Stephen's Passage in August
Photo Album
Snettisham
2018 - 5: Sweetheart Highs and Lows
August 16-20
The
vestry trip was cancelled. I'd delayed a day going down to
Snettisham partly because it was no longer needed, since I was not
constrained from fishing by the arrival of guests, partly because the
weather was initially calling for three foot seas, and partly because
after a long weekend at the Taku I was thoroughly exhausted and it
would have been difficult to pull myself together in just two evenings
in town. So I woke on Thursday morning for what I hoped would be a
nice, settled weekend alone at Snettisham with a Sweetheart Creek trip
to start it off. I'd dreamt of fishing that night, fitful dreams of for
some reason being unable or unwilling to go to the creek and then
deciding I could cast for sockeyes off Seal Rocks of all places,
settling on that idea, then realizing that there was no bottom there
and the fish would just swim out the bottom if there was no surface for
the net to rest on. All in all, it was a dream the product of the
anxiety that inevitably precedes Sweetheart. Would I find my fishing
hole unoccupied? Would bears give me trouble? Would there be fish there
to catch? Would something happen to me unbeknownst to others that would
leave Cailey locked in my cabin without food or (much) water for days?
I don't know if that had anything to do with it, but I woke up cranky
and not full of energy, dragging myself out of bed later than I
intended. I showered, gathered the last of my things, took Cailey on a
short walk to the mailbox, and left to pick up a jerry jug of gas and
some bread and a few other items at the store. We were underway at
10:30 and I soon enjoyed my treat of donuts on the way down the
channel, as I never eat enough on a morning like that. It was raining
the whole time we loaded so I was in raingear over my t-shirt and hot
when we started out, but I took the time to put my lucky fishing hoodie
on underneath before I donned the life jacket, knowing I'd cool down as
I stopped working. I did, and was soon grateful for the gloves I'd
packed. The rain stopped by the end of the channel and the clouds
lifted, and thankfully the ride south was nearly calm.
We did arrive at a low tide, however, a 2 foot tide that must have been
in combination with a very low water level in the river, for the flats
were out about as far as they ever are and I ran aground below them,
lifting the engine to putter back over to the channel. We were able to
skirt the edge of this northern most channel where the mud broke in a
sheer 8" cliff, but I was surprised to find that it did not extend very
far before the edge of it curved toward the other side of the river
where the main channel ran. I could clearly see the arc of this bit of
channel sweeping over toward my shore, but the channel from the seep in
front of the lodge was isolated, ending in a shallow wash that emptied
into the channel I was in just about where I stopped puttering and put
ashore against the shelf. I let out a lot of the anchor line and drug
it far up on the flats, thinking that I might keep dragging it up as
the tide rose since I was planning to head out in a few more hours. I
was still quite a distance from the cabin, so I just carried my
backpack and the cloth bag of perishables, conveniently already packed
together in one bag since they were the last items added. I efficiently
opened up, ate delicious quesadillas, and laid down inside to rest,
thinking I needed a reset before fishing. I must have fallen
unconscious for a few minutes, but mostly I lay in a half doze state
listening to Cailey climbing onto and then off of the couch on the
porch (she wouldn't come inside) and other random noises, but I did get
up 50 minutes later a little refreshed. It was 2:10 and I set about
getting ready. My backpack was purged of all unnecessaries and filled
with the net, a garbage bag, tin snips, bear mace, and a bonker. I
grabbed a plastic stick from the shed to help me walk, failing to find
the wooden pole I used last year, got my waders ready, and messily
grabbed a spoon full of peanut butter and a pork rawhide for Cailey,
who eagerly followed me to Hermit Thrush. I scraped the peanut butter
on her hoof there and left her licking it. She didn't call out or
complain too much, I think she knows the routine now and, although she
hadn't had much of a walk, she had had a boat ride, and could probably
use a nap as well.
