Snettisham 2013 - 1: Ducks
  May 5-7

Looking upriver

The Ronquil was fit for the water by mid-April (having undergone bi-annual maintenance by my mechanic and a few repairs by me), but we never made it to the harbor that month. A combination of exhaustion, scheduling conflicts, and late season Taku winds combined to keep me town-bound to the detriment of my mental peace. Finally, I could take it no more; a southeasterly storm was raging when I came home from work Friday afternoon, but the forecast called for diminishing winds on Sunday followed by clearing skies, so I arranged for a couple of days off work early the following week to, hopefully, open up. Sunday morning I went shopping, finished gathering my gear, and assessed my state of mind. I knew I'd feel better once I was down there, but dragging myself to the harbor was a task. Chris followed to see me off, and the launching was uneventful except for a sudden flurry of boat activity that created a frenzy in the harbor minutes after we arrived. The engine started without incident, Chris took a photo of me and Cailey (who'd jumped in the boat at the first opportunity), and we puttered around the corner of Mayflower Island. I immediately felt better. We had a gentle chop down the channel, passed a couple of harbor porpoises, and then entered Taku Inlet for the first time this season. The dis-ease that had plagued me at the idea of being on the water again passed and I felt ridiculously peaceful. For some reason the uneasiness of fall, when I'm full of anxiousness at the threat of heavy weather, had lingered into the spring and I hadn't been able to shake a nebulous aversion to boating. All this was gone with the passing of my first leaving-the-harbor-beer, generously offered to the ocean and the weather gods as we headed down the channel. For her part, Cailey seemed delighted, sniffing avidly over the side of the boat. In Taku Inlet, the light seas were already coming down Stephen's Passage from the northwest.

Just past Pt. Arden, gazing down Stephen's Passage to the south, I saw a black dot on the horizon which I assumed was a boat. But, just in case, I thought I'd better watch it just in case it disappeared and proved itself a whale. It disappeared! Well, there was no tail, but it was probably just a humpback's hump, I thought...but maybe I'd better watch carefully just in case it came up again like an orca. It came up again. And soon I could see the distinct shape of a large male orca moving across Taku Inlet toward Circle Point. An orca on my first trip! Determined to meet up with him, I gauged his location when he stopped surfacing and headed slowly in that direction. Several minutes later, an orca exploded from the water not far away off my starboard bow heading in my direction. I was pretty sure I hadn't reached where the orca had been, so I was surprised to see it to my right (and that it wasn't larger up close) but I shut down to let him pass, managing a pretty decent ID shot. As he went by I heard a whale blow to the left, but was too engaged with the orca in front of me to assess the species. For some time I thought there was only the single orca, but of course it turned out that the orca I'd photographed (AG18, I think, born in 1985) was a different individual from the one I'd originally seen, who was probably the one blowing in the distance.

When I took off looking for the first one again I saw two more orcas, traveling separately, over toward the Taku; unable to find the large male, I went to look at them, first catching up to a juvenile. He/she turned around when I approached, so I shut down and drifted. The young orca crossed my bow and stuck his tail in the air before making several more close passes around the boat and disappearing. Next I saw an adult female/juvenile who, much to my surprise sported a very swirly (a.k.a. open) saddle patch, indicating that I was with a resident pod (it was possibly AG20, one of the few AG members with a swirly open saddle patch). To that point I'd only seen four individuals, all traveling separately some distance from one another, so this was unexpected! I photographed her and then turned back toward Admiralty where a large male (possibly the original) was heading for the channel at speed. I managed to travel alongside him for a few minutes, awed at the size of the dorsal fin slicing through the water and the beauty of the massive animal. I later tentatively identified him as AG2 (Carolus), who was born in 1963. That's right, he's 50 year old! I traveled alongside a 50 year old orca. Amazing.

I tried to get an ID shot of one other individual (and failed) and saw two more spread out between me and the Admiralty shore, but by that time I needed to turn back around and head south again. It was a perfect day for orcas--I'd left early in the afternoon and had no agenda, and the seas were easy so I could take as much time as I wanted. All in all, it was an unusual encounter--AG pod has a few dozen members and even when a resident pod is scattered, they usually still move in small groups. All animals I saw were alone, including the juvenile.

