Cailey waits for me
Photo album
Snettisham
2017 - 4: Wonderment
July 20-23
Sometimes
God communicates to me with
weather; sometimes God challenges me with weather. After my last trip
to
Snettisham, I stayed in town the following weekend, full of plans. The
next
week I looked at tides and other summer plans in town and mapped out a
trip to
Snettisham and a trip up the Taku before the end of the month. The
weather
looked perfect for a Friday evening departure, but I couldn't do it,
and thankfully my
guilt and shame diminished once I'd made the decision. I made good use
of the
weekend, attending to all kinds of little things then and into the
following week that
had been weighing on me. And so here I am today, a Thursday, with the
bright
promise of two full days here before my return on Sunday. The longer
stretch of
time--not uncommon not so long ago--feels like an extravagant gift.
And, for
the first time this summer, I seem to have a little bit of energy.
After a
predictable lunch on the porch and a bit of reading in the balmy,
overcast day
(not so balmy that I didn't eventually wrap myself in a quilt), I
managed to
measure all the cabin porches and then cut my asphalt shingles (which
have lain
in their bundle on the lower porch for a year I think, or more) into
all the
right pieces. I carried them to the cabins, tore up all the cardboard
stacked
by the firewood inside the lodge (most from my refrigerator of two
years ago), and did a
handful of other odds and ends.
It was
after six before I set about
working on dinner, a delicate ribeye steak cut into strips. The lodge
was smoky
afterwards, so I ate outside and then sat with a small glass of wine
to start a new book. While there I casually looked up to watch an eagle
begin
to dive on the river not far past the boat. So many of these dives are
aborted,
I didn't get too excited, but this eagle did not pull up, and appeared
to actually
turn and dive into the water at the last moment (rather than pulling
back with feet extended as we often see them do). He popped up and
began
swimming back to shore. I trained my spotting scope on him and was
astonished
and delighted to see a full six inches of salmon tail, slightly
pinkish, extend
out of the water behind him! This tail periodically swished into view
as the
eagle efficiently swam to shore, for once choosing the shoreline within
sight
of the lodge. I watched eagerly as the eagle pulled the salmon up, but
I
couldn't see its size or species. Hoping for a better look, I walked
down to
the water and a little closer, surprised when the eagle flew away and
left the
salmon flopping about, quite close to the water, when we were quite a
distance
away. I hadn't intended to get anywhere near enough to bother him, but
now that
he was gone, I ran over with Cailey right beside me to find a large,
humped
male pink salmon with lacerations along his back and blood at his
mouth. Cailey
circled him, intrigued, but unnerved by the periodic flops. I took a
few
pictures and a video, then carried him farther from the water and
bonked
his head to kill him a little. In the meantime, the eagle had
apparently
doubled back and was drying his wings in the tree above me (we were
near the
nest at that point). Tickled, but wanting to let the eagle at his
hard-earned
meal, we headed back. I admit I
was a bit disappointed when the eagle did not immediately go down to
claim his
prize, but continued to sit and dry and preen on the tree tops as the
tide came
in rapidly. I continued reading and waiting on the porch for a bit
until the
noseeums drove me inside where I set up a chair under the window for
light.
Something made me turn around and I caught an eagle apparently just
landing on
a branch about 20 feet off the ground, I'm guessing it was the same
one,
for the top
perch was empty. As I watched, he flew off and dropped into the water
several
feet from shore, dragging the salmon back onto the rocks. Naturally,
he'd known
exactly where that fish was the entire time. At last, he began to eat.
I
watched it through the spotting scope, the clarity as sharp as the best
documentary. At first I couldn't see the fish, only the bites he was
taking,
but then he drug it to higher ground and stood on it and I could see
the fish,
the eagle's orange feed on top of it, and the gouge in behind the head
where he
was eating, damp feathers over his chest and belly protruding in dank
spikes.
