The forecast
called for rain, heavy at
times, and they weren't wrong! The wind was supposed to shift form ENE
to SE in the morning, so I had in mind the idea of getting up early and
making an attempt to beat that switch and the front that was evidently
going to bring that rain. So I'm not sure I slept much past 5:30,
though I didn't get up until about 6:40. Still, it felt early, so I was
surprised when I didn't make it to the harbor until around 8:00. I
didn't have much to do other than feed the raven, check the weather,
walk Cailey, and throw some food in the tote. It was raining steadily,
so I
was overheating in my rubber raingear as I hauled two loads of gear to
the boat and got everything ready, running the kicker the whole time to
give it some use. We pulled away at 8:25 on an utterly calm channel. I
kept telling Cailey we'd take it just as long as we could! We ran into
some good patches of chop about two thirds of the way down, then it
calmed again and I was again grateful. As we approached Point Arden,
though, we started getting seas from across Taku Inlet, over toward
Slocum Inlet. I had wondered how an ENE wind would manifest in the
inlet, and I was soon satisfied as it materialized into a very brisk
wind out of the Taku,
kicking up steady two foot brown white-capped seas that we slid around
and splashed through. Quite a tumult. Of course they built up worst in
front of Arden and I was relieved to find that they dropped a bit when
we were well past and, indeed, came behind us as we headed to Grand,
though still keeping our speed down. Past Grave Point we were able to
get back up to speed and I enjoyed the serene, misty ocean around me
from the limited view of my hooded and hatted head. I tried to keep
Cailey covered as much as possible when she was laying down, but I
think she may have been shivering a bit as we entered the port and came
against a brisk chop--more of this ENE, I guess, but very unusual in
the port. It
was small, but disruptive, so we headed for the far shore to seek some
shelter and were successful, passing by the world's perfect eagle's
nest with nearby eagle on the way. Just shy of River Point, the engine
stopped because I hadn't unscrewed the lid on the fuel tank enough for
it to breathe. Thankfully, for once, the fuel pumped through the line
easily and we could soon see the homestead.
The
tide was reasonably high and unloading was quick and easy. I anchored
the boat, paddled in, finished hauling up the gear, and came inside to
find the stove pilots lit and in working order. Cailey had seemingly
forgotten her cold and chagrin of the boat ride and was happily chewing
a hoof left out last time and did not want to come inside. We'll see
how long that tank lasts, but it's a relief to find everything in
order, having forgotten to turn off the propane in my anxious departure
last time. After unpacking and getting the couch on the porch, I
started to prep for internet work, placing the modem and laptop into a
tote (on its side) to protect them from the rain, untangling cords,
etc. I set up the ladder, started the generator, hooked up coax cable
and power, reread my instructions, and, somewhat optimistically, went
to the pointing page. It showed a signal of 70. Not a great sign, since
I'd left it around 110. I first loosened the bolts on the pipe and
swung it back and forth until I got the highest number I could and
locked it in, per Joe's instruction. Supposedly,
as long as it was in the range of the satellite, I was supposed to lock
it down and do the rest of the peaking with elevation and azimuth (the
latter a new feature for me). Doing so dropped the signal strength, as
expected, since the dish moves with the tightening of the bolts. But
the elevation failed to get me any higher. Long story short, after an
hour of futzing with it, including several breaks to allow the
chickadee parents to feed their buzzing nestlings (yay!), I'd maxed out
at 89, the azimuth getting me a few extra points, but a far cry from
the 120, or even 115, I was seeking. The weather was grim, dense rain
and clouds--could that be affecting the signal so much? Amazingly, I
saw that the "Next" button which had been grayed out before was now a
blue button, so I clicked it. Sure enough, another screen came up and
started checking off three functions. Joe had told me there would be
five, so I figured more would come after these. But only the first one
got checked off. The next one made 30 tries to connect and failed.
After leaving it run while I prepped soup for lunch and nectar for the
hummingbirds, then fetched a beer, opened Hermit Thrush, and picked up
both camera cards, I finally shut it all down and gave up for the day.
It was all supposed to happen automatically when I clicked "Next."