So, delighted by my great luck, we turned and headed south (well, I was delighted--I think Cailey was ready to get to the homestead). The rest of the trip was uneventful--large flocks of scoters were the only wildlife of note. Gilbert Bay and the inlet were covered in clumps of pale beige foam. I wound up at the homestead at precisely low tide and the expanse of mud between the Ronquil and the lodge discouraged me from hauling all my gear. I was grateful to make it into shallow enough water for my xtratufs, so I contented myself with anchoring up and carrying only my backpack up to the lodge, figuring I'd offload everything when the tide came in. On the way I noticed that the eagle nest was occupied, surely one of the adults on eggs. The lodge appeared in fantastic shape; strong winds had evidently swept the deck clear of all but the biggest debris, so there was little evidence it had been vacated for over seven months except for the log that lay across some of the upper stones of the path to the beach (and behind which a shelf of sand had settled). The beautiful shutters my mother had installed over the picture window the fall before were perfectly intact; I enjoyed folding them up and peering inside at the immaculate interior.

But there was immediate work to do. I was chilled from the long boat ride, so got to work installing the smoke stack. I always feel like I do a haphazard job of this in the spring, but whatever I do seems to last all summer. It was a little tricky to do on my own, as I had to carry the L-shaped section of stove pipe (each section of which is about four feet long) up a ladder, insert it in to the hole in the wall to meet the section of stove pipe inside, then hold it in place (preferably plumb), while wrapping a metal strap around it and nailing it to the roof. It took a few tries, but I eventually secured it. Inside I connected the two sections together which tweaked things enough that I had to move the sections of stove pipe outside again. Eventually I had it all ready and started a fire to take the chill off the lodge. There was no sign of rodent activity or mildew smell, both of which were a relief. I also had my first looks at exciting spring migrants on the water--a small flock of northern shovelers hung out at the edge of the mud along with green-winged teal and Bonaparte's gulls.

After warming up for a few minutes, I turned on the propane and lit the pilots on the stove, then noticed that Cailey was pestering me. I realized that it was well past her dinner time (I myself was getting a little peckish), but I'd left the food tote in the boat and there wasn't much overwintered food that appealed to us. The tide was only inching in and the anchor was still exposed on the beach, so I strolled down, pulled the boat in a few more feet, and retrieved the tote. It was a good plan, but an exhausting trek across the mud! Nevertheless, I did this with more patience than usual. Lugging the tote up the beach was a slow process and I left it at the bottom of the stone path to return and fetch both garbage bags of linens, which were only a little easier to carry (but which I needed to make the bed that night). With the bags I grabbed three water filter cartridges and the filter bags--enough to put together the drinking water system and gray water system on the lodge if I wanted. That left only the a few boxes on the boat to pick up later, all of which would fit in a kayak so I wouldn't have to bring the whole boat in at high tide. I fed Cailey, banked the fire, and went for a leisurely tour of the property, discovering first that a swamp had developed in front of the shed (otherwise perfectly intact), soaking the siding a foot above the ground and piling muck several inches deep against it. It would clearly need some work, but that was for another time. I continued on, opening up each cabin, peering inside, and making the bed in Hermit Thrush. All were in good shape, though I was alarmed to discover that a window on Harbor Seal had been left open all winter! Thankfully, the only damage appeared to be a few extra pine needles on the bed and some mildew on the leather arm chair. I moved more slowly than usual and back at the lodge I felt more relaxed than I had in weeks, indeed foolish that I'd ever had apprehension about the first adventure of the year. I made two cups of hummingbird food (having limited water) and ate dinner around 7:00. Disappointingly, the new 6 cup feeder I'd purchased leaked, so I would up using the 1 cup feeder that had overwintered there instead.  At 7:30 I took Cailey for a kayak out to the boat, retrieving the three boxes of filters and discovering that a flock of common mergansers and scoters had joined the myriad ducks. After dinner I read around the fire until the light dimmed, then headed to Hermit Thrush with Cailey, unfortunately causing a great blue heron feeding at the water's edge to fly away upriver (he returned the next evening). Having spent most of the afternoon outside I was still chilled and, remembering cold nights in previous Mays, I decided to allow myself a rare indulgence: I planned to light up my Little Buddy propane heater for some extra warmth.

