Snettisham iceberg
Photo album
Snettisham
2017 - 3: Rest and Return
July 1-3
I had an excuse to stay in town the
first weekend
after my
return from Mongolia, but the truth is there was no way I had the
energy
and
wherewithal after only four days back in Juneau to make it anywhere. I
was
still tired,
if somewhat recovered, when I arrived at work the next Monday. But
this weekend
was different and, with Tuesday a holiday, it seemed reasonable to take
Monday
off of work. As Friday waned, the forecast was calling for three
footers in the
morning tapering off to two feet in the evening and I was forced to
consider
the possibility that I'd have to put off the trip until late on
Saturday, at which
point would it be worth it?
But the morning brought a milder
forecast and I
hastened to
do the last minute animals chores before heading to parish breakfast to
reconnect with those folks before fueling up. I'd put the house in good
order
the
evening before and was feeling good about leaving. At 8:30 I headed out
to Western
Auto, having realized earlier in the week that my throw--required by
the Coast
Guard--had apparently been stolen earlier this summer. My ten-gallon
fuel tank,
which was full and wedged into the hold, had also been stolen within a
few days
of my last trip to Snettisham, but Ezra had bought me a
new one
while I was out of town, complete with the proper fitting. I'd tried it
out
last week and found that it worked perfectly and had stashed it in the
boathouse.
On the way back, I remembered that I
hadn't picked
up the
boat key from the garage, so I swung by home with a dog that tried to
follow me
inside. I assured her there were better things in store. Back at the
harbor I unloaded all
my gear
at the top of the ramp, parked the car, and took a cart down with four
jerry
jugs of gas and my fishing rod. While at the boat I filled up the new
tank with
fuel and started the engine to make sure everything worked, then took
everything
else I needed out of the boat house. Finally, I drug my cart back up,
used
the porta-potty,
grabbed Cailey, and loaded the rest of my gear onto the cart. I looked
carefully
around the little shelter there to make sure I hadn't left anything
behind,
surprised to see that the lid of my tote was partially open when I was
pretty
sure I'd left it tightly shut against the very steady rain. It was only
when I
was underway that I realized that my wonderful new weed whacker was not
on board;
evidently it had been stolen and my tote opened, though thankfully
nothing
appears
to have been stolen from inside it (my new camera was in there!). This
was all while I was within
sight, just
down the float. WTF, Juneau!?
But I didn't know that just yet, and
what can you do? I
never
thought anyone would steal gear that was clearly going to be returned
to at any moment. And a weed whacker, really? I finished loading and
pulled out
in the
dense rain around 9:30, uneasy about the breeze and the chop I
encountered in the
channel. We were running about 3900 rpms and I wrapped Cailey in her
blanket to
keep her warm in the rain. It was choppy, but manageable, and I
know
that sometimes the channel is the worst part of the trip. The day was
dense
with rain and mist, the distant points shadows. Half way to Arden it
looked
like the light chop was coming out of the Taku and soon the seas were
close to
flat calm. Relieved and pleased and imagining a smooth ride to welcome
me
back to
Snettisham, I opened up the throttle and we careened past Arden. I
thought about the
crisis I'm having about how to balance my life between
"town" and cabin trips. There's a lot I like and need about town and
I find myself increasingly torn between it and this other life,
especially when they
conflict or one saps the energy for the other. But getting the boat
ready and
heading out in the rain...it felt so much like home, as did the smell
of the
air on the water, the mist in the trees over the beach, the wave from
the
pleasure boater I passed. Being out and about in Southeast Alaska is
such
a
fundamental part of who I am.
But it doesn't really answer the
question. And as
I moved
toward Grand Island, the flat ocean was suddenly ridged with little
waves as a
brisk breeze swept across it. I picked up speed again, determined to
cover as
much ground as I could before that wicked breeze built the seas up
again.
It didn't take long and suddenly I was creeping along over two foot
seas and
trios of three footers over which I crashed no matter how much I slowed
down.
Cailey looked miserable. As the frequency of the three footers
increased and I took
a little green water over the bow I was forced to consider turning
around. It
wasn't exactly dangerous, but if I had to continue to plunge between
those seas
at a snail's pace...well, I wasn't sure I could do it all the way to
Snettisham. I wasn't sure I could do it all the way to Grave Point, but
I
really, really, really wanted to make it to Snettisham. The idea of
turning
around and staying in Juneau over the weekend (which is sometimes more
than
a little
enticing) held no allure, even aside from the guilt of not making it to
Snettisham after five weeks of absence including the entire month of
June. I
really wanted to go there, especially after getting myself onto the
water
through all the anxiety that comes after such an absence and my
town
crisis.