I kayaked out to the boat, having realized that there was no need to
keep pulling up the anchor since I needed to bring the kayak along
anyway, and was underway at 2:50. Ten minutes later I was pulling up
next to a single boat at anchor, easily anchored for once, a little
closer to the beach than usual because I was on a rising tide was not
planning to leave much past the turn, and kayaked in to shore. It was a
mercy not to have to pull the boat up on a low tide, but only had to
scrape over about ten feet of barnacles before I was on the grass. I
left the kayak at the entrance to the woods, noting that I saw no
tender from the other boat, and chatted my way into the woods, bear
mace with safety off in hand. Just as I'd finishing crossing the
peninsula and stepped down onto the first beach by the creek, a pair of
men in an inflatable towing two barrels passed by and I asked them how
it went. They said it had gone well but that they thought people had
been feeding the bears as they were aggressive and one had followed
them out. I thanked them for the heads up and continued up the bank,
calling my "hey bear"s. I soon heard a loud shout and turned around
thinking that the men on the boat had yelled at me, but they seemed
serene in the distance. I then heard more noises close by and realized
that there were people calling to bears in the woods. I yelled "hey
bear, hey human" and received a friendly warning from an unseen lady
that it was thick with bears up there. I was soon to be alone on the
creek, so
was extra cautious to be noisy and polite as I picked my way to my
point. When I descended to my fishing spot, a young, round brown bear
was fishing the falls just above,
but didn't seem overly interested in my presence. I set my pack on the
garbage bag in a crevasse, put my bonker and knife nearby, said
prayers,
and
made a cast into the pool. There had been a handful of pinks paired off
down in the spawning reaches below, but it wasn't as packed as I often
see
it; I could see fish in the pool below the falls there, but was
surprised not
to see much evidence that the point had been used recently, no fins or
blood in the little bleeding crevasse. The creek was of average height,
maybe a little low, plenty of the little rocky point exposed to stand
and balance on, and no rocks showing in the pool, which was both green
and white. In fact, they were rather perfect conditions, though I
didn't
think about that at the time. I felt the warm vibrations of fish in the
net shortly after it struck the water, warm because it warmed my heart
to feel them, that life pushing against the net, quivering expectantly,
and as the net came up to slide over the falls, I saw a flash of silver
inside. I had one beautiful sockeye and several pinks, all the latter
of which
were released from the tangly net alive and in fairly good condition I
think. I bled and strung the sockeye on a long line and placed her in
the
little crevasse. On my second cast I came back with two sockeyes
and some pinks. Possibly only pinks on my third cast, but the fourth
came back with FOUR sockeyes (and maybe a pink)? Two weren't especially
large sockeyes and, for some reason, I was compelled to let one of them
go, which I did. And so, fifteen minutes into fishing I had six
fish on my line and I let them sit in the creek for a minute to bleed
since the crevasse was not big enough for all of them. Actually, I'm
not sure they were still bleeding by then as it was so difficult to
extricate
fish from that very tangly net. I'd arrived at the point at 3:15, only
35 minutes from departing, and it was then only 3:30!
After that I made
a series of poor casts, some with the net like a taco, some possibly
poorly placed, but regardless they came up empty. I was thinking that I
should pause and take pictures of the bear, but was also loath to stop
fishing and dig it out, so I said that after the next time I caught a
fish I'd break for photos. About the seventh cast or so, I caught a
single fish which I thought at first was a pink but turned out to be a
bronze sockeye, which escaped with no effort on my part. Not what I had
in mind, but it was in fact a fish, so I dug out my camera just as the
bear ceased fishing and crossed the little inlet between our points to
my own peninsula. I snapped a few shots as he gazed at me from the
bottom of the rocks while I spoke loudly, asked him to move on, and
grabbed the bear mace. I tracked his progress over the top of the
peninsula and down the other side, where there is a convenient rocky
shelf connecting him to me. When he reached it and looked my way
intently again, I talked with him loudly, mace in hand, not sure
exactly what I'd do if he came ambling my way. My fish, thankfully,
were tucked into the crevasse and not visible from where he was.
Thankfully, he turned and crossed the little side channel there onto
the rocky shelf beyond. And there he set himself up at the edge and
continued gazing to me. Or, at least, that's what a paranoid person
would think. I was definitely on edge because of the double warnings
I'd heard. Probably the bear was waiting for a dead or injured fish to
float down toward him, possibly one I released from my net, which
definitely happens sometimes, rather than waiting for me to actually
toss him a fish. Nevertheless, it was but a hop, skip, and a jump from
him to me and I was uneasy about bringing in a mass of wriggling fish
while he watched. My catch was still hidden from his view, but would
that be irresistible? I didn't want to find out. There was one time
that I fished with ease while a brown bear swam just 20 or 30 feet
away in the creek, but I was not comfortable enough with that this
time.
Maybe that gaze, maybe the warnings, maybe just that I was alone. So I
stood and watched him and talked to him and, thankfully, he eventually
turned and dropped down toward the falls below, out of sight. I saw
his ears disappear and decided to make another cast, much relieved. It
was a carefully, prayerfully executed cast, and multiple flashes of
silver flared as it passed over the falls. I thought I might stop at
ten fish if I were that lucky, so thought "Okay, if there are four fish
in this net, we'll call it good!" (sill a little uneasy about that bear
around). There were five, and I kept them all, not even a pink among
them. So there I had eleven fish, which I drug over to the
stringer. I let them all sit in the creek for a bit before the
movement of the current made me too uneasy and I tucked them back into
the crevasse while I packed up my gear. After rinsing the net, it went
in the garbage bag which went back in my pack and when everything else
was tucked back inside, I carried it up to the top of the peninsula and
left it in a convenient place to pick up later. Then I untied the
stringer, slipped my catch into the dry bag, buttoned it up, and
managed to hang it on my back, dragging myself up the cleft to the
top where, once again, the previously heavy backpack felt feather light
in comparison to the load on my back. With heavy and careful steps, I
moved slowly down the path calling out to my bear friends, awkwardly
sliding over the log at the bottom.