In an
effort to make better use of
it, I'd brought the spotting scope onto the porch as soon as I set up
my chair
out there and immediately decided to see if it could help me identify a
pair of
seabirds next to the Ronquil. The light and distance was such that I
could only
tell shape from here. Imagine my surprise when these two birds, the
only ones
in sight, turned out to be two Pacific loons. I have seen loons, some
much
closer, but I have never seen them like this. The detail was exquisite,
the
bright eyes and upward pointed beak, the red throat patch, the striking
stripes
down the back of the neck, the speckles on the back...and not just
loons at a
distance, intimate loons, loons whose eyes I could see clearly as they
peered in
my direction, faces narrower and sweeter than expected. What an amazing
device!
Birds have been quiet, normal for mid-summer and no longer
disappointing. I
heard Pacific-slope flycatchers a lot when I first arrived, heard
distant jays,
several thrush calls (not songs), and a flock of chickadees came by. I
found a
dead varied thrush by the lodge on the downriver side, and saw others
in the
woods, one of which seemed quite young. Mew gulls. A large flock of
crows,
eagles. Both hummingbird feeders were empty, one of which was clean and
the
other smothered in a thick layer of insects. I'm
guessing that
was the less popular feeder, but what exactly causes it to bring the
bugs, I'm
not sure. Maybe the hummingbirds left before they finished it, and so
it was
finished by the insects who could not escape? I put out one feeder
early,
soaking the other, but have seen no takers. That may be the worst thing
about
not coming more often...maybe I just need more feeders!
The
river is calm now and I am
reminded of my ride south, such a relief after the battles I've fought
this
year. It is mid-summer now, in that time when we lack those extremes of
weather, when you can for once feel confident about going out, when
"seas
two feet or less" can actually mean calm water. It's that Sweetheart
Creek
time of year, when somehow we always make it down. There were bits of
chop here
or there that slowed us down, and rarely was it ever really flat, but
it was
infinitely better than anything we've seen, and rarely did we have to
slow down
for the seas. Cailey spent most of the time laying down, even closing
her eyes
south of Grave Point, then perked up around Seal Rocks all the way in,
nosing
up over the windshield when snuggling with me before we entered the
port. No
whales on the way, despite my peering around often. The day was
overcast after
weeks of rain (the last really sunny days I remember were right after I
returned from Mongolia a month ago) which have only given us half days
without
precipitation, and those rare. It is a relief, and tomorrow promises
sun for
weedwhacking and other outdoor chores. Once here I was again
overwhelmed with
how much I love to be here. Maybe every third weekend--and a long
weekend--is a
schedule I can manage, with enough time to have a life in town and take
care of
town life so I am not a basket case in both places for exhaustion and
stress.
The seals are slapping the water out there. With my new camera, I
actually
caught flippers in the air last time. I wonder how deep that pink
salmon was?
It was in river water...there was a ripple on the water near where the
eagle
dove, so maybe he'd finned and caught the eagle's attention. I am
excited to go walking
there tomorrow, and to spy on the eagle nest from my aerie. Now I think
I will
wander to bed, a blessedly serene night of sleep ahead of me (I hope),
now that
at last I have returned.
I did
have a wonderful night's
sleep, starting in my fleece sleeping clothes, finally returned this
trip, and
ending without them. I turned my phone on at 8:24 after lying in bed a
while,
got up, and then came back for another half an hour or so. It feels so
lovely
to lay there, physically comfortable, with no obligations yet. When I
got up,
it was with joy and energy. I fed Cailey, washed my face, had a snack,
and
decided the tide must still be low enough (only half way up a rising
tide to a
mere 12.8') to take Cailey for her promised morning walk, hoping to
alleviate
the anxiousness she was certain to display all day otherwise. I grabbed
the
motion sensor camera from downriver and the cross post it was attached
to last
winter, and headed for Harbor Seal to reach the sand. But there was no
sand,
the tide already puzzlingly high. Was the river high from all the rain?