So that's what I told Cailey after a
brief bout of
frustrated tears. Let's just get to Grave and see what it's like on the
other
side, I said. Sometimes, sometimes it's better. Maybe it's better. It
was slow
going but we did, eventually, make it to Grave Point and beyond, where
I
turned
toward shore as there didn't seem to be any white caps over there. And
to my
enormous surprise the seas dropped down to a small chop and we were
soon back
up to speed and heading to Snettisham. Those seas behind us, though,
they'd taken
some of
the joy and innocence out of it. Sometimes I like it when I have to
"earn"
my way to a cabin with a bit of seas, but this time....it just slightly
soured
it. I need a bigger boat, I cannot handle being so beholden to the
winds which
never seem to stop anymore, especially if my trips are fewer and more
scheduled. I thought I might ask my parents if I can buy the Kathy M,
or a share of it.
This whole time I'd been sitting on top
of my
seat, with the
back folded down, so I could see over the windshield which was so
filmed with
rain that I couldn't see through it effectively. I was in raingear,
with a hat and my
hood up.
Snettisham was very misty, but in the distance a huge ice berg
appeared, just
where the port opens up and splits. It was an enormous slab, a bright
blue edge
shimmering where it had tilted toward the other side. It was by far the
biggest
berg I've ever seen in Snettisham and I marveled at how large it must
be
underwater. On the other side, which sloped gently to the water, a bald
eagle
sat but flew as I came into sight.
And three hours after departing, I made
my way
through the crab
pots and to the lodge, which looked blissfully intact. I have to keep
reminding
myself that it is not the end of summer. This feels like it should be
the last
trip of the season, but it's not even high summer yet....it's still
early
summer, early summer, and there could be many trips ahead.
There was a mud beach exposed and the
tide was
dropping. I
pulled in as far as I could with the engine, then paddled, the breeze
from
Gilbert Bay pushing us gently upriver until we grounded in water I
could wade.
I dropped off the tote, then Cailey, then anchored the boat to the
flats before
grabbing the last of my gear and heading up to the cabin in just one,
light
load. The lodge was perfect, the systems started right up. I lit a
fire,
puttered around, made some soup for lunch, and then plunked myself onto
the
porch with my binoculars, my new camera, and a couple of books. I only
really
used the latter. The eagle pair flew close together and then landed
next to one
another on their usual perching tree and crows flew past, but it was
otherwise
quite quiet. I'd heard crows being fed on the way into the beach and a
wren
sing, and heard some cheeps and chickadee calls periodically, but the
only
birds I saw were a few thrushes, including hermits flying by and a
fledgling
varied thrush who landed on the porch, as well as a pair of great blue
herons that
hunted briefly on the beach. The inlet was misty, the rain steady.
And as I sat there, my love for being in
this
place welled
up, and I found the solitude I'd been seeking for weeks at last. I
read for
two hours, then came inside rather chilled and lit another fire,
sitting in the
rocking chair while Cailey lay unsettled in her bed nearby, and wrote
about the
very end of my Mongolian horse ride which I'd not had time to do.
Emerging
overheated from that, I realized that I was desperately famished and
had to
immediately make some dinner. Cailey's stomach had been making her
strange
hungry rumbling sounds, so I fed her a third small meal. She's been
antsy all
afternoon, so I took her on a promised walk around the property, happy
to see
that the cabins are all intact and that most of the paths need little
maintenance other than clipping back invading bushes. I was surprised
to
see that
the path and campfire area on the beach are so overgrown than you can
hardly
tell where Rob cut. The bushes over the first boardwalk were leaning in
wildly,
so when we got back I turned around with the clippers and
trimmed most
of it back.
And so I am here, typing on my new
tablet (since
my laptop is
on its way to Seattle for repair), doubly pleased with my purchase,
and
wondering if there is still media on it I might enjoy on this rainy
night.
There is no sound outside but the pattering of rain on the vegetation
and it is
serene beyond description. Whatever I decide, however my life becomes
arranged,
it will involve being at this place, must involve being at this place.
The rain, mist to heavy, kept the valley
closed
all day, the
far side of Gilbert Bay appearing and disappearing again, and even when
I sat
on the porch thinking the rain had finally stopped, tiny droplets
struck the
river when seen through binoculars. The birds were just as quiet as
yesterday.
Last
night as I walked to Hermit Thrush, I thought about how hermit thrushes
sing in
the rain, and sing after others birds have stopped, and pondered how
this rain
must be dense enough even to silence them. Past the outhouse, then, a
distant
song reached my ears, soft and sweet, a hermit thrush somewhere up the
creek
perhaps. The rain was soft or dense enough to be quiet on the roof of
the
cabin, not pinging as it sometimes does. Or perhaps I slept too soundly
to notice.
Before breakfast, I did some exercises,
then ate a quick meal of
oatmeal
and bananas and settled onto the porch for a brimming cup of sweet
jasmine tea.
While I exercised inside, I let my phone shuffle through a few songs,
the
second of which was the Decembrist's June Hymn, one of my favorites. As
it
played, I saw out the window a seal in the river and my first
hummingbird came
by and I felt such joy at being here again, almost laughing aloud when
I
saw a
whale blow across the valley. The whale blew quietly on and off as I
spent most
of the morning on the porch. I added jays to the few birds that passed
by and
was pleased to add a second hummingbird. I finished the book "Hearing
Birds Fly", a wonderful memoir of a year living in a village in western
Mongolia
(which answered some of the lingering questions I had about nomad
life),
started another book, and went through morning prayer.