When I'd crossed the second
peninsula and descended the steep slippery slope below, I
decided to try the interior path again instead of sticking to the side
of the creek like I usually do. I hadn't liked it before, but half the
party I'd passed had been using it and I thought perhaps it was
therefore better worn than it had been. It was a mistake, alternating
black quagmires and big logs to traverse, neither of which I'd have
encountered on the shore! Once, inbetween logs, I looked out into the
forest below and spotted several men in survey vests and realized that
I'd forgotten to fill out my permit info on the creek. Afraid there
might be a trooper among them, I sat on a log and hastily filled it
out,
then had a lot of trouble standing on the slope in the muck while I
realized that they were, certainly, just surveyors, what with all the
survey tape around, no doubt from for the impending hydroplant. I
thought sadly that this might be the last time I fish Sweetheart
Creek as it is. I also kept looking longingly toward the creek, amazed
at how long it was taking me to cover a short piece of ground. Finally
I escaped the mucky, brushy, loggy "trail" and rejoined the paths
through the dry forest, crossing back to the kayak. It was so heavy
with
the fish on board that I soon put the fish back on my back and drug
that kayak with only my backpack on it. And oh what a relief that the
water was so close, now actually creeping up the path through the
beach grass!! Back on board I set myself up to clean, laying the tarp
across the back bench and filling the cooler with saltwater (using my
dry bag to gather it), where I put the fish to chill. One at a time
I lifted them out, cleaned them (after successfully guessing their sex)
and put them back inside. Nearby, the other boat was doing the same and
chatting quietly. It was 4:15 when I'd gotten back to the kayak (!)
and it was 5:10 when I dropped off the fish and gear at the homestead.
I left the cooler on board and put the fish on the tarp, which I drug
up the grass to the porch. By the time I'd anchored, carried all the
gear up, released Cailey (who ran ahead, I think knowing what I'd
been up to and wanting to investigate), and set the card table up on
the
porch with knives, plywood for a cutting board, spoon, bowl for
scrapings, tray for fillets, paper towels, and wine, it was 6:00. I'd
for the first time forgotten my fillet knife and knife sharpener at
home, so I had an assortment of local knives to use, one of which soon
because the favored one for its slightly better edge. Still, the cuts
are not what they
usually are, noticeably jagged, and I created a lot more scrapings than
I usually do! Still, not much more was wasted than usual and there are
plenty of pretty cuts to give away. I portioned for an hour, then
started the generator and set about making bags for vacuum packing. It
was efficient work, I was never idle, and in two hours I'd packed
all the fillets away, having nearly the exact number of bags than I
needed (two portions are doubled) with the scrapings in ziplocks. I
tucked them away in the fridge and freezer, a little unnerved by the
fact that the fridge didn't seem like it was cooling very well, packed
some snacks, and made my way to the cabin at around 9:10. I'd had some
instant peanut sauce noodles while I finished vacuum packing, but
hadn't had enough, so I ate a couple of rolls on the way over and
packed
dried apples, dried cherries, and chocolate for a snack, feeling pretty
good about the day. If it has not come across in
all this detail, the fishing could not have gone better. High tide,
rising tide on the way in, high tide on the way out (this makes such a
huge difference), ease of anchoring which often is tricky in that
area, the last group leaving a I arrived, some non-obtrusive bear
company, brilliant fishing (11 sockeyes in four casts!? Casts with four
and five sockeyes in them!?), lovely weather, perfect water
conditions....could
it have been any better? I thanked God for his favor and marveled at it
all. Only a few hours out and there I was with as much fish,
pretty much literally, as could carry. I have no doubt that in another
half
an hour I would probably have limited out. How lucky I have been these
last few years at Sweetheart.
So I curled up in bed and watched the latest episode of my guilty
pleasure "Salvation" and fell asleep. In the morning, I got up with
hopes that I could spend the morning on the porch relaxing after my
busy day and busy weeks with the satisfaction of fish freezing and a
full two days at Snettisham to both relax and tackle some fun tasks.
But there was this nagging concern about whether the refrigerator was
working. I was at first relieved to find the lodge warm, which
suggested that it was running, but I found the fish inside room
temperature, everything room temperature. My precious fish had been
sitting all night in a warming lodge. There was to be no rest that
morning. I did have a quick breakfast and changed the propane tank in
the chance that low fuel was the cause (the tank was low) but that did
not help. Then I fell to troubleshooting in my very limited capacity.
Panic mounting, it took a couple of tries digging through the manuals
in the cabinet to find the one for the refrigerator. Troubleshooting
involved cleaning parts of the burner that were never shown in a
diagram and making sure the fridge was level. The latter I was able to
accomplish quickly after fetching the level from Hermit Thrush, the
former was a little more tricky. The manual did say that there should
be
no yellow in the pilot flame, but the tip of it was yellow, so I knew
there was something wrong right there, if that was not necessarily the
problem. I grabbed a screwdriver, pulled the fridge out, and unscrewed
the only three screws I could see around the burner, which I assumed to
be the area where the pilot flame is. Nothing even remotely loosened
and the manual, though it suggested removing it to clean various
elements, never actually said how to remove it. I returned the screws,
bent out a piece of flexible metal to better access the area and probed
around in there with a paper towel. The flame did lose most or all of
its yellow after that, but still it would not come to life. It was as
though it either did not pick up on the command to do something other
than idle or it was unable to do so. I did see the cord for plugging it
in on the back and loosened that, thinking that I might be able to run
it off the generator, but when I was in the shed thinking about laying
the extension cord out I realized what a senseless plan that would be.