So I
carried everything back and, to what I imagined was Cailey's
dissappointment,
started work instead, nailing in the asphalt shingle strips on the
steps down
from the lower deck. That turned out to be more physically tiring than
expected, I was still hungry, and not in the best of moods. I fixed the
picture
that has been hanging in the cabin outhouse for years (screwing in the
fastener
that had fallen off and fortifying the backing with a piece of
cardboard from
the wine box), then decided I needed more food, and tea, which I had
intended
for the morning. An old fig bar and a cup of Russian tea and I felt
worlds
better. A little after ten I started making the cabin rounds to both
nail in
the asphalt shingle pieces and screw in the cross pieces with the new
screws I
bought last week. Cottonwood was first, naturally, shingles (minus one
I needed
to get from Harbor Seal, having carried the wrong one down yesterday)
and then
cross pieces. I had to go back to the shed for the bit to back out the
few
square screws I'd apparently put in to hold them in place. Then I went
to Mink and
repeated the process, then Harbor Seal, then Hermit Thrush. None of
them wound
up exactly finished, as I decided I need to put asphalt on the edge of
the decks
above the single stair, or no stair, on all but Cottonwood, but these
are the
ends of the deck, not the edges, so small squares have to be cut to
fit. Plus
I'd forgotten to screw in the cross piece to Cottonwood's door and
still
had
that last asphalt piece as well. So I returned for more shingles and
eventually
had the project finished after a couple of hours. I wasn't very hungry
yet, so
I had a cold beer on the porch to celebrate. Then I grabbed clippers
and
trimmed the upriver side of the path to the water near the porch, then
around
Nigel Cottonwood, then along the path against the lower deck. Nigel
Cottonwood
is huge, perhaps two inches at the base, with new branches at the top;
even at
an angle it towers over me, probably having put on a couple of feet
this year,
hung with big beautiful leaves. What joy!
Then I
did have lunch and
experienced a few minutes of the sunshine I'd been hoping for today. It
had
been very pleasant working in the woods with flycatchers singing, but
had been
pretty much overcast the whole time, if plenty warm. I saw a couple of
sparrows
drop into the grasses and heard sooty grouse, but otherwise the bird
life was
similar. After lunch I was ready to work fairly quickly again, so
carried the
generator over and weedwhacked to the river, around the firepit, and
along the
lower deck, then along the boardwalk. After raking and carrying the hay
mounds
to the river I saw that I hadn't done nearly as nice a job as Rob had
earlier
this summer, but it's still a great improvement. I read a little more
and then
finally roused Cailey for our walk upriver, stopping along the way to
drill
holes in the cross mount for the bridge camera. From there we headed
upriver around the outside of
the grassy point beyond which, with some difficulty, I found a place to
mount the
camera. The area is too rocky to use the pole on its own, so I used it
in
connection with a horizontal log above the normal high tide line
(though lower
than the alders, so it may be in the splash zone). I hope it is
adequately
high, and that it is at an angle to catch movement on the flats. It's a
good
idea, but a lot can go wrong, and it's too far away to want to test it
with my
laptop. I had chili,
bread, a third of a honeydew melon, and a nectarine for dinner on the
porch,
enjoying the serenity of the inlet (broken only by a handful of
helicopters
that seem to be disappearing around the corner to Sweetheart Creek, to
my
chagrin). While I read, my attention kept getting drawn to the soft
warbling
song or chatter of a bird in the salmonberries upriver, like a robin or
a jay
or a dipper, so soft, like a whisper. Down on the benches I had a
glimpse of
him or her, a small sparrow with a streaked breast that I think
centered in a
spot, eyeing me but continuing to sing. With the short grass, I also
had the
privilege to see two rodents or shrews meander across the path/along
the porch,
one of which drew Cailey's languid attention to sniff where he had
been. A
dozen or so marbled murrelets avidly worked the inlet, barely staying
above
water long enough for a few breaths.