I had tomato soup for lunch with my modelo especiale, and then I laid
down on the couch in the sweltering heat of the lodge. I'd kept the
fire going since I'd first arrived, as we were both chilled and there
were Cailey's boat bedding and raingear to dry (amazingly, nothing I
was wearing underneath was wet). I read about
Catherine the Great for a while and then drifted into a nap in which I
woke many times, but never very fully. Cailey curled up on the other
end of the couch. When I woke up, the inlet was a solid wall of white
with no shoreline visible, just my boat serenely at anchor. I read a
bit
more, struggling to finish a book about Frances of Assisi by G.K.
Chesterton. In fact, I'm back there again, the rain a constant and cozy
companion on the roof, the inlet socked in, the fire picking up again
unexpectedly. I just laid a fire in for later, but evidently there was
enough heat to set it off again. This old lumber burns very fast, but
at least there is plenty of it for now. It smells wonderful too. I
hadn't seen any hummingbirds when I arrived, but at least one is coming
now that the feeders are full again. I've been hearing a lot of varied
thrush calls around the lodge and hermit thrushes farther away, as well
as a surprising number of songs by a Wilson's warbler, who I look
forward to seeing in the bushes outside. Actually, there is much to
look forward to out there, when I feel like leaving this cozy lodge.
For now, I am content and have no agenda, having failed at the only
task I was seriously hoping to accomplish. The vegetation is so high
again that you can't tell I ever weed whacked this spring, but I did
not bring the machine, as there was nothing in the forecast but rain. I
did bring back my push mower from the Taku, but I suspect it won't do
well with the tall, thick plants. The roses have begun to bloom
and I got a pink petal on my hand after smelling a sweet flower, but
they are a bit hunkered down in this rain. The irises, too, are
blooming magnificently and sagging a little as well.
------------------------------------
I had a can of chili that has been here at least a few years, and was
delicious. I relished it. Cailey was so sleepy and relaxed (and
possibly full from the treats she'd found outside) that she slept next
to me on the couch while I ate and for a time afterwards. Only when I
got up to wash my face and get ready to go to Hermit Thrush did she
ease her way down and get supper. We headed out around 7:30 in the rain
and soon got a fire going in the Nordic stove. I've finally convinced
Cailey that she can get on the bed (a little boost helps) before I do,
which is better for both of us since I seem to have all kinds of little
tasks when I arrive (light the kerosene lamp, get diesel in the stove,
brush and floss, change clothes, light the fire, fill the kettle,
etc.). Having read most of the afternoon, I first tried to watch an
episode of The Deuce, but it was raining so hard that the noise of the
roof was too loud to hear over even with the volume at maximum! So I
resumed reading about Catherine, taking her close to her coup.
We slept well and I noticed that the rain on the roof had diminished
considerably when I woke up. I read a little in bed until the
persistent song of the Pacific Slope flycatcher urged me out of bed.
What I found was a very wet world under an overcast sky, and
amazingly, no rain. Big drips of water fell regularly from the trees
and the bushes were all bowed under the weight and the little rivulet
by the shed was running strong, water seeping from the ground. I was
eager to spend time on the porch watching the chickadees, but never
quite could relax, I ate breakfast there, gazing in awe at the calm
inlet and the brightness of the day after the gloom of the night
before. Perhaps I would have a chance to test my theory about the
satellite signal after all? First, though, I could see that the tide
was already coming in fast, so Cailey and I took a COASST walk. An
eagle was sitting on the nest, no doubt having kept the eaglets dry
during the deluge. Wilson's
warblers sang and another flycatcher from the mountain. The world felt
magical, a little shinier after all the rain, with a million
possibilities around us. It felt a bit like fishing in the fall when
the
world is full of life in the streams and the promise of a fish on the
line, but so early in the year.
By the time I got back, I could see where the sun was behind the clouds
and decided to set up the system to try for internet again. I was
gratified--and relieved--to see a 120 immediately pop up on the screen.