Even if the generator could power it, I wasn't going to run it all
weekend to freeze my fish, and it would take time to cool it off
anyway.
In the meantime, the tide was rapidly dropping and I could think of
nothing to do but abandon my refuge and take my catch to town. Weeping
with frustration and sorrow, I set about basic cleanup in a hurry as
the flats got closer and closer to the boat. I lugged my gear and fish
down to the water line in several trips, donned my waders, and paddled
myself and Cailey to the boat. By the time I'd added fuel and puttered
into the beach, the gear was already about 20 feet from the water.
Leaving it floating, I tugged the kayak up near the porch and, unable
or unwilling to go farther, left it there in the grass and rushed back
to the boat which was already nearly hopelessly grounded, dumping the
bucket of carcasses on the beach as I went. In my anxiety and
frustration and panic, I yelled at Cailey to get toward the front of
the boat, which of course she didn't understand, but eventually I got
her down and, with all the strength I had, I managed to push the
Ronquil
over about six feet of sand until it freely floated again. Poor Cailey
had not
been spared my weeping, trembling on the floor of the lodge as I packed
up, and standing down with the gear at the water waiting to go. Every
time I took a load to the boat, wading through 30 feet of water and as
much land now, I had to push it out farther. Eventually the last load
was on board and I pushed us into deeper water, started the engine, and
puttered past the bars before drifting for a while to get everything
ship shape, namely the fish. It did nothing for my mood as we drifted
silently on an utterly serene and wonderful inlet. Seals watched
closely from all directions and oh how I longed to stay. I think there
have been very few times in my life when I have ever wanted anything
more than to stay there. But I could not disrespect the sockeyes who
had been good enough to swim in my net. I filled the cooler with cold
river water and put all the vacuum sealed bags in there and placed the
ziplock bags of scrapings in several inches of water in the bottom of
the bucket, propped up by the stringer and my sandals so they water
didn't reach the seal. I may have cried a little more, with apologies
to everyone. And then at 10:40 I left Snettisham behind, relieved to
find Stephen's Passage almost calm, just ripply, which held until the
channel when a tiny sea followed us in. I felt bad for Cailey, who had
been promised a low tide walk and instead had a traumatized human and a
boat ride, abounding in wakes the closer we got to Juneau, possibly
because it was the first day of the salmon derby. Everyone seemed to be
going full tilt, kicking up large wakes, especially the usually more
sedate displacement hulls. At 12:15 we arrived at the dock, me in
raingear, dirty and messy in a dirty and messy boat under clearing
skies. I hailed a well-dressed man who walked by to help me lift the
cooler onto the dock and then onto one of the metal carts, which he
noticed nearby. I felt a little silly later when I realized that I
could pick it up easily once the water finished spilling out.
But things were not all despair. As I was leaving the port, wondering
what to do and how to salvage the situation, I'd come up with a plan,
largely in response to the realization that I'd left the stove on
in
my haste, with a fairly new tank no less if I remember correctly. It
finally dawned on me that there was no reason I couldn't turn around
the very same day and go back. The water was lovely and was supposed to
be so for several days, it wouldn't require repacking, and I already
had all
the food I needed. In fact, I could leave most of my gear at the
harbor in the boat house so I didn't have to haul it back down. And, if
I spent the early afternoon at prison, which I am always loath to miss,
I could be on the water around 5:00 and that would put me at Snettisham
at high tide so offloading would be easy. And I could take Monday off,
especially since I I hadn't taken Wednesday off as I'd originally
intended.
With
that in mind, I tucked my backpack and duffel with the other boat gear
in the boat house and left the battery on board, loading everything
else
around the cooler in that big awkward metal cart. Of course it was by
then just after low tide and I looked with trepidation at the ramp. It
didn't seem likely that I'd be able to make it, but I thought I may as
well try and started up better than I expected, so kept going. I only
just made it, my heart pounding in my chest at the top, leaning heavily
on the handles as my momentum carried me to the road. I looked and felt
like a wreck and apologized to the very gracious people who were
loading around my awkwardly positioned cart. In fact, one of them
helped me (unnecessarily) lift the cooler into my truck. He probably
thought I hadn't done very well, not feeling the weight of ice or
carcass! At home I spread the fish out in the chest freezer, wanting
but not taking the time to dry off the wet bags. With the fish safe at
last to start freezing, I hopped in the shower and dressed for the
public, taking the time to have some lunch and write an email to Ezra
before I headed out to prison. I got there around 2:00, or half way
through the service, and was surprised to hear them singing Holy Ground
from the bathroom in the reception area! Surprised both that I could
hear them and because they are usually done singing by then. I wondered
if I could possibly get there in time to join them for Sanctuary, my
favorite song we sing, and to my great surprise (and everyone else's
surprise at seeing me) I entered just in time, singing with gusto in
the company of my friends, all of whom were happy, to one degree or
another, to see me. It was a wonderful couple of sessions, and
it was great to see Kira.