I slept
well again and woke up
earlier than I have been, feeling perfect. A soft rain had begun to
fall on my
way to the cabin for the night, so I made good on my intentions of
sweeping all
the porches while they were still dry. With a tantalizing low tide upon
my
arrival at the lodge, I didn't even have breakfast before heading
upriver with
Cailey in the steady rain carrying my backpack with laptop and card
reader. I
decided that, with such an enticing tide and the need to walk the antsy
dog
anyway, I may as well head up there, fully suited up in rain gear but
barefoot.
My temperature was perfect. I admit I was a little alarmed at how close
the
water had come last night on a 17' tide to swamping the camera--the
pole
it was on was wet up to about 12" inches below the camera. It only
took a
glance at the tides to see that it would have to move--it might survive
the
upcoming 18 footers, but why risk it? It did take nice videos of me out
on the
flats, though it evidently took some time to wake up as I was able to
walk
right up to it before it turned on. I unwrapped the whole thing and
trekked
back to the rocky point, setting the cross brace up against a rock
outcrop, the
camera tied to it and loosely to a spruce tree behind it, with rocks
piled at
the bottom to help hold it in place (my pounding with a hammer drove it
only a
few inches in the bit of soil over the rocks). I had some breakfast and
then
puttered around on and off all morning, and afternoon, interspersing
tasks with
reading on the porch and, for a little bit in the early afternoon
before lunch,
on the couch. I think that was after I did the dishes and made a cherry
cobbler
with some rather old but not quite too stale biscuit mix of unknown
origin.
One
thing I tackled was the inside
of the shed, which had become unbearably cluttered and crowded. It
doesn't seem
like it's been that long since I last cleaned it out, but I was able to
make
considerable difference, largely by removing the two old saw horses and
shifting the riverboat gear and the old generator to the back. I still
need to
sort the screws and nails, but overall there is a lot of room and it
looks
quite nice. I finally drove some more nails in the studs to hang more
things.
In the lodge, I sorted and cleaned the food shelves and did the same
with the
little end table where I keep all my spare books. In the afternoon I
made the
cabin rounds again, dusting each of them (mostly the vanities and
window
sills), sweeping them (inside and the front wall outside), and hanging
a couple of orca
pictures in Harbor Seal that I've kindly been given to replace the old
paper
prints I'd had in there before. I also swept up the cabin outhouse. All
the
cabins but Hermit Thrush are now locked and, hopefully, ready for
guests.
Before dinner I dug out a hoe and started making what I hoped would be
relatively quick rounds again to all the cabins to scrape away whatever
dirt
had built up against the buildings. I did the shed first, then a little
around
Cottonwood, and then discovered to my dismay that the whole back wall
and half
of the upriver wall of Mink was quite built up. I unearthed the latter,
but the
other was too overgrown for my hoe. As was the upriver wall and porch
of Harbor
Seal. I gave up and hope to return tomorrow with a hand tool and more
patience.
That is my only other ideal task for tomorrow (other than cleaning up),
the
other being the creation of more firewood from old lumber. I made a
stack today
of the 2x4s that had made up the sawhorses and hope to cut them and
some of
what I suspect are rotting 2x4s under the tarps. I really should clean
that out
soon and put the lumber that's worth anything under the lodge.
In
birds I saw more thrushes today
around the salmonberries and what I think was an orange-crowned
warbler, and a
wren. The edges I cut off the salmonberries and currents along the
walkways has
helped, I think. And a second hummingbird showed up, prompting me to
put up the
second feeder. I'd considered not doing so, figuring that the one large
feeder
would feed the single hummer until she went south and that a second one
would
only kill a gazillion more flies, but when they were fighting over the
one, I
relented and put up the other. I also put together, after many years, a
few of
the "solar lanterns" I bought years ago to entice bats, but I don't
think they will get enough sun this afternoon to light tonight, so I'll
have to
wait to see the results. It has been raining steadily all day, at times
hard
enough to sound extremely cozy in the lodge.