No need to mess around with the dish then, the signal was there. Now to
connect....I hit the Next button (which looked different from the day
before) and saw the same three actions on the screen, only this time
they were all working, even the ranging. I let it run for a while and
grabbed clippers, trimming back the salmonberries and currents from
along the steps and up the side of the porch. I kept checking on the
status, but there was no change. I kept clipping, up the path to the
outhouse and eventually around the top of the outhouse roof where I'd
need to work later if I wanted to try to right it. After maybe 30 or 40
minutes of trying, I changed browsers because I was getting a strange
message about not being able to connect to duckduckgo because of
something in Firefox. Just in case that could possibly be relevant, I
tried it in Chrome. This time the ranging check appeared, which was a
start, but it then went back to trying. My laptop battery was dying so
I quickly grabbed a strip and plugged it in. And then clipped some more
while I waited. Eventually I gave up; it was obviously not going to
connect today. I was mildly disappointed, but not surprised. I have no
idea what Joe will say this time.
Although it was early, I was ravenous, so I heated up some Indian food
in a pouch and ate in the glorious bright and calm day on the porch. A
fledgling varied thrush perched on a branch of Nigel Cottonwood before
flying upriver while his mother chirped on the other side of the porch
with a beak full of grubs. There were at least three hummingbirds and a
spotted sandpiper passed by. I read a few pages of a new book (actually
one from my childhood) and then, once again unable to relax, decided
we'd better head upriver if we were going to. I rolled the kayak over
from its usual place on the grass and
hauled it to the river. As I sat down and invited Cailey in, a large
brown vole appeared on the bow, having emerged from somewhere on the
side of the cargo hatch! As Cailey perked up, I hastily backed into the
river lest she simply snap him up. I paddled a few feet downriver and
kept Cailey away with the paddle, intending to pull the kayak into the
grass a little and usher the stowaway ashore. He beat me to it, though,
running to the bow and dropping overboard while the bow was about a
foot from shore. I scrambled out, but there was no sign of the vole.
Presumably he swam through the sedge sticking out of the water and
scampered away into the meadow. Cailey eagerly sniffed the bow and took
her time climbing in.
The river seemed high, no channels showing when I looked out two hours
after a -1 foot tide this morning, and covered in spots of foam or
floating sand. We were able to make it farther up the grassy beach this
time, maybe halving the distance to the alders. The beach grass was
over head high and I was a little uneasy about treading through it, so
we stuck to the flooding beach area. Varied thrushes peeped and I saw a
Wilson's warbler in the bushes. I'd
heard one on the walk up along with an orange-crowned warbler and a
Lincoln's sparrow.
Having yelled and sung a great deal on the way in, I felt comfortable
returning along the edge of the meadow, after which we
moved back to the beach
for the short walk to the boat. As usual, Cailey was ecstatic,
playfully racing at me as I slogged back downriver. From there we poked
out head into Gilbert Bay as it started to rain again and made a wide
circle back home. I still wasn't excited about crashing on the porch,
so I changed into dry pants and went to work on the outhouse. I brought
up the jack, a couple of 16" or so rounds, and some pieces of PT lumber
scraps. Pulling back the tarp revealed that the downhill corner of the
top of the outhouse was a couple of inches off the ground and seemed a
good place to
start. I excavated a hole with my hand deep enough for a bit of lumber
and
the jack on top and then cranked, surprised at how well it came up. I
tucked
the round under that corner and repeated the work on the other side,
stopping short of full extension so as not to raise that end higher
than the other (the ground was higher on that side). I was uneasy the
whole
time about balance and making sure the outhouse was well supported and
not likely to shift to one side. Once both corners were up off the
ground, I shifted
the jack to the center of the outhouse at the top of the door, using a
board that
spanned most of the width of the door to spread the pressure. Again, I
was amazed at how nicely it went up and stopped half way up a full
extension to move the
rounds back in case the jack gave way or the outhouse slipped. I
repeated this a few times, moving the jack farther under the door each
time, and
then on top of a round to get enough height. I brought up more rounds
for that purpose and to add to the support under the downhill side. I
couldn't believe how well it was working. It was hot work, digging in
the ground to level and place the jack, laboriously lowering the jack
by
hand every time (which I think took more effort than raising it),
scrambling around the outhouse from side to side to shift logs, and
fending off mosquitoes and noseeums, or whatever they were (my mosquito
coil ultimately went out). Once I slipped off the log I was sitting on
and fell backwards down the trail, surprised to find my head several
feet lower than my legs.