On
the way back I stopped for three jugs of gas and the liquor store
where I bought beer in order to grab a couple bags of ice for the
cooler. It didn't take long to change and gather food at the house. I
stopped to chat with my parents briefly before heading to the harbor
with only my rain gear, cooler, and gas. I was underway at 5:05 with a
beer in hand, gratefully spilled into the ocean (and later accidentally
spilled as I turned in my chair).
Sadly for both Cailey and I, the weather was not as accommodating as it had been on the way in. The chop in the channel was not unexpected, but it only got worse, the kind of short, rough seas that bang you incessantly. It didn't matter how slow I went; short of an idle, it still beat us up, coming from the south, so angling across Stephen's Passage most of the time. Oh it beat us up. And to make matters worse, a Disney cruise ship passed us alongside Grand and I don't think we really lost its endless massive wakes until we got inside the port. And not only its wake, but endless smaller boat wakes, some from obvious sources, some from nowhere, and all rising against the seas and making the already messy water even more confused. Bang, bang, bang bang bang. Poor Cailey, who'd been promised a walk, and then tentatively promised at least a pleasant ride south. My back and neck ached from all the banging, my fury at the cruise ship only just kept at bay with my reason and my deep gratitude for being able to return that night at all. But I think it's safe to say that this was the worse boat ride of the season. The sun was out, though, so at least it was relatively warm, though my hands were numb by the time we entered the port, whether from nerve damage or just the cold I wasn't able to tell. It seemed to take an awfully long time to get anywhere. Oh, all the wakes and all those seas. It built to two footers around Grave Point, clearly defying the forecast, then diminished a little beyond some standing waves just north of Limestone before building again into the port. And all along the way, one wave of huge wakes after another as the ship receded into the distance.
But we did make it into the utter calm of Gilbert Bay and up close to
the log at the homestead. I managed to unload without getting my feet
wet on rocks covered in a couple inches of water, grabbed the kayak,
anchored up, and was on shore around 7:15, with huge relief and
gratitude. I had had this image of myself on the porch with Cailey
eating some pouched Indian food and getting a little drunk on red wine,
which did come true, though I didn't drink enough to really even get
buzzed in the end. In my bitter frustration, I'd thought about how I
hadn't even had the time to see a bird from the porch, had heard chips
and seen a flutter of wings here and there, but hadn't actually seen
one. To my surprise and joy, a bird soon showed itself perched and
chipping on a bare branch, and it was a young common yellowthroat, a
very unusual bird there, but one that I saw at this same time last
year!
There was also a hummingbird that came repeatedly and I brought out the
promised fresh nectar that I'd made from the water I'd boiled my pouch
of spinach paneer in, but I don't think she ever tried that one. The
inlet was absolutely still and magnificently peaceful and I sat there
on the couch with Cailey curled up beside me, blankets wrapped around
both of us, until nearly 10:00, watching the inlet turn from pale pink
to blue as the half moon brightened into brilliance over Gilbert Bay
before setting behind the trees as the stars slowly appeared. I opened
my eyes once and saw a brilliant star which began moving, so I thought
at first it must be a satellite, but it faded as it moved and then
winked out and I realized I'd seen a bright shooting star. It was in
part hoping I might be in time for the Perseids that I stayed up as
late as I did despite my sleepiness, but the light of the moon lingered
long and we eventually retreated to bed, Sitting on the porch from
evening until twilight was fascinating, listening to the gradual
quieting of the birds and rustlings that eventually faded into the
quiet of night. I know that other critters were awaking, and I imagined
Lily somewhere blinking her eyes and stretching as she started her
day, but all was quiet here. The last bird to put in was, surprisingly,
a pair of sandpipers who peeped at each other from downriver and then
apparently over the water. It occurred to me that I do not know where
sandpipers sleep, what with the tides moving around all the time!
Cailey oddly curled up at the foot of the bed, which seemed a little
bitter, but I managed to coax her up next to me, where she seemed
relieved to snuggle up. I pulled the edge of the comforter over the top
of her and, in the middle of the night, put on the bottom half of my
pajamas for the cold.
