The summer by this time felt both short and timeless.  I couldn't remember how it felt for it to be winter.  On the one hand, I was (predictably) fearing that I'd failed to adventure enough to accept the approaching fall and, on the other hand, amazed at how many things I'd done this summer already, many of which felt like distant memories.  It was the first time Chris and I had been down to the homestead together for many weeks.  We left after work on Friday for an uneventful and peaceful ride south; the only misfortune was arriving at the bottom of a negative tide.  The tide was far enough out and the visibility through the heavy mist was poor, so I decided it would be safer to drop Chris and the gear off at the edge of deep water and then find a place to anchor farther up without worrying about hauling all our gear across the muddy tidal sandbars.  I had no way of knowing if I could anchor (i.e., hit bottom) close enough to shore to walk the rest of the way in xtratufs, but I didn't feel like trekking all the way to the lodge for a kayak to anchor in deeper water.  I crept up the channel closest to shore and counted myself lucky when I was able to pull up right along a muddy cut bank not far up; rather than wind up in shallow water in the middle of the channel closer to the homestead, I anchored right there, walked back downriver for the tote of food and gear (Chris had taken the cooler), and laboriously hauled it up to the lodge.  That night we had a late dinner of pasta, salad, and wine and watched the last two episodes of The Walking Dead (second season) before making our way to Hermit Thrush in the dark.  I was concerned that Cailey would refuse to sleep on her dog bed after the previous weekend, but she seemed to have no hesitation. 

That night it rained, but stopped by the time I pulled myself out of bed (after listening to Cailey pattering around for some time, who'd inexplicably decided to get up early and was banished outside).  I lit a fire, unpacked gear, and, in about five minutes had the drain on the sink fixed.  It's hard to believe that after a summer of dealing with collapsing drains, buckets of gray water, and even drilling larger holes in the wall, that all it took was five minutes at Cameron's Plumbing and five minutes in the lodge to get it working perfectly!  So that was a little success for the morning.  I also made a feeble attempt to get the propane lights working again, but failed at that.  The lights hadn't worked the night before, not making a sound or coming anywhere close to burning, so I figured the tank was out of gas.  So I was surprised to find that it was still quite heavy and sloshed with gas inside when I took it off.  That led me to believe that something else was wrong.  I put a new tank in, which took some effort to screw in, but it too failed to release gas.  I didn't see any obvious kinks in the pipe, so I fear that the regulator is broken.  As I believe that replacing it will take a lot of work (and a flaring tool), I decided to leave it until I had more information.

Chris and I had Russian tea for breakfast.  After the two small projects I'd undertaken, I found myself unwilling to do more.  Cumulative exhaustion from the summer was wearing on me and I found myself drawn to the couch even with the pressing need for further accomplishments (little had progressed at the homestead since June).  I made quesadillas for lunch and continued to rest.  Eventually Chris drug me outside where the clouds had given way to a stunningly warm, sunny day.  We sat outside until about 2:30 when the tide was nearing its peak (about 17').  Chris and I swung the riverboat around until it faced the river, still several feet away.  We then lifted and pushed from the back in the hopes of scooting it up into the water.  We did move it a couple of inches once, but I was easily dissuaded.  I really didn't have much energy or will, and getting it in the river would result in immediate work trying to get the engine going, a decision about where to take it (if anywhere), followed by the need to re-beach and secure it.  The riverboat had been weighing on my mind and eroding my joy for some time.  It was a very expensive purchase to leave sitting on the beach, tantalizingly close to adventure but impossible to move (for the most part).  This was the first reasonable opportunity to get it in the water since we'd moved it down there in May, and possibly the last.  I'd failed to even try to get up the river in it this summer, and that thought crushed my spirit even more.  But, even it if I got it in the water that day, I didn't think I had it in me to boldly speed upriver.  And so it sat.