But up it came! Would I be able to push it the rest of the way at some
magical point? Would I be able to use the jack to get it up that far?
It got to the point where the rounds I were using to support it when I
moved the jack were beyond the mid-point of the outhouse so I needed a
support at the top of it to prevent it from pivoting onto its roof. It
was up high enough that rounds weren't practical. As I walked down the
path to look for options, I spotted the strange and rarely used
portable work bench that normally sits on the back porch. Maybe this is
its raison d'etre! I carried it up and awkwardly shoved it under the
top of the outhouse, dealing with feet the buckling under it
(apparently
by design) and needing to support one foot with a piece of lumber to
keep it
relatively level. But it worked and I soon had the jack raising the
outhouse up
even more, forcing me to continue awkwardly moving the work bench
farther in on the soft ground, first with the addition of a round and
then a round plus a couple pieces of lumber on top. Somewhere in there
I fetched a shovel and removed some of the soil and rocks that had
fallen in the open hole in the last year and a half. There was no
evidence of waste of any kind, which was nice. Eventually I fumbled
around with the
jack and boards enough to realize that I couldn't use it straight up
anymore, as the outhouse door was at too much of an angle. For the last
extension, I propped the round at an angle with a board under one side.
I was uneasy, but it never showed any signs of
unbalance. The only warning sound I heard (repeatedly, alarming me each
time) was a salmonberry bush snapping free of the roof it was stuck to
as the outhouse rose. After carefully bracing the top of the outhouse
with the work bench one last time, I crept in and pushed up the top. It
took almost no effort, and a second later the outhouse stood in its
place looking nearly perfect except for the very soggy front door. Once
I had given it a nudge, it was totally out of my control and when it
rocked a moment in place, I was worried that it might tip right on over
down the hill on the other side. Very grateful it did not!
It
had taken two hours to raise. The inside looked great as well and with
a few seconds of effort, one wouldn't know anything had happened. When
the outhouse was half way up, I'd unscrewed the metal peak piece
because it overhangs the front and I didn't think I'd want to duck
under it to use what I thought would be a lot more effort to push it
the rest of the way up. So I need to put that on and cover it with a
tarp, as there are broken gaps in the toughtex roof, all of which
should be replaced. It's sitting several inches back and to the right
of where it used to be, but it feels pretty solid. I made four trips
down to bring all the gear and scraps away, leaving a very nice and
tidy area.
Having worked in rain gear, my t-shirt was soaked in sweat, so I
cleaned
up a little, changed shirts, let Cailey out (I'd let her inside to
escape the bugs and relax the last hour or so I was working), and
fetched a celebratory beer from the freshet. It felt immensely
satisfying to have that outhouse standing! Not only was it an
accomplishment to right a building I could not lift myself, but it took
work and creativity, and it feels like a wrong in this place has been
righted! It was not right to have that outhouse lying on the ground
covered in ugly blue tarps.
I hung out on the porch a little longer, watching the chickadees
feeding their nestlings and carrying out fecal sacks while light
rain fell on the river. A wren flew by and I heard more hermit thrushes
and
a Townsend's warbler. This time I managed to relax a little and read
until my stomach told me it was time for dinner. The bugs were worse,
so I had mosquito coils burning, which seemed to cover Cailey and me.