---
And so it is today. I had my peaceful morning under an overcast sky, a
large pancake of biscuit mix for breakfast with jasmine tea, and then a
lot of reading. And there were good bird times too. A steady stream of
chips belied wrens and other birds in the bushes. At one point I walked
down to the water and when I came up, a trio of sparrows were chipping
and watching me from the bushes downriver, boldly perching on the dead
current stems. One could not have been other than a young fox sparrow,
but the others were less obvious. One continued to strike me as a
Lincoln's sparrow, the other I'm not sure, but soon I heard a few soft
whispers of a song and I wondered if it might be a song sparrow like
the one I heard here whisper singing last fall. Could a trio of
unrelated species be hanging out together? Why not! To my joy, a
gorgeous, yellow throated Pacific-slope flycatcher (or so I assume)
worked the bushes downriver and into the woods and let me take a few
photos of him. A jay made charming calls and posed near the alder, also
a juvenile I think, and then the yellowthroat appeared again for
photos. At one point while I was reading a passage from Lion Country
about a beautiful woman appearing almost mystically lovely in a
dress the color of the moon, walking toward the narrator (similar
images are too common in literature and on television, a vision I
despair
ever to attain), I finally realized that a whole cadre of birds were
alarming downriver. There was a thrush somewhere, it sounded like the
meadow, and several others, and it lasted quite a while. Cailey and I
looked out expectantly in that direction for some time but never saw
anything and the chorus ended abruptly. Several times interesting
sounds did come from the forest downriver; once a crack like a rock or
large branch falling, another time a couple of huffs separated by
scraping. Surely a large animal!? I listened and waited, but nothing
came of it, and I can only hope whoever it was--if in fact it was
someone--walked in front of the camera there, left on from my
departure yesterday. Twice an adult eagle brought something to the
nest, the second time I could see it was a small fish, and the eaglet
screamed it in. When I went for a COASST walk, however, I could see no
one in the nest, though both parents were calling to each other from
nearby trees and I took some photos of them from below, both in the
same shot. Upriver I pushed a spotted sandpiper along the shorelines
and had to call for Cailey to come when I was long past the creek
and no sight of her; she appeared on the rocky point, pranced down like
a goat, and ran to me with a bit of the bear hips in her jaws. We
pushed out three
juvenile eagles downriver, any one or all of which could have been
fledglings.
By the time I returned I was very hungry, so I enjoyed quesadillas and
a beer on the porch, read a little, then went inside drowsy for a
little nap. I woke up a little out of sorts, still too tired and
uninspired to work, but feeling badly about that. I tried to find the
metal strap I was planning to use to support the last vertical piece of
stove pipe in the attic and failed, which didn't help, looked for it in
the shed and failed. All I wound up doing was sanding and bleaching the
unfinished windowsill of Hermit Thrush in preparation for staining,
which I really must do along with the back walls of the other two
cabins tomorrow if the weather holds. I also waited long enough for oil
to run through the stove system so I know it will work tonight when I
plan to go over early to, at this point, watch something as I am
nearly caught up on my trip report! I finally realized I was hungry, so
cooked fresh sockeye and peas on the stove top and toasted a couple of
rolls, eaten with a glass of wine on the porch overlooking the still
beautiful inlet. For once I cooked the fish nearly perfectly and it was
tender and wonderful, a proper tribute to that beautiful fish. I read
scripture afterwards and Cailey curled up next to me so sweetly, as she
is now, that I grabbed my laptop and books and tablet just to be sure
and here I am, finishing this up. It will be hard to tear myself away
from this porch again, so we will see how long we run the stove
tonight! My hummingbird friend just came by again, but again is
sticking
to the old syrup and not the new. Perhaps we are too close to the
other, or it is just habit. Both had nectar in them, but the downriver
one had a thick layer of bugs floating on the surface when I arrived,
so perhaps it had turned inedible. I should probably just switch them
when I leave. The eaglet is crying again from around the nest, so
either he or she has returned, or was low and resting when I came by
earlier. I know some eaglets are still nested in Juneau, so it seems
likely they are here as well. A small sparrow just chipped at me from
the bushes, so fluffy and disheveled, pale, streaky on the back and
breast. A little ragged charmer. And sooty grouses have been hooting
too. I have been trying to be nicer and pay
a lot more attention to Cailey (as I have since the last porcupine
debacle, but especially since yesterday's marathon) and it seems to be
working.
---
I
lit my little nordic stove when I got to Hermit Thrush last night lay
on my bed (not IN bed!) to watch an episode of Better Call Saul, plenty
warm without covers. During the night, Cailey started shivering as the
temperature dropped and I had to cover her in a blanket to warm up. So
when I woke up at 6:30 I lay there for a while and then, on a whim,
went and lit the stove and put the kettle on. Somehow I managed to fall
back asleep and didn't get up until 8:30. By then I couldn't see my
breath anymore when I exhaled, but I wouldn't call the cabin hot and
the water certainly wasn't boiling. I'd had the fuel dial right in the
middle, so I turned it up and had water boiling for the first time in
about half an hour. Cailey was polite enough to run around outside and
then come back to curl up on a tidy bed while I first had some oatmeal
and then a cup of tea, my first cup of tea in Hermit Thrush.
It was another gorgeous day and when I finally headed to the lodge and
fed Cailey, I got right to work staining. Yesterday I was so
unmotivated and a little cranky in the afternoon that it was with huge
relief that I was gifted not only a will to do the work ahead but joy
in the undertaking. And how beautiful the two back walls of the cabins
looked after they were freshly stained! I certainly should have done
all the walls of all the cabins, but that'll have to wait until the
clear coast fades again. After the walls were done I walked all the
cabins and stained the insides of the windowsills that needed it, only
needing the ladder on one side of Cottonwood. I had quesadillas for
lunch and then grabbed a beer and a chair and my binoculars and my
camera and a book and walked down to the bottom of the stone path to
deliberately enjoy the late summer sun (who knows how many more warm
days there will be!) and read. I heard the eagles screaming and was
delighted to find that I could see much of the nest from there and that
there are not one but two eaglets inside! So they must have been
resting yesterday when I walked by.
