Cailey explores the sandbars near the boat
Snettisham
2013 - 8: The Bridge - Part 1
August 9-11
Cailey explores the sandbars near the boat
Two-thirty, right on schedule, I was puttering in
the
harbor, tense and in state of numb disbelief. It had been four weeks
since I’d
last been to Snettisham and I’d finally gotten underway for my first
full week
off (of three) this summer that might actually work out as planned,
with more
time away from town than in town. My boat, heavily loaded, was a little
bow-heavy so as soon as I exited the harbor I pulled out of traffic and
brought
my two jerry jugs to the back of the boat on either side of the column
of
lumber that weighed down the center. All of this under the watchfull
eyes of a Coast Guard boat—the one that boards small vessels. It was
the
first day of
the Golden North Salmon Derby and I was sure that, after all I’d been
through,
I’d be boarded. It’s not that I didn’t think I’d pass the boarding (as
far as I
know I’m compliant), but that was the last thing I needed, especially
loaded as
I was. Thankfully, they seemed to take no notice as I cautiously got up
on
step and started down the channel.
The afternoon was mild and overcast, the gentle
chop coming
from the stern, but the numbness held, as it does to only a slightly
lesser
extent now as I sit on the couch at the homestead typing. For better or
for
worse, the worth of my life is inextricably tied to the time I spend
here (or
similar places). Though I am somewhat shamed by this, when I arrive
here I feel
so exquisitely at home and comfortable, like there is nowhere I should
rather
be. And when I look out at the Ronquil at anchor I am doubly vindicated
for the
money I put into her. In my last trip report I described the reason I
wound up
at the Taku instead of Snettisham two weekends ago. My mechanic, Scott
Lawson,
stepped up the plate and put in a new gear box in just three days. The
Ronquil
was (as far as I knew) functional again when I picked her up before
work last
Friday, but I stayed in town that weekend for a friend’s going away
party.
And so enough time elapsed that I began to grow
nervous
about the prospects of being on the water again, much as I feel over
the
winter; after all, it had been two months since I’d last run the
Ronquil! On
top of that, I hadn’t exactly had the good experience I’d expected the
last
time I’d tried to get underway. As the week progressed toward the first
day of my week-long adventure vacation, I became more and more antsy;
though I
felt
like everything was more or less in order (since I’d been ready to go
two weeks
before), the list of errands left seemed endless, accentuated by caring
for an
ill fledgling marbled murrelet who did not seem to be getting better.
And so to
make life simpler on departure day and set my mind somewhat at ease, I
launched
the boat after work on Thursday in the dense misty rain. This took a
little
longer than expected, as I hadn’t pulled the plug when I’d trailered
the
boat to
take to my mechanic (since it had barely been in the water). It had
since
filled with rainwater and took considerable time to drain. Since I do
not have
a built in bilge pump (I need to reinstall platforms for the pump and
float
switch on the new floorboard supports) and had a heavy load, ridding
the boat
of rainfall before launching seemed worth the wait. When I finally did
turn the
key, the engine started as expected and we puttered over to my
long-empty slip
to tie up for the night. In an effort to stave off theft of my valuable
PT
lumber (about $400 worth), I threw a tarp over it and wrapped it
several times
in a rope. It wouldn’t take a lot of effort to free it, but I hoped the
extra
work would discourage thieves.
I found everything in place today when I arrived
at the harbor.
I clipped
Cailey off on the front fender line to prevent her from wandering off
and
returned to the top of the ramp for a second and final load of gear.
The lumber
through the center of the boat took up a lot of room, but everything
found a
place and Cailey was the only one to suffer. She didn’t enjoy the
passenger
seat as much as I expected and spent most of the ride shifting uneasily
in
various positions making use of the seat and the lumber between us.
Topped with
her old yellow blanket (which at times kept the wind from coming
through the
crack between the window and the lumber), she kept trying to drape
herself over
the top of the stack and would have laid down there if there’d been
enough
room. Hopefully she thinks the ride is worth it now that she’s chewed
on some
sticks, shaken a log, and wandered around the beach a little. I’m sure
some of
my stress overflows to her.
