Snettisham
2022 - 3: Plan B
June 29 - July 4
The fine weather we'd enjoyed up the Taku had quickly returned after about four days of mostly overcast weather with a bit of rain. The forecast over the hot weekend preceding the trip called for NW winds and one to two foot seas in Taku Inlet, but the breeze was supposed to die down Tuesday night (the eve of our departure) and the forecast from there showed nothing but sunshine, variable winds, and one foot seas. I didn't believe it, that also being the forecast when I was turned around in Stephen's Passage due to a brisk west wind. Thus, I was not surprised to see a sturdy westerly coming down the channel as the Rock and the Ronquil crossed to Tesoro's to fuel the former. I only hoped that it was not paired with a northeasterly out of the Taku, as sometimes happens, and that we'd only have some swells from the back side of Douglas, then be able to cruise the Admiralty shoreline to avoid them in Stephen's Passage. I even gave that speech to Katie and Rob at the fuel dock--don't I ever learn?!
The dock was busy, so we didn't get underway until around 2:00, immediately slowing down after getting up on step past the bridge to be courteous to a cluster of small sailboats with kids on board in the middle of the channel. By the time we got back up to speed outside Douglas Harbor, we were cruising against a southeasterly coming straight up the channel; it was enough to slow me down and was puzzling given the westerly on the other side of the bridge. I was grateful to find the wind die down a bit between Marmion and Point Arden and even sang a little song of gratitude (but with the caveat that I would accept whatever came our way). Alas, the chop got worse and we were kicked about by one and two foot seas, enough that I soon abandoned our plan to go straight to South Island and cruised closer to Admiralty in a bid for shelter. It worked, or would have, accept that that part of the coast has many rocky outcroppings that forced me outside the lee of the headlands. My RPMs were in the 2000s and I was eager for a break. Clouds began to cover the sun and I was soon chilled in my tank top, the incessant southeasterly wind grating on my nerves. When we reached South Island, I fetched a flannel and put it on over my life jacket to fight the chill, my other clothes too hidden to mess with in the rocking boat. I'd hoped for some shelter in the lee of the island, but it evidently wasn't big enough to offer much, and the wind found me even when we skirted comparatively calm waters close to shore. We agreed to circumnavigate the island, but I was already pessimistic about its prospects, seeing no pleasant approach on the north side. The seas on the south side were large and stacked up against the extensive reefs that reached south, protecting both sides of a curving bite at lower tides that we'd marked as one prospective camping site--the one I thought we'd likely use in the expected north or west wind. As it was, we had to journey far south of the island proper to avoid the seas crashing against the last of the isolated rocks of the reef, then roll around them and up and down awkwardly as we turned north again. The seas there were about three feet and the rest of Stephen's Passage didn't look any better. I was on edge. Having incessant wind around always makes me anxious and unnerved, and I had seen no beach that I was confident in. We returned to the bite on the north side and discussed. The beach looked gorgeous for camping and there were even cottonwoods growing there; a little promontory topped in beach vegetation and small spruces looked inviting, and an eagle carried a branch to what must have been a nest above. But the edge of the beach at high tide had a number of large, random boulders, which made me uneasy, and anchoring far enough out to avoid going aground meant having little shelter from the wind. It was not a situation I was confident in--irregular beach with boulders, less shelter from the wind than desired, just too much exposure. And it would have been their first time anchoring. It was time for Plan B.
Which had sounded a lot better when we weren't anticipating heavy seas. I assured them that it was probably better away from the reef where the waves were stacking up and pinched, and that I was comfortable doing it (in terms of safety) but it was not a pleasant passage and I was already wearying of pushing through seas. Poor Cailey had by then been on the boat and enduring for four hours. But with Admiralty's fine beaches understandably left behind for the extra bear risk with ample food and two children, we turned our bows for Snettisham. It was not a fun trip, about 40 minutes of crashing and sliding and sea spray washing over us to get to the port, consistent two and three footers plus pairs of four footers--a far cry from variable winds (other than the northwesterly in the channel changing to a southeastly at Douglas Harbor, there was nothing variable about that wind) and one foot seas. I started singing a ballad about Snettisham when I thought I could begin to see more detail on the cliffs of Point Styleman and sang it for about half the trip, highlighting all the wonderful things about it, its history, and how its sheltering waters beckoned me (I was quite desperate to reach them). I learned later that Eleanore sang her own song as they crossed which involved adopting a purple dragon. I'm sure hers was better. Travel weary and dazed from the rugged seas, we entered the port, exchanged a thumbs up, and sped towards the homestead as quickly as we could, passing a large ice berg just before the port split. I've rarely been so happy to put seas on my stern.