I had
another solid night of sleep
and was shocked when I looked at my phone to find that it was 9:30,
after not
going to bed late at all! But there was really no hurry to return to
town, so I
avoided the temptation to feel stressed about a limited morning. I had
my
promised cup of Russian tea on the porch and then tackled the one big
project I
wanted to accomplish (well, big is an overstatement). I uncovered the
back
corner of the lumber pile and pulled out a stack of rotting 2x4s, some
dry,
some wet, but all decomposing, and all from the unused remnants of the
ADF&G
murrelet camp fifteen or so years ago. I carried them to the porch and
then cut
them into burnable pieces along with the remains of the two sawhorses
I'd
disassembled the day before, now all neatly stacked and drying out
under the
porch. I restacked the whole area, pleased that there was more wood
from the rounds I chopped last year than I'd realized. I also took
Cailey downriver to
spy on the eagle's nest, climbing up through a very wet slope of sodden
berry
bushes. At first I saw nothing in the nest and, after lingering for a
bit, was
about to give up when I noticed a small brown mound on the far left of
the
nest. Sure enough, it was feathers; I watched for a while and was
rewarded with
a view of the eaglet's head rolling across its back to preen. So the
nest is
successful. Other than that, a charming group of jays dashed around the
trees
poking around for snacks and calling loudly.
Back at
the lodge, I headed to the
point with my partially-charged laptop to test the new position of the
motion
sensor camera. After finishing with wood cutting, I'd left the
generator running
while I attended to cleaning chores to give it enough charge for this
task (it
had run out about 15 minutes into a Doctor Who the night before). I'd
intended
to walk out on the flats to see at what distance I could trigger the
camera to
run, and laughed when I discovered that the tide had made that
impossible much
earlier in the morning and there was only water out there. I tried
throwing rocks with
uncertain results, but it was beginning to seem unlikely that it would
trigger
from an animal so far below when the tide is out. I moved it into the
forest, facing the trail that
leads from the creek below my cabin. If wildlife sometimes uses the
trail by
Hermit Thrush instead of the bridge, this should catch them.
I did
some last minute tidying
in the lodge and in the shed and spent some more time on the porch,
going
through the noon time service since it was then early afternoon. I even
had a
cup of jasmine tea, which had the added benefit of emptying the stove's
propane
tank such that I could swap it out and take the empty tank back to
town. I
considered taking the fridge's tank back too, as it is low, but I could
still
light the pilot this morning, so I decided to let it run out. Having a
spare
next time means I'll definitely have enough for my guests. I'd found
the fridge
defrosted in the morning
apparently because I'd turned the temperature down too low. Tea and
prayers
were a wonderful combination looking out over a mild, overcast inlet.
Charging
my laptop also allowed me to check the weather, which looked the most
promising
all summer.
Unhurried,
I left the homestead at
2:47 and soon realized that this would be a good time to run my kicker.
Relieved that it started as well as it did, I sat in the back and we
puttered
out of the river. I soon threw my fishing line overboard and saw that
the big
pixie spun quite nicely at a moderate pace. Crossing Gilbert Bay, I
picked up
speed and pulled the pole up, figuring the salmon were more likely to
be
running close to shore, slowing down again short of Sentinel to troll
along a
break in the water there. I continued around the corner through
successive
water lines and even saw salmon jumping nearby, but no bites. I shut
down,
filled the tank and, just as I was about to head out at speed, an Allen
Marine
monohull came into the port from the south, blazed past me, and turned
around
where the port splits. My guess is they were looking for bears or
whales. I got
up to speed just as they came abeam and was tickled to find that I
matched them
exactly under full throttle. I paced them out of the port, then turned
north at
Seal Rock where they crossed Stephen's Passage to the other side. I had
the
pleasure of dodging gillnets all the way up and the even greater joy of
a
nearly flawless sea (broken by numerous wakes, but not by wind). The
whole
trip, in fact, felt a little magical and I had expectations of
something
amazing happening. I think the amazing bit was the intimate look at the
trees
and shrubs and lichens lining the shore in Snettisham as I trolled
southwest of
Sentinel. It was perfection.