In short, I think I needed the rest I took that day.  And, without the pressure of the riverboat, I was free to go on a different boat trip for an entirely different purpose to work on something else that had been weighing on my mind.  I'd been surprised to find so many sockeyes at Sweetheart Creek the previous Saturday (and so few pinks in the middle pools) and thought there was some chance there may still be some there.  I was only a ten minute boat ride, a short kayak, and a ten minute walk from finding out.  Why not?  I left Chris to watch Cailey and set off on calm seas under a clear blue sky.  Two boats had left the area a little earlier, and I found only one boat at anchor.  I anchored the Ronquil and kayaked quickly to shore; the high tide allowed me to kayak far up the beach to about 30 feet from the edge of the forest.  I extracted my bear mace, donned my backpack, picked up the bucket of net, and started talking to bears as I made my way over the peninsula and to the creek.  The high tide left only a narrow margin of grass at the edge of the forest, so I nervously edged my way along, uncomfortable to be so close to the woods and bear territory.  When I reached the next rocky outcropping I scaled the muddy trail, encountering some gear on the path before descending to the next grassy area by the creek.  There were two people on the other side of the creek and two people on the bank, one of whom asked me if their gear was still there.  I'd noticed that the pelican case said something about underwater video equipment, so I asked about that.  He said they were looking at the spawning substrate of the pink salmon for Juneau Hydropower.  This was not unexpected, but not good news to me, and I'm afraid I lightly let that be known with an unenthusiastic "Ohhhhhh........"  But I pulled myself together (after all, these guys were just doing their jobs) and asked about where the pinks do spawn.  He gestured toward the creek and, indeed, I could see evenly spaced salmon hovering over the bottom.  The high tide brought the salt water in so close that the creek was only a hundred yards long or so--so many pinks for such limited habitat!  It's amazing.  I could also see dark globs in deeper pools where schools rested.  The surveyor told me that a group that day had done well fishing in the middle pool, so I headed up that way, yelling for bears all along the way.

Thankfully I encountered none.  I pulled out the net, leatherman, bonker, and stringer.  A bear occupied the ledge at the next falls upcreek and looked at me blandly as I got ready to throw.  On the first cast I pulled in some pinks; on the second cast, I pulled in two sockeyes.  A few casts later, a single, then another double.  I was bringing in lots of pinks and a sockeye jack in almost every cast, but the larger sockeyes were coming in too!  I was really surprised that they were still so abundant and that the pinks were really quite reasonable in number, not like in years past when a cast would bring in ten or twelve almost every time, ripping up the net and costing valuable time releasing them.  I could see few fish in the water when in years past they were so thick you could walk across their backs (if they were a little more solid).  It was nice, easy, rewarding fishing.  My watch stopped after about half an hour, so I'm not sure how long I fished, but I think it was about an hour.  Close to the end I pulled in a monstrous fish that had barring like a chum and the beginnings of snaggle tooths in the snout.  I'd never heard of anything but pinks and sockeyes in the creek , so I was really puzzled by this guy.  Maybe he was some strange intermediate phase of a turning sockeye?  That didn't seem quite right, but I had to make a fast decision, so I kept him.  After all, I've been curious to try chums and he was still fairly bright.  The fish I'd caught were occupying the bleeding pool crevasse just behind me, but the seven of them were too big to fit, so part of the top two were exposed to the air; every time I caught one, I pulled the loop off the nearby stump and let them into deeper water to bleed, and would rotate them top to bottom.  So, I figured that I was reaching my carrying capacity (literally--fish are heavy!) and decided that I'd be content with the next fish I caught.  An eighth sockeye would bring our count for the summer to 23, eleven more fish than my minimum goal and one less fish than my ideal--not bad!  I soon had that eighth fish and got ready to head out.  I wanted to clean the fish there, and considered doing so (since there would be few more human visitors to the creek this year and I couldn't imagine my actions attracting any more bears to the area), but the eddy nearby made me hesitate--I really didn't want fish guts and eggs to linger.  So I scooted my string of fish into my dry bag, this time taking the time to make more adjustments so it was considerably more comfortable to carry than last time. I also loosened the straps on my own backpack so it was easy to don and comfortable on top of the dry bag.  I set out, yelling as usual, and made my way off the point, around the corner, and down onto the grassy area where the surveyors had been.  I'd have preferred to make it over the last rocky outcrop and onto the next grassy beach to clean my fish by the trail across the peninsula, but I didn't think it had been long enough since the low tide for it to be dry land again, so I found a spot there toward the bottom of the meadow where a small log protruded into the fast moving creek and created a calm area.  A larger log lay along the bank parallel to it, beyond which was a narrow ten foot wide stretch of grass at the edge of the forest.