I pulled in and unloaded my boat while Rob hung back, so by the time my boat was anchored and we were unloading the Rock, the tide was dropping fast and caught their boat in the little channel, a result none of us were too displeased about. It was after six. We hauled everything up and I set about opening up and organizing a bit, unpacking my cooler and tote to leave as much room for their gear as possible inside. Eleanore and I opened up Cottonwood Cabin and set up the water filters (we had to go back and exchange one of the blue filters for another because the o-ring was too loose to screw it on), then hiked up to the junction on the trail to turn the water on. I realized on the way that I'd closed the valves to Cottonwood but had forgotten to close the valves on the same line at Mink Cabin, but didn't want to go back since this was already a bit of an adventure on an uneven trail with Eleanore. Consequently, the pipe had drained by the time I got back to shut the valves and they had no water in their cabin that night. I didn't yet know what was wrong, but had seen immediately that water wasn't flowing through the system. But the stove and the fridge both worked, and we were cozy. Katie made amazing halibut tacos for a late dinner and the evening and bed came on quite quickly.
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Cailey and I had a very pleasant night's sleep and I met Rob and Eloise already at the lodge the next morning. After feeding Cailey, I headed up to the olive barrel to see about water, finding it and the dam in place but the water level just a couple inches too low. It was the best scenario, and not too surprising given how high the water was when I set it up. I thought it was possible that shoring up the dam would in itself raise the water enough, but decided not to try to cut corners and to go ahead and excavate the hollow more. I rolled the olive barrel to the upriver side and hoed out the gravel, using the materials in part to create a dam between the hollow and the overflow to the upriver side of the creek which had kept the water level a bit below the top of the dam. When I felt I'd done enough (more would have made the water dangerously deep for my boots), I rolled the barrel back in place, replaced the rocks in the dam over the outlet pipe, and tossed handfuls of gravel in it until the water level rose. The pipe was satisfyingly heavy, so I headed back down. Cailey had opted to stay behind with Rob when she would usually stand guard over me, still tired from the previous day's ordeal and no doubt comfortable with the company.
We had yogurt and granola for breakfast and just leisurely enjoyed the day from there, letting it take us where it would with no particular plans. Along with clipping all the cow parsnip in the area I meant to weed whack, I dealt with the aftermath of a bear rampage which encircled the lodge. One or more bears had bitten off chunks from the front edges of the stairs to the lower deck and ripped off the asphalt shingles nailed to them, pulled out a tarp and an old plastic gas can from the side of the lodge (long since bitten up by other bears), knocked some wood off the stack of rounds in the back, knocked over the ladder on the downriver side, and separated pieces of the new smoke stack outside so the vertical section was hanging upsidedown. Naughty, naughty bears. Well, I'd meant to screw the smoke stack together on this trip anyway, so I carefully made sure the inside was plumb and started there, putting in two or three roofing screws in each joint. It actually looks quite a bit better and feels quite sturdy. This project did involve getting into the attic to bring down my extra 90 degree joint, as the bear had broken the one outside (possibly something I can fit back together, but easier at the time to replace it). This added to Eleanore's delight, as she'd wanted to go in the attic and look around. It was spooky!
Eleanore was also surprisingly eager to head out into the woods with me and I did my best to engage and ask her questions rather than lecture. Other than that, we enjoyed the sunny day. Around 4:00 Rob suggested we go halibut fishing, but it was too late in the day for that (for me at least!). Katie made brown rice salad and we lingered until 10:00 to chat, Eloise being more vocal and fussy than usual. I think it was past the time any of us wanted to go to bed, but were loath to end the day.