I was to be disappointed. Previously so faithful, the ignition system failed. I brushed my teeth with the jug of water that had overwintered at the lodge and climbed into bed in wool socks and a turtleneck. I started reading by the light of two candles and an oil lamp on the table next to the bed, but wound up clutching a small candle on my chest, alternately hovering my hands over it to warm them. By the time I was ready for sleep, I was thoroughly cold and spent much of the night getting warm. Cailey took some dissuading before she stopped her efforts to sleep on the bed and finally curled up on her dog bed nearby.

AG18?	Young orca	AG20?
AG2?	Heading toward the Whiting River	Strange foam on the river
Looking up the beach on the way to the lodge	Looking back at the Ronquil as I walk to the lodge	The pool built up agains the shed

Birds haunted my sleep. Sometime around 4:30 I was awakened--just to the point of consciousness--by a hermit thrush's song. Hands down the most beautiful song in the forest (in my humble opinion), the singer is the namesake of my the cabin I was sleeping in. They're one of the last migrants to start singing in the spring, and this was the first I'd heard this year. I lay in bed listening in the half dark until I drifted back to sleep. Later that morning I dreamt that I was watching white-crowned sparrows on the ground (they looked like white-crowned sparrow-junco hybrids) while listening to golden crowned sparrow songs (seeing both sparrows together is a common spring occurrence, but the latter do most of the singing). When I woke up later, it felt vaguely like I'd been hearing golden-crowned sparrow songs in reality, a theory immediately supported by singing outside--another first of the season. Of course I hadn't been getting around town very much lately, but I'd been avidly listening around the house where I was spending significant time outside every day.

Overall, Cailey and I both slept in impressively. She woke up at 7:00 and jumped on the bed where her shivering kept me awake until I put all the covers over the top half of her and she stopped. She stayed under there for about 20 minutes or more before she finally stuck her head out again. I didn't get out of bed until after 9:30 and I actually slept most of that time.

On the way to the lodge, I heard Townsend's warblers for the first time this year. I'm not sure I've ever documented first spring songs at Snettisham before, and here I had three in one day! The birding only got better. Right off the porch I saw a real white-crowned sparrow, further confirmation that golden-crowned sparrows were about. But more of the action at that point was on or near the water. I'm always surprised that the mouth of the Whiting and my beach draw in as many migrants as they do. As I was watching the flock of northern shovelers along the shore, another flock flew in and landed nearby, their dramatic and elegant markings unmistakable--northern pintails, my favorite duck. Along with the green-winged teals, I had quite a stunning menagerie of ducks moving in and out all day. Joining them away from shore were common goldeneyes, surf scoters, and mallards; Bonaparte's gulls danced in the water at the mouths of the little creeks that drain the homestead, mew gulls flew by, greater (?) yellowlegs snoozed and chased each other over the rocks and flew loops over the water screaming. Later in the morning at low tide I walked upriver for my first Snettisham COASST walk of the season, immediately rewarded with several Lincoln's sparrows disappearing in and out of the crevasses on the rocky point. All along the edge of the forest they appeared until, looking closely at a new couple, I saw savanna sparrows instead, the classic yellow eyebrows more like yellow cheeks, and gorgeous. Groups of crows kept flying past and I noticed again that they seemed to most often consist of five individuals, both in flight and on the beach. There were a surprising number of crows in the area.

The walking was so easy and the day so pleasant (overcast) that I walked past the grassy turnaround point and continued upriver. The sandbars I walked on were covered in bird tracks--mostly corvid and gull--that made interesting patterns in the sand. I moved so leisurely that the walk took substantially longer than usual, but I was delightfully relaxed. Closer to the lodge, more pintails and teals were in the shallows, surprisingly unmoved by Cailey's interest. When I got back to the lodge, I encountered a golden-crowned sparrow on the ground near the path to the cabins. I felt like I was in the Sparrow Club that morning!