After a good respite and some nice sun it was about 1:00 and I got
started on another task, pulling some 2x4s and a 2x2s from under the
lodge to make a table for the nordic stove oil tank. I'd been very
relieved to find the tank safely at rest at the top of
the pile of items I'd placed it on, but anxious to make something more
permanent. I had this image in mind of two sets of crossed 2x4s with
2x2s connecting them below a plywood top. Working in the sun around
sawhorses on the deck is always kind of fun--I love building
things--and it was so hot I wound up shirtless and eventually even went
to put sunscreen on which I haven't for a couple of weeks and wasn't
sure I'd need to again this year. I crossed the first pair and tried to
make sure they would be even (I don't know the word I'm looking for
here) by ensuring that the triangle between them was isosceles. The
bottom distance between the legs was greater than it was at the
top, which I thought would be more stable and left room for the 2x2s. I
screwed the two pieces together and then drew a line across the bottom
of them with a straight piece of lumber so they would stand flat on the
deck (or that was the idea anyway). It was the right idea, though my
cuts were imperfect. I then made the same cut across the top of the
cross, as close as I could come to exactly 30 7/8", the height of my
existing pile. I then repeated the process for a second set, which came
with its own set of complications trying to get the dimensions exactly
right. It took some futzing around to satisfy me that they were close
enough, and they too were screwed together. Then I cut the edges off
the top four 2x4s so I could snuggle up a 2x2 against them to connect
the two crossed pieces. Naturally I made at least two unnecessary cuts,
as I cut the bottoms of one piece instead of the top. Then I cut two
23" 2x2 pieces and, with surprisingly difficultly, screwed those on,
crouching on the ground to support everything. A piece of T-111 siding
became the top, sanded more or less smooth. Before I put it all
together, though, I took a break for a little adventure with Cailey. As
I cut the last pieces, one of the adults landed in the nest with food,
and the tide was low, so we walked downriver and up to the eerie that
looks eye level with the nest. Both eaglets were clearly visible, and
one tucked into food. They were both facing away from me. Then an
adult flew in and landed on a branch just above the nest! He watched
them, glanced at me, and tracked what I expect was another eagle flying
by. Mostly he sat there, and you can forgive me if I say he seemed a
little proud. He would look down and watch as his two young ones dodged
around the nest eating. I think both eagles had a go at the fish (I saw
skin and orange flesh a few times). His perch was perfect to observe
them, just above the nest but out of the way, and I took many pictures
of the three of them. When I finally saw the face of one of them I was
struck by its ferociousness and thought I'd call him Dragon. I didn't
get as good a look at the other one. One seemed to have tiny bits of
fluff at the end of his back feathers, maybe a day or two younger than
the other? After about 20 minutes of observation we returned to the
lodge, descending downriver of the eerie ledge as the other side is
crumbling, and I finished building the table on the porch. It turned
out pretty much as I had hoped and seemed fairly sturdy.
Then started a series of little chores and tasks: cleaning up the porch
and putting away all the tools, carrying the table to Hermit Thrush,
carrying four loads of wood back (the previous "table"), screwing in
the
new table, the tank, and the stove itself (after making sure the
chimney was still more or less plumb), delivering a pillow to
Cottonwood, and clipping some persistent salmonberries away from the
porch. All this required numerous trips between the lodge/shed and the
cabin. Actually installing the table was a little tricky, as the tank
needed support at all times, and the stress caused a small and, so far,
temporary leak in the fuel line just this side of the fuel filter. But
boy does it look cute! Once I was happy with its location I put a screw
in each of its feet, though it was plumb and sturdy enough as it was,
then four screws in the tank and, after I picked up a level, a screw in
each foot of the stove. Now the system really is complete with the
exception of the rest of the chimney which still needs the steel
support strap that I can't find (I am very fed up with having so much
stuff here and not being able to find things--I may need to do another
thorough inventory soon; I was sure the strap was in the attic, but two
attempts to discover it there failed, as did one attempt in the shed).
I also worked at getting all the unnecessary gear out of Hermit Thrush
so it can be tidy again, including the mildew smelling rug. I opened
the windows to air it out.
Somewhere in there I put some cherry cobbler on the stove and when I
finished running around I ate a little as an appetizer with a glass of
wine looking out over the inlet. It was still quite warm out, about
5:00. With that sustenance I didn't need dinner right away and had a
few more tasks I wanted to do, starting with moving the boat out to
deeper water so I can leave in the early afternoon when it would
certainly not be floating based on what I saw today. Cailey came with
me and soon we were back after leaving the boat at the edge of the
sunshine, having quickly given up on the notion of starting the kicker
which was stubborn as usual, if looser in the cord. Because I was not
looking forward to it, I thought it would be a good idea to clear coat
the windowsills tonight so that somewhat awkward task would not wait
until departure day. The back walls I'm letting dry more overnight, but
doing a whole simple wall is a much easier task to approach than a lot
of awkward windowsills. It took me a long time to find the brush I'd
put aside earlier, but eventually I was gloved up with a cup of clear
coat and a sponge brush. I started with the back wall of Cottonwood,
quickly realizing that I had more work to do than I realized, as I had
to coat all the windowsills, not just the ones that I'd stained
earlier, as I'd not clearcoated any of them the last time I was here.
