehicle use on the Forest Service side of the property line, and no evidence that there was ever a trail at all on our land.

On the way back we again crashed through the brush.  I tried to head toward the mountain in the hopes of breaking out into meadow and curving around the outside of the woods; at this I succeeded to some degree, but by the time we made our way out of the tangle of dense spruces, alders, and devil's club we were practically back to the meadow anyway.  Everything was soaking wet, including my backpack and camera case, but we had a nice stash of berries for the winter.  What an abundant place, the Taku!  One day we put up beautiful cohos for the winter, the next we are picking through acres of vibrant berries.  Back at the lodge I made hot chocolate for everyone (spiked with a little of my dad's Chivas Regal), then made quesadillas.  Sarah cooked up some leftover veggies to add to theirs.  And then we packed up.  Everyone helped clean--doing the dishes, sweeping out the cabin, shuttering the windows, etc.  At about 3:00 we hauled our gear to the Kathy M, floating nicely alongside the riverboat.  As we puttered along the bank downriver I was musing about our salmon and imagining pulling out a fillet of Salmonsaurus Rex over the winter and admiring his rosy skin...and then it dawned on me that we'd failed to take him out of the freezer!  We cruised back to the beach and Chris and Torsten ran back to the lodge to grab it.  What a save!  What a tragedy it would have neen to leave him behind!

Strawberries (Sarah's photo)

How we got wet

Berry meadows

The trip home was pleasant.  We clinked through a few icebergs in front of the Taku and ran into some brief, dense seas around Point Bishop, passing a few gillnetters that lingered here and there at Jaw Point and beyond Bishop.  Cailey slept and snuggled with Sarah on the way back and I was full of contentment.  Having surpassed, with great effort, my goal of salmon for the year, and having reconnected with the Taku (even running it properly in a riverboat), I was finally at peace with the summer.  I had only to close up Snettisham (and maybe get a little more done) and I would embrace the oncoming fall.