But I'm actually getting ahead of myself. The first thing I did after grabbing a handful of bread and a piece of fruit for breakfast was work on the water system. Cailey and I hiked up the subtle trail to the creek, surprised to find the olive barrel far to the left of the stream on a fallen tree with the attached hose making wide loops in that air. I don't know exactly where it was last fall, since I hadn't removed it from the creek myself, but I'm sure it wasn't there and there was evidence of high water events. The stream itself had changed dramatically, the small waterfall below which the olive barrel has rested in its hollow since it was first installed many years ago was mostly washed out and the hollow no longer an option (or, rather, no longer there). I'd have to find a new place for the barrel to sit. The best option seemed to be just below the next waterfall down, right near the log that the hose used to rest on before it plunged into the forest below on the way to the lodge. I started to hollow out the space and was getting enthusiastic about it when I decided that it would be a good idea to have the olive barrel nearby to help me choose the proper place, size of the hollow, etc. I crawled my way over the branches and devil's club to the olive barrel, unscrewed the top, and removed the two rocks inside that help weigh it down in the creek. Then I laboriously drug and manhandled the barrel between all the hemlock branches and hollows and over to the creek. And that's when I realized that my new spot would not work. In order to flow, the hose coming out of the bottom of the olive barrel needs a constant downhill slope. A permanent log crossed the creek below the hollow I'd chosen under which the barrel would not fit, so the hose would have to go over it (an immediate upward climb), which would not produce flow. So, a new plan. I wound up using a hoe to scoop out a hollow just above the waterfall instead. Before I placed the barrel, I rinsed off the screens in the lid and rinsed out the fine silt that had built up in the bottom of the barrel (a surprising amount). After setting it in place, I piled rocks behind to stabilize it. Because the barrel was about 20 feet downstream of where it was originally, I had to manhandle the extra hose down the hill so it didn't loop up above the level of the creek where it enters the barrel and halt the flow. Many fox sparrows scratched at the mountainside while I worked.

Back at the lodge, it was apparent that the water was flowing, as it was pouring out in two places at force--the hose junction just above the lodge that feeds the garden hose (when hooked up) and the first of the three water filters. Both were not good news; the valve on the former was closed, but the coupling attaching the valve to the hose had shot off with the pressure. That was reparable. Worse news was the water filter, whose cracks had finally failed. water was spraying everywhere. I trekked back to the top and turned the valve off there, then returned to trouble shoot. The only filter fix I could think of at that moment was using the replacement filter I'd requested to replace the wrong kind of filter that I'd been sent several years ago when I was hooking up potable water to the cabins. Because I'd have to take the whole filter system for my cabin apart in order to change the filter (since the lids are semi-permanently connected to the water line), I hadn't yet used it. But the filter was in the attic. And to the get to the attic I needed a step ladder. And the step ladder I needed was tied to the line that held the tarp to the lodge outhouse. So first I had to untie the tarp, gently pull the tarp off the outhouse, wrap it up, bring the stepladder inside, and fetch the filter from the attic. It didn't fit. By that time I was pretty hungry, so I grabbed a snack and went out on the porch to rest a little. While there I had an inspiration--I had 11 functional filters on the cabins; would one of them possibly fit the filter head still on the lodge filter system? It was actually a bit of a long shot, as they were purchased at different times and most were much smaller and of a different design. I took the broken filter to all the cabins and found only one possibility--the last in line at Cottonwood. I removed it and tried to replace it with the broken filter from the lodge; it was not a perfect fit, but enough of a potential that I decided to give it a try.