She was curled up in her bed after eating I think both a hoof and a cow
knuckle buried from last time. I intend to leave one of both behind
this time as well for her to enjoy on the next trip. Having had soup
for lunch twice, I had a quesadilla for dinner and a cup of decaf
coffee for dessert as a little front stirred the wind up and actually
sprinkled my face with rain from my seat on the couch. That quickly
passed and, as it was only 6:00 and I felt like going to bed, I decided
to wake myself up which I did by grabbing the clippers and heading
toward the other outhouse to clip back the burgeoning growth that seems
to be choking that trail. I wasn't sure how much of a dent I could
make, and so was surprised by the easy progress in pushing back the
devil's club and salmonberries. I clipped up one side of the path, then
to Hermit Thrush, and back the other side. Although the rain had picked
up, I took a left instead of a right at the end of the path and clipped
the trail back the other way to Hermit Thrush. I'd already clipped the
boardwalk while waiting for the internet to connect earlier, so
suddenly I had everything clipped back and civilized. Except of course
the grass in the meadow, which looks like it was never cut this summer,
but it really is too wet for that. The mower just does not handle
vegetation that tall very well. When I came back, Cailey was sacked out
on the floor on the edge of the blue quilt and the lodge was sweltering
from the fire I'd lit--hopefully it will finish drying Cailey's
blankets for the trip back tomorrow as well as my sodden pants. And
here I am, about ready to pack up and head to Hermit Thrush for the
night, feeling quite satisfied with the day. Tomorrow the tide is in
the early afternoon, so I should have a relatively stress-free
departure, perhaps around 3:30 or 4:00.
---------------------------------------------------
I had a somewhat restless night with a bit of a wakeful period around
4:00, so I was a little disappointed but not surprised to find that I'd
dozed myself past 8:30. I cleaned up and closed the cabin, then headed
to the lodge in the steady rain that had picked back up in the night.
I'd been annoyed at myself for not covering the outhouse yesterday with
its big holes in the roof, so the first thing I did was head up there
with the roof cap and made a poor job of awkwardly shoving and pulling
the badly ripped tarp around it, leaving as much as I could across the
door to help it dry out. With the addition of a rope to secure it, it
should hopefully allow the inside the dry. There was about an inch of
water in the trash can, which happened to be below one of the holes. I
also hid a spare set of keys to the lodge and the shed, then came
inside to clean up and make breakfast and tea, cleaning up the lodge
and packing while the water heated. When it did, I failed in my first
attempt at jasmine tea, having accidently used the larger cousin to my
new favorite tea mug and making it hopelessly weak. Eventually I was
breakfasted and sitting outside with a cup of tea, which I let grow a
little cooler than I would have liked while I wound down the jack which
I just did not have it in me to do yesterday. And then I read for a
while, and drank my tea, soon wrapped in a quilt for the chill. The
rain was steady, pattering loudly on the tarp I had laid out on the
porch (the one I'd added to the outhouse last fall), but it fell on a
calm inlet. Contemplating my trip home this afternoon, I thought again
how much I'd prefer drenching rain to wind any day. I was still there
when the breeze starting, first a little gust swirled the big leaves of
the current bushes, then manifest in the chop coming in off Gilbert
Bay. So much for calm winds, it appeared that a front was coming in.
Around 11:00 I headed out for more tasks, suited up again in rain gear.
I had only two main projects for day: planting the cottonwood tree from
Bullard's Landing and setting up the motion sensor cameras. The rain
this morning had made my decision about possibly crossing the river
again to set it up on the way out--I did not want to start my trip home
soaking wet from either sweat or rain, so I needed to find a place for
it. As for the cottonwood, the place I'd picked out for it last fall
happens to be directly in the path of the new satellite, so in the hope
that one day I'll be able to connect to it, I looked for another place,
prowling along the edge of the bushes downriver and crawling through
them to look for open areas like where I'd planted Nigel Cottonwood. I
did find a few open patches in the middle of the berries, but they were
very wet and would have required extensive trimming to allow enough
light in for a tree less than a foot tall. The bushes were well over my
head. While I was in there, I cut the top four feet off the spruce tree
growing this side of the alder and cut down several other, smaller
spruces growing nearby. I skirted the bushes upriver looking for more
suitable habitat and found it even more wet; the best place I could
come up with was downriver on the other side of the little alder where
there was an area that seemed a little higher and drier than the
sogginess around it. I dug out a pair of lady ferns and the root of a
dead current bush to make my hole, tucked in front of a row of berry
canes that I hoped would discourage bears from stepping on the
cottonwood. It was a good sized hole, though, and was filling with
water. I headed down to the river to see if there was any sand
available on the rising tide and carried back a shovelful. I then
brought over the cottonwood, carefully laid it aside, and filled its
tub with two loads of wet sand. Rather than planting at the bottom of a
depression to encourage water to collect, as I might normally do, I
planted the little tree on a mound of sand. I also dug a little
drainage trench from the bottom of the hole. Then I sank a number of
the canes I'd cut--mostly dead--behind the tree to add to the illusion
of a barrier a bear would not want to traverse, at least relative to
the opening right next door.