I tied my stringer to the small log and crouched down to start cleaning fish between the two.  Just for the sake of the story, let me describe the setting.  I’m toward the end of Sweetheart Creek, where it turns into a shallow, swift creek with a low grade on its way to the nearby estuary.  About 20 feet downriver and about 75 feet upriver are 15 foot high rocky outcroppings that abut the river with near-vertical slopes.  I’m on a crescent shaped strip of grassy floodplain about 15 feet wide between the two, which reaches a maximum width of about 25 feet (if memory serves).  The inside edge is bordered by a gentler, though still steep, slope of tangled alders bordering the forest.  Anyway, so I’m about three fish into the cleaning when something catches my eye and I look up to see a dark brown bear on the other side of the big log about 10 feet away.  In retrospect, I don’t think he knew I was there (as I was probably out of sight behind the log), but I was afraid he was interested in my fish.  I waved my hands and yelled at him, discovering that at times of intense bear encounters, the words “Go bear go bear go bear go bear go bear go bear go!” are what come spilling out of my mouth!  I wasn’t concerned for my safety, but I was concerned for my catch and about having to make the decision about what to do should the bear come for them.  Mace him and risk his reaction (my mace was at the ready)?  Try to move away with the fish in tow?  Or just leave the catch to him?  None seemed like good options.  Thankfully, the bear started a little, then slowly, ever so slowly, turned and walked up the slope into the woods where he lingered alarmingly just inside the brush.  I slid my fish back into the dry bag and packed it up as quickly as I could and was just about to put it all on when the bear walked back down onto the grass a little upcreek.  I yelled again and this time he moved upriver with a little more haste.  Heart pounding, I slung my gear on and headed inland for the short trip downriver over the hump and across the next patch of grass and from there across the peninsula.  There was no reason I should have been more afraid of bears at that point than before, but that close encounter put me on edge!  Thankfully the tide had dropped significantly, so there was more room on the lower floodplain than when I’d walked up and I was able to skirt the woods by 15-20 feet.  I was more nervous crossing through the woods, thinking of bears bedded down from the sunshine in the brush.  At the start of the dense salmonberry patch (well over my head), I heard some crackling to my right, yelled more loudly, and trotted as fast as I could the rest of the way, glancing behind me to see if I was pursued.  It was probably a squirrel, but I was relieved to reach the beach!  Several people there were looking at me, so I waved to indicate that I was, in fact, quite safe despite all the yelling.

This left me in the same position as last time, with uncleaned fish at the edge of the intertidal beach.  At least I had a good excuse this time!  I’m not likely to clean my fish at the creek again unless it’s more populated.  So I crouched down in the falling tide and cleaned them all, putting the guts in the net’s bucket to carry into deep water.  I kept hearing the pleasant explosion of a whale breathing not far away in Gilbert Bay, which raised my spirits even more.  A raging stomach ache came on while I was crouching, but went away quickly enough while kayaking out to the boat and heading back to the homestead.  The whale fluked beautifully in profile as I passed by.  Cailey paced the shore waiting for me; Chris said she’d done the same as soon as he let her out—she knew what I was up to!  As soon as I touched shore, she climbed onto the kayak, even as I was getting out!  I carried the catch up to the porch and put them on some garbage bags Chris brought out before unloading all out perishables from the cooler and plugging it with fish.  I’m not sure I could have fit another fish in there if I’d caught it! 

That night we had bison burgers for dinner and I felt more relaxed than I had in weeks.  While we were relaxing on the couch and it was still quite light, a small, pointed face showed up at the corner of the picture window and put its paws up on the glass as though it was looking in.  He disappeared quickly and Chris and I leaped up to take a look.  There on the porch was a pretty little mink; he ran back toward us and climbed up the mustang suit thrown over the generator until he was at the bottom of the window again, then ran to the door where we could hear him scratch his paws, then he came back in sight and scratched his face (giving us another look at how very triangular and pointed his nose was), then ran down the stairs and under the porch.  He reappeared a few moments later on the other side of the porch, ran back under, around the tree, and then behind the lodge.  It was the best look I've ever had of a mink!  He was dark brown with a white blaze down his chest.  We wondered if the smell of salmon on the deck had attracted him and, in case that was true, put out a few strips of salmon bellies I'd brought along for halibut fishing.  Alas, we did not see him return!

Cottonwood in a stump	Debbie's catch	Debbie's catch being licked by Cailey
Cailey hunting	Mink in front of the window!	Mink on the porch!

The next morning, despite sleeping poorly, I woke up with more energy and ambition.  After a chunk of bread for breakfast, I tackled the task I was least looking forward to: swapping out the battery on the riverboat's bilge pump.  This is a simple task except that the fresh battery was on the Ronquil, which was aground some distance out on the sandbars.  Batteries are heavy!  I slipped my way out there, retrieved the battery, and lugged it arduously back to the riverboat and swapped it out.  With one win under my belt, I then took a cordless drill, hammer, and nails to the shed.  The floor joists had proved very difficult to tack in the previous weekend, so I 'd decided to do the sensible thing and drill holes for the nails.  I drilled one side, nailed everything in, then worked on the other side.  Although the drilling and nailing was relatively easy work, I was still overheated and sweaty by the time I was done.  I took measurements for the floor, set up the saw horses by the shed, hooked the extension cord to the generator, and got out the skill saw and measuring tools before having tea with Chris.  The fine weather had lingered and the day was glorious.  We sat on the front of the deck and soaked it in.  Then I took advantage of the low tide and went for the August COASST survey with Cailey.  The sandbars were steaming with the warm weather.  While upriver I spotted a huge plume of mist in the inlet--a whale was again feeding at the edge of the sandbars, the blow a good sign that the breeze I'd noticed that morning had passed.  That whale continued to feed in the inlet for the rest of the morning and we spotted a second whale on the other side of Gilbert Bay at the same time.