I wasn't able to screw the substitute filter in all the way onto the lodge system, but suspected it might make a seal, so I decided to give it a try. To turn the water back on, though, I needed the valve at the hose port to function, so in the meantime I'd heated most of the rest of the overwintered water (one gallon), soaked the end of the hose at the junction in it, fit the coupling with the valve attached into the hose, and tightened up the hose clamp. When everything was ready, I tramped back to the water source, turned the valve on, and rushed back to the lodge to view the results. Amazingly, the new filter housing worked and I had running water again. After installing the new filters cartridges in the housings, I also had running potable water. To complete the system, though, I needed to put together the gray water system so the drain would work. I chose two 100 micron filter bags from the box I brought down, dug out a couple of zip ties, and headed back to the "bear proof box." I cut off the rigid rim of the bags, cut holes around the mesh rim to "sew" in the zip ties, and cinched them onto the inlet hose and the outlet hose at the bottom of the barrel. It slid right onto the pipe leading to the drainage area, so I closed up the top of the barrel, stuck the outhouse tarp inside, and sealed up the box. It was actually a little more of a hassle than that sounds, as I had to go back for a leatherman, etc., but it went together pretty smoothly. Then I tightened up the drain pipes below the sink and was done.

Unfortunately, I found a dead fox sparrow under one of the windows while working; the bird appeared to be in rigor so probably had died since I'd been there (and taken the newspapers off the windows). No doubt the ultraviolet decals on the window (which I attribute to the almost total lack of window casualties for the last two years) had faded. So my next task was set: I had new decals, but would need to wash the windows before putting them up. Of course I couldn't find the window squeegee (which must be why I have two in Juneau), so had to be satisfied with a pillow case to rub with and a towel to dry. I washed all the windows on the lodge, dried them as well as I could, then went back to the screen-less windows on the two sides of the lodge and swapped out the hummingbird-shaped decals with new leaf-shaped decals. I tidied up a little inside, stowing the filters and a few other items in the attic before closing it up, then attempting (unsuccessfully) to fix the leaks in the hummingbird feeders (the only sealant I found was a rubber repair kit, which was certainly toxic and too dry to use anyway). After that I took a long break with hot chocolate and snacks, enjoying the bird life from the porch, after which I went for the COAAST walk described above.

After my leisurely break and bird watching, I brought filters to all the cabins (except Cottonwood), installed them, and tested the water systems (all functioned well, though two of the valves sprung leaks over the winter which I suspect will have to be replaced). I also made the rounds with fresh bottom sheets for the beds and pillowcases for the pillows and swept the cabins, their porches, and the outhouses. Before dinner, I spent half an hour a little ways down the beach on a log at the edge of the alders with a view both into the forest and across the beach. Birds included ruby-crowned kinglets in the bushes around me and varied thrushes and fox sparrows scratching at the base of the cliffs inside the forest and along the steep slopes below.

The day had been overcast and not especially warm, so I was chilled by dinner. So was Cailey. I stoked the fire still smoldering from earlier and read around it for some time and put Cailey's fleece jacket on her. I ate my chili outside, but Cailey was so cold by that time that she was shivering, so I put her back inside. When I came back in later she was laying half out of her bed with her head and neck leaning against the wood stove! We stayed a little longer, then retired to Hermit Thrush where I continued reading from bed. Cailey, perhaps warmed by the fire and the jacket, never attempted to come into bed and I discovered that sleeping with fleece gloves on can really help me stay warm.

Newly placed olive barrel catchment

Corvid footprints

The ducks are surprisingly unperturbed by Cailey

The next morning I slept until almost 9:00 again. I was icy cold, so jumped on an aerobic activity just to warm up: raking around all the cabins and the paths. To get to the rake, though, I first had to get into the shed where I'd stashed all my tools last fall and which had a full sheet of plywood screwed over the open door. Naturally the screws were the funny star shaped ones, for which I have no manual screwdriver. The drill that screwed them in was in Juneau, but I did manage to find a very rusty but appropriate driver and another cordless drill that had enough battery power left in it to operate. I removed all but one of the screws and snuck inside to retrieve the rake and civilize the paths.