By this time, the Ronquil was rocking at anchor and 1" seas were
rolling in off Gilbert Bay, which is the weather I will not depart
in, having seen what it is like at the entrance to the port in these
conditions. Which isn't to say that I haven't been very wrong about my
predictions quite often in other situations, but it bodes poorly for
water Cailey or I would like to be on. I weeded around the roses and
their resident strawberries,
chocolate lilies, and, for the first time, blooming geranium. It was
1:00 then, and I put away some of the tools and took a break, meeting
Cailey inside where I'd put her about half an hour before. I lit a fire
and made a quesadilla for lunch, and here I sit after 2:00 wondering
what to do. There are still light seas coming in off Gilbert Bay, but
it has calmed down a little. I will need to make a decision fairly soon
so I can clean and close up if I'm going before the tide makes it
difficult to do so. So much for my stress-free departure! Actually, as
I look out at the swaying spruce boughs I am thinking I will probably
overnight; I do want to be home for tomorrow, but I am awfully cozy and
content here and, even if the front does pass and the wind dies a
little, I know that the seas out in Stephen's Passage persist longer,
just without the white caps. Perhaps a departure as the boat floats
tomorrow morning is in order. I have been thinking that I need to make
longer trips down here, even if they are fewer--these weekends, even
when they start in the morning of the first day instead of after work,
are all too short.
------------------------------
At 3:30 I called it and sent a SPOT OK message to the family. The
breeze had picked up again and the tide was dropping. Leaving Cailey
inside, I hooked up the hose and started cleaning the downriver and
back walls of the lodge in preparation for staining later this year, if
I get good weather for it. After projects in dense or soggy vegetation
close to the ground,
it felt downright civilized to just stand and spray a hose against the
wall. I started on the downriver wall, spraying everything and then
scrubbing a few places where algae had grown as well as the metal
sheets that
are now protecting it from drips. I also scrubbed the back deck, green
and slick with algae, then moved on to the back wall, climbing onto the
top of the bear proof box to scrub the siding where drips had allowed
it to green up, and also scrubbing the rest of the siding on the box, a
bit of the lower wall, and the metal sheeting protecting that corner.
At 5:30 I was through and the lodge looked better than it has in years!
Inside, I washed the inside of the picture window with hot water and
vinegar, which I've noticed this spring is quite dirty, then saw that
the kitchen window could also use it, so I washed that, and then the
others, all of which were quite dirty! How do windows inside get dirty?
I think it's possible I've never washed the inside of them. They look
amazing. By then my supper of 2016-expired pasta was ready and eaten
with relish. I read about Catherine the Great until almost 8:00, then
stepped
outside head to the cabin.
It was
cold in the cabin and I'd left my fleece night clothes
in the lodge (to wash at home), so I slept in some of the clothes I had
on, waking up again at 4:30 too warm. I got up around 7:40 and found
the boat predictably aground far from water. With a -2 foot tide, that
was expected, and there were standing waves here and there, but no
sandbars past the shoreline, which is unusual. Perhaps the river is
still high from all the rain. I immediately carried the mower and
garden sprayer to the boat and fueled up, returning later with the tote
and garbage. I tidied up the lodge, clipped some vegetation that was
creeping into the old lumber storage area before putting the clippers
and other tools away in the shed, and did a handful of other tasks
before finally sitting down to breakfast at 9:00. A Townsend's warbler
perched in Nigel Cottonwood and varied thrushes were around making a
variety of loud calls, buzzing, plain, soft, loud. I wonder what they
are
up to. Chickadee nestlings are sticking their heads out the hole to
cheep and look around, their white cheek patches a little gray still.