And so here we are. We arrived around 4:30, not
quite an
hour after high tide, and the Ronquil slid right up onto the edge of
the log. I
got Cailey to jump off the bow and into the grass (getting water over
the top
of my right boot in the process), then ran up to the lodge with the
cottonwood
tree cutting I had, grabbed a pair of gloves and the kayak, and hustled
back to
the water. Since the tide was falling, I quickly started sliding the
lumber in
the bow onto the beach; once all that was off, the boat floated
freely again
and I more leisurely unloaded the rest of the lumber and then all the
gear.
Cailey hopped back on board and we slid away from the beach and out to
anchor.
Hungry and tired, I left the lumber on the beach, hauled the rest of my
gear
up, turned on the water and the propane, and heated up some baked beans
for
dinner, garnished with stale chips leftover from the last trip and
wine,
amazingly still fresh after what must be a few months here now.
I lit a fire after dinner and read for a few
minutes, then
hauled the lumber up in small loads onto the lower deck in about 15
minutes.
Now the fire gently crackles and I wait for the calm to sink in as the
wine is
slipping down to my toes. I’ve just finished writing the trip report
for my
most recent trip up the Taku two weeks ago, it’s 8:38, and I’m heading
to my
cabin to read myself into what I hope will be a restful sleep.
Well, sleep wasn’t particularly restful (I read
for a while
in the middle of the night), so I got a late start after 9:00. My
immediate
goal was to get started on the bridge, so after some instant oatmeal
and
berries for breakfast I picked up one of the existing cedar railing
posts, took
measurements, and began cutting the new 4x4s into matching posts. To do
this, I set
the
depth of the skilsaw to 1.5” and made a crosswise cut into all eight
pieces
(having first cut the 8’ boards in half) about 6” from the bottom. Then
I
increased the depth to 2” and cut lengthwise from the bottom almost to
the
first cut on either side. I tried using a handsaw to finish the cut at
first,
but it was slow going and I soon discovered that a little chisel work
finished
the job nicely. I then painted the cut ends of the boards with rot
protection
and let them dry in the sun on the deck.
With assembled tools on site (level, hammer,
nails, pencil,
chisel, etc.), I carried over four of the posts and started setting
them up in
their notches on the uphill side (cut the last time I was there). Each
one was
carefully (more like awkwardly) held in place more or less plumb and
nailed in
with a couple of nails. One notch I carved away at a bit, as it wasn’t
quite
plumb itself and was causing me difficulties. Once all posts were
plumb, I laid
2x4s across the top of the first three posts and discovered that they
were
wildly too high. At 42” they were only about 6” higher than minimum,
but I
decided it would be worthwhile to trim them down a bit. I had to cut
the bottom end
off the far upriver post anyway as it rested on a stone foundation and
couldn’t
dangle down as far as the others (the other three were within ¼”
of being the
same height so I left them alone). So I carried them all back, trimmed
them up,
and broke for lunch. Afterwards I sat in the hot sun on the benches by
the
firepit and watched a single hummingbird investigate the feeder without
actually eating anything (I’d added a few cups to it that morning,
after
rinsing out an inordinate number of drowned flies). Then I carried the
posts
back to the bridge, treated the new cuts and the notches in the logs,
and
nailed them back into place. Then, with some trepidation, I drilled
pilot holes
and began screwing in the lag bolts. This proved to be somewhat more
laborious
than I’d expected, as I apparently don’t have a socket set that fits
such a
large head! So I carefully turned them with a wrench, made even more
awkward on
the two end posts because the stone foundations were in the way and I
could
only rotate them less than 180 degrees. The first one was the most
difficult
and the others went in fairly readily.
But eventually they were all secured, though I
think I’ll
return with longer lag bolts to give them a little extra holding power.