By the end of that I had warmed up nicely and so had the day. The blue sky drew me to the beach to observe the myriad birds and I spotted an intriguing individual farther down the beach--it was clearly a robin (based on behavior, shape, and other features), but it was colored like no robin I'd ever seen. Probably leucistic, he was pale brown instead of gray on his back, and his breast was more buffy than orange. I stalked him down the beach, but he was not having any of it, keeping a comfortable distance and eventually disappearing while I was distracted by other birds. I wound up sitting on a big fallen log, totally enraptured by the activity around me. Pintails, teal, and gulls continued to dominate the water. On the beach, I was first taken by a pair of tiny western sandpipers that nearly disappeared into the short beach grass when I took my binoculars off them (see photo to left). Some songbirds were making fast flights out of the trees and back and when they landed on the beach I was surprised to see that there were the elegant yellow-rumped warblers. As I sat on the silvery log, a savanna sparrow also appeared nearby and fed around the small rocks and beach grass while I watched, his yellow cheek glowing whenever I focused on him. All seemed unperturbed by my presence and I watched them close by for some time. When I finally headed back to the lodge I was delighted to find the leucistic robin nearby and managed to snap a few more photos.

A little later I found a place behind the lodge that overlooks the narrow shelf of flat land between the beach and the cliffs and watched fox sparrows scratching on the ground, a hermit thrush perch nearby, a Pacific wren sing from the top of a log nearby, and thrushes feed along the base of the cliff. In all I was having a very relaxing day, but there was one more task to do before I was ready to head home. Troubled by the black swamp pooled up in front of the shed, I wanted to drain it so the plywood siding wasn't in direct contact with the muck. I retrieved hoe and clippers from the shed and started hoeing out a channel along the north side of the shed. A surprising current was soon flowing through the channel, but it took quite a bit of additional work with hoe and clippers to divert the seep from the front of the shed to the new channel. In the end, I'd dug a trench along half the front of the front of the shed that met up with the channel along the side and diverted most of the flow from uphill of the shed directly into the side channel. The volume of black soupy muck I hoed down that channel was impressive, a process I repeated endlessly to maintain the flow. When I was done with the channel and all the collected water had drained away, a steady stream still flowed from the seep. Good thing I put a floor in my shed!

At about 2:30 I closed up the lodge and kayaked out to the boat with Cailey. While I added fuel to the main tank and organized for the trip back, Cailey found her way onto the captain's chair and made herself at home. We pulled anchor, puttered into shore, and Cailey stayed on board while I ran the kayak up to the lodge and tossed my gear on board. They day was sunny, but the breeze that had risen troubled me and I was afraid I'd be bucking into a northwesterly all the way home. Gilbert Bay was choppy--not a good sign--but the seas were coming into the entrance to the port from Stephen's Passage so I held out slim home that it was coming from the opposite direction outside. I cruised the north shore after passing the sea lion haulout at a respectful distance and headed out of the port to disappointing seas. We ever so slowly bucked 1-2' seas all the way to Taku Harbor, me constantly apologizing for the banging to Cailey; it looked like it was going to be a long ride home. I listened to the forecast on my handheld which was calling for three or four footers (I don't recall); had I known what it was like out there, I probably would have spent the night and left in the morning. But once I was out there, it only made sense to continue.

In the lee of Grave Point we stopped to rest. I imaged the worst was yet to come in Taku Inlet, but I was pleased to find that waters actually calmer around the corner and the best part of the trip turned out to be Grave Point to Point Arden. I guess it was more of a westerly (coming down Stephen's Passage behind Douglas) than a northerly (coming out of the Taku) so perhaps I was actually in the lee of Arden. For whatever reason, I was grateful. The going was less pleasant crossing to Douglas and we bucked the chop all the way up the channel. I think the trip wound up taking three hours, the windshield squeaking like a demon the entire time (no doubt the result of some less than stellar repair work I did this spring), and I was sunburned and worn out by the time I got home. But the homestead was open and I felt more relaxed and happy than I had all spring, the grim anticipation of the opening behind me and the joy of fabulous birding fresh in my mind.

Northern pintails and green-winged teals	Savanna sparrow	Yellow-rumped warbler
Leucistic (?) robin	Cailey inspects the trench I dug to drain the shed	Captain Cailey

Just as I left it...