And I was quickly interrupted by loud flapping that ended in a dramatic
landing in the trees nearby, the tree that these eagles often use in
the fall as a staging area when carrying fish to the nest. I awkwardly
pulled off the sweaty gloves and hastened back to the lodge to grab
camera and binoculars. I walked up closer to the eagle, who was panting
in a tree with the fish out of sight. I suggested that he could just
drop it to me, but when he finally flew off it looked to be a lot of
loose skin and the back end of a fish. I wonder where he picked it up,
and had he eaten the rest? One came by just a few moments ago with a
nearly identical parcel, staging this time in a tree downriver before
heading past the nest, probably to another staging tree. Hard work,
that flying with fish!
Then I went back to work, carrying the ladder to each of the cabins so
I could stain the insides of all the windowsills, ending with the very
satisfying trim on the repaired window at Hermit Thrush, which looks
absolutely beautiful with the fresh stain. After that I tried to
tighten up the nut I thought was leaking, though I didn't get it to
budge and may not be leaking anymore, and attempted to put more diesel
in the tank. I went as far as pouring some from the yellow jug into a
coffee can, but I'd brought the funnel with a valve on it to control
the flow, which still has oil it in from the generator. I'll bring the
other funnel on the way over there tonight. I cooked a sirloin steak in
strips on the stove in soy sauce, Italian seasonings, and pepper with
peas which turned out to be tender and delicious. And now here I am
overlooking another lovely evening from the porch, the waxing gibbous
moon hanging over the mountains, Cailey snoring beside me on the couch,
snuggled under the same comforter I'm using, mosquito coils keeping the
bugs down. The little flock of unrelated sparrows came by again, along
with the yellowthroat, making me wonder if he travels among them? It
seems an odd coincidence otherwise. A hummingbird is here and has been
feeding among the shrubs. I'm pretty sure I heard two chittering to
each other earlier and this one does not eschew the fresh nectar. This
evening I have heard again, and for longer periods, the soft whisper
song that I believe is coming from the young song sparrow. So tentative
and soft and delicate.
It was late enough and warm enough that I didn't light a fire that
night, but lay in bed reading to the joint light of the kerosene lamp
and solar lamp. Cailey was curled up toward my feet. At about 9:30 I
heard a very distinct scrape sound against the cabin and another sound
that might have been a huff or a footprint. I was convinced it was an
animal, but was equally nonplussed by Cailey's complete lack of
reaction. She evidently had not heard or smelled anything amiss...I
doubted myself, but could think of no other explanation. I finally got
out of bed and opened the river side window, shining the solar lantern
about. I saw nothing, but Cailey jumped off the bed and came over and
her black nose instantly went to work. When she got a good smell she
barked and danced about the cabin, then smushed her nose against window
and door cracks searching for more smells. I looked out every window
and saw nothing, so eventually opened the door and let Cailey out. She
shot around the cabin smelling, hackles raised. I think it must have
been a bear. Given that there were none on my cameras and no sign of
them around, I'd almost gotten nonchalant about walking around the
property, but this was a good reminder that they can turn up anytime! I
could easily have encountered him on the way to Hermit Thrush if I'd
just gone to bed a little later.
I woke up at 6:45 and needed to get up and use the toilet. The sun was
streaming through the windows, promising another sunny day, and I
thought perhaps I should get up. Instead I crawled back into bed and
slept until about 8:30, and I think I needed it. On the way out I
verified that, sadly, there were two leaks now in the fuel line where
the copper tubing enters the flare nut between the tank and the fuel
filter. A project for another time. I had breakfast, cleaned the lodge
and washed the dishes, then looked at all the motion sensor cards to
see if my friend from the night before had shown up, but whoever it was
had missed them all. After I set them all back up I clearcoated the
walls I'd stained, finishing that project for the summer. I had
quesadillas, put up newspapers on the windows, and stacked my gear on
the deck. My goal was to leave around 1:00, so I had a little time to
read on the porch overlooking the sunny inlet before I headed out. The
boat, it turns out, was now anchored well past where it needed to be on
this minimal of tidal changes (I think it was only about five feet). I
took all my gear out to the boat in the kayak except for the cooler and
fishing pole, having already kayaked out the propane tank the evening
before. The whole process went so much smoother than it had a few days
before, less distance to haul the kayak and no real fear that the boat
would go aground while I did so. I like traveling light! I was also
extremely grateful that the little north wind that had been coming down
the river all morning (a sure sign of winds out of the Taku) had
lapsed, as it had the morning before. Therefore somewhat hopeful and
hugely relieved, we headed out onto a mostly calm sea for a pleasant
ride north, back at the dock before 3:00.