Hermit thrushes were singing, and the hummingbirds (whose feeders I
filled back up) were wildly chasing each other. When I was too cold to
stay outside any longer, I came in and lit a little fire, then
immediately went back out to work on the internet. Now that I have a
signal, I thought it wouldn't hurt to see if I could use the old cable
that comes in the house rather than setting everything up outside. As I
write this, I've confirmed that it does work and am letting it spin its
wheels while I write this. The boat now has water around it, but I
pulled the anchor up the beach so I have a few minutes before we should
head down there. I have mixed feelings about it. Every time I went down
to the flats, the wind was a steady blow from Gilbert Bay, standing
Cailey's ears up. That's not a great sign. Up here it seems to come in
waves. I should probably give it a try. The internet has failed to
connect, but for the first time, both the send and receive lights on
the modem are lit and steady.
---------------------------------------------------
At that point, I saw that the boat appeared to be floating and the
anchor was not in sight, so I rushed to finish the final tasks, pulled
up the kayak, and bolted to the boat. It was definitely floating, but
the anchor should be much shallower. I slowed sloshed toward the boat
in the general area where the anchor should be and, as I was peering at
the bow to make sure that there was an anchor line attached to it (it
was hidden on the other side), my foot kicked the anchor. I drug the
boat back toward shore until it hit bottom, dropped off my gear, stowed
the anchor, helped Cailey jump aboard, and shoved off around 11:00. We
immediately hit disheartening chop and swells in Gilbert Bay. But, it
was an otherwise pleasant morning and I was already underway, so I
turned into the entrance to the port, enjoying a brief respite in the
lee of Sentinel Point before running into what soon became smooth two
foot seas. I rode up and down them for a while and tried for a signal
to the marine forecast, with no luck. I was sure I didn't want to be
out in Stephen's Passage where these would be four or five foot seas
and, though I could raise a marine forecast
there, it wasn't worth another 30 or 40 minutes bucking the seas to get
there. We headed back to Snettisham and, by noon, were back at the
lodge considering lunch. I spent some time outside then, continuing to
try to entice the birds to my offerings of meal worms, with no success.
All morning there had been more varied thrush calls around the lodge
and once a fledgling flew to an adult toward the bottom of the path
through the meadow. By the afternoon, this fledgling had made this area
his home,
foraging up and down the narrow opening in the thick vegetation. I've
also seen voles cross the opening a couple of times. Once the thrush
perched on the porch and
I thought he might be interested in the meal worms, but he didn't
approach. To my delight, a hermit thrush did fly in, flinching as he
began to land nearby, but then approaching on foot, right to the edge
of the dish on the porch, peering at the offerings. It seemed certain
she would try one, but she turned away, perhaps caught something in the
bushes, and disappeared. I finally saw the Wilson's warbler that I'd
heard sing on and off and I heard an orange-crowned warbler singing
farther downriver. Also unseen were the Pacific slope flycatcher,
Townsend's warbler, and (I think) golden-crowned kinglets. Again I saw
both chickadee parents
enter the nest at the same times, and both of them fly away with fecal
sacks. When I got too chilled, I came into the warm lodge, stoked the
fire, and worked on making a list of the plants I could identify by
working my way through the iconic Plants of the Pacific Northwest Coast
book by Pojar and Mackinnon.
As
I got back to work, I noticed that the seas coming in off Gilbert Bay
were diminishing and the day was brightening. In fact, it was beginning
to look like quite a nice evening to be on the water. At 3:30 I set
about closing chores again and kayaked out to the Ronquil with a more
optimistic heart than I'd had before. It felt like the right time to
leave. We definitely ran into chop in the entrance to the port, but
more the usual sort, and we were able to turn around the points and
comfortably take the passage inside Seal Rocks. There were still 2-3
foot seas all the way across Taku Inlet, but they were easy to slide
over without a lot of pounding or squirreliness. It was better than the
last two rides I'd had. It rained very little, but Gastineau Channel
was a wall of white and, not for the first time this summer, we drove
into the rain. Ezra met me at the dock to unload and I was home before
7:00 for a very long, hot shower and the second half of Anne of Green
Gables.
Raising the outhouse