By that
time it was 3:30 and I decided I’d better get ready to go fishing. I
finished
packing, locked Cailey in Hermit Thrush with a snack and a hoof (having
romped
around the property all day on her own, she was more than ready for a
quiet nap
on the bed), and kayaked out to the Ronquil. Getting ready for fishing
is tense
work, and even though there was nothing more I could to do prepare all
day, I’d
felt antsy. Now finally I was getting underway—but would I be able to
claim my
fishing spot? And if so, would I find any fish? Would I have any
uncomfortable
bear encounters? Had I forgotten anything?
At 4:00 I pulled in to anchor at the end of
Gilbert Bay,
surprised to find only four boats there, one of which was occupied. I
quickly
anchored, dropped the net on my kayak, and plopped in for the ride to
shore.
All was quiet on the way up and I was pleased to see the point
apparently
unoccupied. A bear fished at the lower
falls and, when I dropped down onto the point, I looked upcreek to find
two bears
fishing, one at the falls and the other about 20 feet away between me
and the
falls. I scoped them out for a while and made sure they knew I was
there, but
neither seemed concerned and only mildly interested when my net hit the
water.
I caught a pink and a jack in the first cast, then only pinks or
nothing at
all. The only other fishermen on the creek were two guys standing in
the upper
pool above the falls, something I’d never seen before. I couldn’t tell
if they
were catching anything, so after many failed attempts at catching
sockeye, I
eventually caught their attention and asked through hand signals if
they were
having any luck. They thought I was asking about bear traffic and
indicated
which way the last bear they’d seen had gone, but I managed to convey
through
artistic hand wiggling that I meant fish. The answer was that the pool
was full
of fish, and perhaps a suggestion that I should fish from the other
side (which
would be of mutual benefit as we could push the fish back and forth to
each
other). But I was not wearing waders and am generally reluctant to
cross the
turbid water, so I dejectedly continued casting into my pool.
In the meantime, the bear at the falls above me
had
disappeared and a mama bear and two young-of-the-year cubs had appeared
in the
shallows below me, crossing the deadfall over the side channel. Then
the young
bear who’d been fishing right above me moved directly in my direction.
Now, I
thought I knew what he was doing, but it’s nevertheless a little
alarming to
have a bear walking straight for you with nowhere to retreat. I grabbed
my bear
mace and made some noise; he paused and then kept straight on coming,
and it
was a relief when he gestured toward the crevasse he was bound for and
turned
up it, no more than about ten feet away (it was the closest spot for
him to
exit his fishing hole). From there he passed right over the top of my
point,
now about 15 feet above me, and right to where mama had her cubs. She
didn’t
like that at all and chased him upriver (thankfully not in my
direction). They
disappeared around the falls and got the attention of the guys fishing
up there
who had even less of a place to retreat to than I did. One of the guys
fired a
pistol once or twice to discourage them from coming down to where they
were and
were then further troubled by casual visits from the cubs.
For myself, I was having no luck with sockeyes and
not even
catching large numbers of pinks (a surprise, given the large volume of
pinks returning
this year). After about 20 minutes of casting, a guy showed up from
below, the
owner of the cast net I'd found sitting on the point. He confirmed that
the
sockeye had
moved into the upper pool; that morning, his group had caught only 10
sockeye
from that point over three hours, and all from the edge of the white
water
(which was out of my rather poor reach). He offered to show me and
asked if I
minded if he cast a few times. While he practiced reaching the turbid
water, I
watched the mama and cubs settle in at the falls, the cubs reclining
adorably
over crossed paws on the rocky outcrop above their mother.
The fisherman and I chatted a little bit while he
continued
to cast; he eventually placed the net perfectly and pulled in one
sockeye and a
pink. I helped bonk the sockeye and was terrified to see the guy open
up the
net before
I had a chance to secure the fish. I hastily reached up the gills only
to have
him wriggle up and off my hand. He gave us a merry chase before I
finally
secured him and gave him another bonk. After that, the fisherman moved
into the
pool below me and cast into the turbid water there, frustratingly
pulling in
another half dozen sockeyes or so while all I had to show for my effort
was one
jack, which I kept. Discouraged and a little apathetic, I threw one
poor cast
after another before I finally pulled myself together a little and
started to
analyze how I might improve my efforts. By holding the net rather up
from the
lead line, I improved my throwing distance and soon approached the edge
of
white water with a good throw, resulting in two sockeye amongst half a
dozen or
so pinks. There were so many tangled in the net that I simply left it
in the
water while I bled and tied on the two sockeye; the pinks were stressed
but
unharmed as far as I could tell and all of them eventually swam away
once I
disentangled them.