The morning moved along at a pleasant pace.  Chris helped me lift both pieces of plywood onto the sawhorses exactly on top of each other; I marked a line and cut them both at the same time.  We dropped one into place, then carefully placed the other one, which slid into a snug fit alongside.  We had a perfect floor for the shed!  It was beautiful and solid.  After that I decided to tackle another task that is impossible for one person--the cedar siding on the triangular portion of the front wall of the lodge under the gable.  I'd started this task early in the summer, but was unable to hold the long boards up by myself for measuring or securing.  With Chris it was easy.  I set up both step ladders on the porch and in just a couple of hours we nearly finished the job.  I'd already cut the corners of two pieces of siding for either side of the bottom row and just needed to secure the first one and measure the second one to abut it.  After that I had to figure out the angle at which to cut the other corners, which would be angled all the way down the board.  I figured that about 6.25 inches of the board would be above the top of the board below, which turned out to be consistently about 18" from the end of the board.  Once I thought about this, it made perfect sense--a slope of 18:6 = 3:1, or the actual slope of my roof.  I used my new jig saw and, though my cuts weren't always perfectly straight, they are close enough when viewed from below.  I cut all the pieces to end on studs and staggered them on each row.  The first row looked a little odd, but the father up I got, the more pretty it looked and it's going to be even better when it's stained darker and matches the rest of the roof better. I thought I had carefully calculated exactly how many boards I needed (they are expensive and I didn't want to bring any extra) but I wound up just one board short!  I should be able to finish the task in short order next time I'm down there if I manage to bring a board with me.

By that time it was after 1:00, so I made quesadillas for lunch, putting away all the supplies while they cooked.  We ate in the sunshine and shared the last beer, which Chris had thoughtfully put in the freshet to cool that morning (since the cooler was then occupied by fish).  While I washed the dishes, Chris covered the windows, and we very efficiently got ready to go.  Cailey paddled out to the boat with me, we picked Chris and the gear up, and were underway before my goal of 3:00.  Other than the two in Snettisham, we only passed one other whale in the middle of Stephen's Passage.  That area is not known as a whale hot spot mid-summer, but we usually pass several whales every time, sometimes more, lunge feeding along the shore, cruising through the entrance to Snettisham, etc.  This year has seen very little whale activity at all and the whales in the Whiting Inlet didn't show up until much later than usual (it's usually a June phenomenon, but they've been more abundant in August).  Of course, I wasn't there much in July to compare. 

I was concerned that the weather would carry with it a north wind that would make our ride back unpleasant, but the gentle seas in Stephen's Passage seemed to come from behind until we approached Limestone Inlet, at which point we encountered an unpleasant chop from ahead, causing me to hug the shoreline north of Limestone, which I hadn't done before.  By the time we reached Grave Point, though, the seas died down and I figured that meant they were coming from the west rather than the north (i.e., down Stephen's Passage from the back side of Douglas rather than out of the Taku).  I figured we'd have easy going until Arden, then ride in the trough to the channel.  By the time we were in the middle of Taku Inlet, a small chop did seem to be coming out of the Taku and we didn't really get out of it until we were in the channel.  So unpredictable!

As soon as we got home and settled, I started to process salmon, first picking out the three that we would smoke so we could get them brining right away.  I took two sockeye and the monster, curious what I would find when I started to fillet him.  The question of his species was laid to rest when I flipped up the first fillet--his flesh was unmistakably pale!  Oh, and he was 12 pounds gutted, which is also rather large for a sockeye!  I named him Chummy McDougal.  Chris stayed home the next afternoon to smoke and we ate a piece of Chummy and a piece of sockeye for dinner.  Both were delicious, though the sockeye did beat the chum for flavor.  Nevertheless, he's pretty good, and half again as much fish as a sockeye!

Misty river	Yarrow	Shed floor!
Sockeyes	Filleting outside	Smoked salmon

Whale plum in the inlet