Before noon I headed off for a few
tasks, first
making the
cabin rounds and washing all the windows. My intent was to then screw
in all
the cross pieces for the windows inside but realized how time consuming
and
laborious it would be by hand when I had a tool in town that would make
quick
work of it; plus I wasn't pleased about the screws I'd purchased and
would like
to replace them. So instead I clipped the overhanging salmonberries,
ferns,
devil's club, and twisted stalk on the rest of the cabin trails and
then made
lunch, a predictable and delectable quesadilla feast with Blue Moon on
the
porch. When the tide dropped a bit, I took the gloomy Cailey for a
promised
walk. I remain plagued with uncertainty and guilt about Cailey's
happiness; I
think of this as a dog's paradise, but she's seemed so unsatisfied
lately,
laying in her bed on the porch with open eyes staring toward the river,
apparently discontent.
We must have found the only few minutes
that were
rainless.
I walked downriver first, spying up at the eagle nest to see if I could
learn
anything. Both parents have been often together, off the nest, which I
fear
doesn't bode well, especially in this rain, as the eaglet might still
benefit from
protection at the age he or she might be. On my way upriver, I was
pleased to
hear another hermit thrush in the trees above me, a sweet and delicate
song
that sounded somehow more feminine than most.
That walk seemed to take it out of me. I
considered using my
upright status to try chopping firewood or dusting the cabins or
cutting
asphalt shingles for traction on the cabin steps, but the farthest I
got was
picking up a measuring tape and tin snips from the shed. Instead, I
laid down
on the couch, read, and took a nap. I think I must need this rest and I
am
learning not to beat myself up over it. All these tasks can happen
another
time. I cooked a sirloin steak for dinner with peas and carrots in my
usual way
on the stove, and here I am, somewhat farther in my summer fantasy book
(one
I've been looking forward to for months), listening to Schumann and the
rain,
falling harder now as a little front has moved into the inlet. My
laptop
has been
broken since I came back from Mongolia and so I cannot check the marine
forecast. Tomorrow is the third of July and I have hopes to go to the
pre-fireworks
dance in the evening. Fingers crossed. In the meantime, Cailey is
curled up
next to me, I feel content and relaxed. After dinner, Cailey jumped
onto
the
couch and arranged herself with her head on my legs; later, she curled
up with
her nose and a crazy angle that made her wheeze with every breath, and
fell
into a deep sleep. Perhaps she is beginning to relax again into our
life with
confidence (and a walk) after my long absence. Cailey is a sensitive
dog.
I
slept deeply that night and didn't wake up until after 8:00. The rain
had been
steadier
(and louder) as I went to sleep, but had largely stopped by the time I
got up.
I had a bit more energy and big plans and started the day by moving the
boat to
deeper water just in case it wound up in an awkwardly shallow spot when
I decided
to head home. Then I had breakfast on the porch and read a bit before
finishing
clipping back the extending vegetation along the boardwalk and up to
the lodge
outhouse. Finally, I tried my hand at chopping some of the rounds that
have
been sitting under the tarp all this time, the ones I gave up on during
my
initial attempts. But this time I was going to actually use my wedges
and try
to do it properly. I made it through two small logs, then went to work
on a
larger round that was so full of knots that even a splitter would have
had
difficulty. I knocked myself in the knee when my maul fell over, and
decided I'd
had enough for the day. I think I need a gas splitter. Somehow I
decided that I deserved a beer for that feeble work, so I had one on
the porch as the sun began to peek
out. I
don't recall exactly how the rest of my day went, but at some
point I
had lunch and cleaned/packed up and headed out at 1:45, racing to take
the
kayak back to the lodge while the Ronquil sat on the edge of the bars
on a
dangerous falling tide. Excited to be on the water and relieved that
I'd
escaped the flats, we headed out, only to realize around the corner
that I'd
forgotten to turn the propane tanks off. I had turned the propane off
to the
refrigerator earlier, so it was only the pilots on the range that would
use
gas, but as images of explosions populated my head, I finally decided
to head
back and turn them off, once again racing against the falling tide. I
made it,
and lost only about 20 minutes.
The
huge ice berg was still in the port, close to Fanny Island. Seas
getting to
Stephen's Passage were rough and unpleasant, but manageable. One whale
blew
somewhere in the distance in the port. Stephen's Passage was full of
jumbly,
mostly southerly, two foot seas that sort of carried us home in an
awkward and
bumpy way. Gillnetters dotted the sea, clustered out of my range around
Slocum
Inlet. The blue sky in Snettisham was rapidly left behind as I traveled
north
into the dense clouds and rain that would dominate through the 4th
of July in Juneau. I made it home by 5:00, rallying myself for the
pre-fireworks dance a couple of hours later.