The green water I was typically throwing into
yielded a lot
of small dollies and, once, a quite nice sized dolly (I considered
keeping it,
but wasn’t sure if it was legal—still, it was a pleasant catch). Other
areas
yielded pinks. It’s actually pretty interesting how different species
use the
same creek so differently. At about 5:55, the fishermen stopped by to
let me
know he was taking off; by then the two folks above had disappeared and
I was
about to be alone on the creek. Still disappointed, I said something
about
fishing until 6:00 and then calling it quits. Something changed,
though, once I
was alone and not worried about other people watching my technique. For
some
reason, I got a lot better, and within minutes threw a nice cast right
at the
edge of white water. As soon as the net hit, I saw a silver flash and
had an
idea that a sockeye might have been caught. Sure enough, a big
beautiful female
was in the net! Although I’d said I’d fish until 6:00 and I’d just
caught a
beautiful fish on what could have been my last cast, (always a good way
to
end), I wound up justifying a few additional casts because the recent
fish
needed to bleed out a little in the water. After several more tries, I
made
another good cast in the right spot and pulled in a net full of pinks.
One of
them had twisted itself into a corner of the net and I soon turned my
attention
to disentangling it, only to do a double take and realize it was, in
fact,
another big female sockeye! I quickly dispatched her, absolutely
thrilled to
add another sockeye to my stringer. Although I could hardly ask for
more, I did
make a few more casts while she bled out before I finally called it at
about
6:15. I’d been fishing for about an hour and forty-five minutes; given
that
much better fishermen had only pulled out five more fish than me in
three
hours, that’s actually not so bad!
In the meantime, mama bear had caught at least
three fish
but was gone by the time I packed up. Since I was, as far as I knew,
alone on
the creek, I didn’t even consider cleaning my fish in the lower creek
but
planned to pack them back to the boat or even the homestead. I
chattered on the
way down, noticed the cub prints in the black mud (much drier than in
other
years), and stumbled onto one of the fishermen from the upper pool at
the first
grassy shore. We chatted for a few minutes, during which we both
admitted to
being wet to our toes (I in xtratufs, he in hip waders), before the
fish
pulling on my back prompted me to finish the trek to the beach. He was
waiting
for someone to pick up the fish in a raft and was yelling at a bear
across the
river off the mounds of fish laying in the dirt at his feet. Someone
had moved
my kayak farther up the beach and wrapped its line around a large log
over the
trail, though I’m not sure why given that the tide was falling the
entire time
(I assume this was a kind gesture in case I stayed through to high
tide). I
drug everything down to the water and kayaked out to my boat.
And there I decided to try something new. I filled
the poorer
cooler (in which my third bag of ice had largely melted) with sea water
and
dumped the fish inside. I cleaned them all in there, rinsing each off
in fresh
salt water before icing them in my good cooler. Sitting on the back of
the boat
with the cooler on the back bench was still tough on the back, but a
lot better
than crouching over a bear-infested creek! When everyone was on ice, I
pulled
anchor and cruised back to the homestead on an utterly flat calm and
jaw-droppingly beautiful Gilbert Bay. The day was calm and hot, the
blue sky
and green mountains and glassy water miraculous. And I had fish to put
in the
freezer, and nothing more to stress about. In awe and relief, I smiled
my way
back to the homestead where I let Cailey out before changing clothes (I
was
soaked from the belly down) and drinking a hot cup of café
francais before
making quesadillas for dinner.
That evening I read on the couch while I came down
off the
stress of fishing (and thinking about fishing) and was ready for bed
quite
early. Unfortunately, sleep did not come quickly and I considered
regretting
the caffeinated drink I’d had at 7:30 (though in the end I decided it
was worth
it). When I did finally sleep it was only for an hour or two and I was
wide
awake again. After laying in bed for some time, I finally decided to
make the
most of the situation. Having just been considering the wisdom of Alex
Venteux
in Luminary (my favorite episode of the TV series Millenium), I decided
to
behave as I’d like myself to behave, despite the desire to simply stay
in bed.
Instead, I grabbed my head lamp, put on my short robe, and walked down
to the
rocky point; it had occurred to me that the sky was clear and it was
August (a
rare combination), and that there was a great meteor shower in August.
The
rewards were spectacular. The Milky Way, so rarely observed here in
summer, was
clearly visible up and down the river and the stars were reflected in
the
glassy water. I lay on my back and watched about a meteor a minute
flick across
the sky and trying to memorize constellations for later identification.
The
third meteor or so blazed like a flare above me, its prominent streak
shining
like white hot metal and continuing to glow much longer than the
others. I saw
several of these dramatic meteors in the 15 minutes or so that I laid
on the
rock and gazed at the sky.
 Cutting rail posts |
 Treated notches drying in the sun |
 Gull landing prints in the mud |
 Top rails laid out |
Starting the rails |
 Middle rails secured |
Unfortunately, I had to stop there as I had other
pressing
errands to do before heading out to catch the tide up the Taku. First I
went
for my COASST walk with Cailey, finding several bits of salmon jaws on
the
flats. On the way back I stopped at the boat and let the bilge drain
out while
I refueled. Then I packed and cleaned the lodge, closed up Hermit
Thrush (I’d
left the door and window open again to help air it out), and picked a
spot to
plant my new cottonwood. A month or so ago I’d come across a chunk of
cottonwood tree on Sandy Beach, probably one that drifted out of the
Taku on a
flood and found itself in Juneau (I can’t think of any other place it
could
have come from). The leaves were still green, so I broke off a couple
of
branches, washed it off at home, made a clean cut at the bottom of each
branch,
and placed them in water. Not surprisingly, all the existing leaves
fell off,
but were immediately replaced by vibrant green buds and leaves, and
roots
curled out below in abundance. One of them I’d left behind in Juneau to
plant
there, but this was one destined to double the cottonwood population at
the
homestead. Not wanting to crowd the existing cottonwood on Nigel’s
grave, I
planted this one in the clearing below Mink cabin (where we’d created a
view)
between clumps of alders. It looks like a good spot and I hope for the
best.
Although I’d measured and marked three 2x4s to cut the first balustrades, I was out of time. I fetched and loaded the boat (still barefoot, having worked all weekend without shoes), and Cailey and I were off in a wonderfully spacious boat right on time at 2:00. I was discouraged at first by a chop coming straight down out of the Speel, then heartened (but confused) by a really nasty chop coming in from Stephen’s Passage from the southwest. A quarter mile from the entrance we passed over those strange tide rips that are often there and onto flat water beyond. Stephen’s Passage was gentle ripples all the way north, the turquoise water glowing under the bright sun. Around 3:00 I passed Circle Point, excited to hug a coastline I’d rarely seen close up. Shortly thereafter my phone got a signal and I chatted with Chris for a while, gazing down into the clear green water and wishing there was an orca nose coming up out of it (the visibility would have been great for that). From there I headed upriver with no incident, watching the water depth on my fathometer as I made some exploratory maneuvers with the skiff. I came away with the general impression that the middle of the channel is still the way to go, and was interested to see the change in water depth between the rocky cliffs above Hut Point (33-20’) and the channel along the grassy marsh just upriver (10-12’ in most places, with one stretch at 4-5’). It was shallow again (4-5’) across the mouth of the slough, and even shallower along the bank above that. I don’t know what the depths actually translate to (not sure at what angle the fathometer was reading), but the relative depths were interesting enough.