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I slept a little later the next morning, but was up at the lodge around 8:00 before anyone else (I could tell by the cobwebs on my face while I walked over the boardwalk), so I sat on the new log over the path, leaning comfortably on a root, and read in the warm morning sunshine. Later, while Rob made flapjacks, I weedwhacked the area around the lodge and the path and the boardwalk, then we feasted outside before taking a walk on the flats up to the grassy point and back. In the afternoon, we took the Rock to Daisy Beach and had a picnic at the mouth of the creek. There were only a few daisies blooming (perhaps they bloomed earlier this year), but the view was lovely and the black flies, which had pestered us mercilessly on our walk, were far fewer. After lunch, Eleanore and I and Rob headed into the woods. I was again impressed by Eleanore's pluck, getting scratched on her bare legs but not letting it stop her. She really loved coming along with me, which I found quite endearing! Our picnic and brief exploration done, we headed back to the lodge. That day, we lingered outside for the evening listening to the harbor seals moan and hoot in the inlet.
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This morning Cailey got up at 7:00 and started to vomit, so I leaped up and put her outside, then read for some time in bed before heading to the lodge. I thought a cup of tea would be nice and I was hungry, so I had oatmeal and peanut butter for breakfast (since this was a bonus day, I did not think there would be a formal breakfast planned), then a cup of jasmine tea on the porch. The hummingbirds, which had numbered at least five since the day before, were thick at the feeders, and one bold individual with quite a lot of streaking on the throat hovered in front of me a couple of times, perched on the edge of the camp chair beside me, licked at the top of Eleanore's pink hat hanging nearby, and even probed the fabric flowers on top.
The family joined me just before I finished my cup of tea. The tide was around a -1' then and we went for a COASST walk. Although I knew Eleanore was following me, I paced out near the water's edge purposefully, and turned to find that she'd fallen on her knees in the mud, but this was more a serendipitous start than a problem. On the way to check on the Rock and disentangle its anchor line from a log, Rob helped her wash them off, but on the way back upriver, she just embraced the mud and started rolling in it and splashing and having a grand, muddy time. Everything below her chest was soon covered in mud. The walk was peaceful, the wind calm, the sun not as hot as it had been the two days prior. Near the lodge, Rob took Eleanore to the river's edge, now quite a bit closer, and she washed off and got a ride back to the lodge.
And then it was time to pack up. It was quite a peaceful time for me, as I did not have to do any packing or cleaning or closing chores myself, only hold the baby and watch. Unfortunately, there was a bit of unpleasantness at the very end. Eleanore had been complaining of something sore on her head for over a day, which we all assumed to be from the abundant and highly motivated black flies near the water and on the flats. On closer investigation, however, it turned out to be a creature clinging to Eleanore's head, a tiny blue bulb which looked quite like a very small tick. I tried to say it couldn't be--understanding that native ticks don't bite humans, and how could an invasive tick get here?--but it sure seemed likely. I grabbed tweezers and a cup to put the specimen in so I could give it to the right researchers, but it proved an impossible task. Eleanore cried and cried and we could not get the tick off. Rob pulled some of it off, perhaps the bladder full of blood, but it seemed to move back into the wound. Further efforts were foiled I think mostly by the hair all around it. I tried cutting off a small lock, but with Eleanore's squirming couldn't get it close enough to the skull. It helped, but it was impossible to grab the tiny creature without also grabbing hair, and this made poor Eleanore yell. They put some neosporin on it and left, and soon the plucky Eleanore was in good spirits again. Rob and I hauled most of the gear to the boat, then we met him back at the beach a little later, and off they went around 2:00 with promises to text me when they got to town and let me know how the wind and water was. Despite ongoing predictions of variable winds and one foot seas, every day had seen breezes and gusts for some time.
I was sweltering when they left, having donned boots under my shorts and tank top for the loading, and quickly devested myself of everything from the waist up. I reorganized the porch for a solo expedition, taking a couple of camp chairs inside, swept the lodge and mopped the front half (not because of the guests, but because I'd been meaning to and it was hot enough to dry quickly) and otherwise rearranged everything until it looked like I'd just arrived. It was far too hot on the porch and Cailey was fast asleep on her corner of the couch, so I set up a chair on the inside of the mesh door, opened a tiny bottle of champagne, and broke out my novel for some quiet reading. It was blissful. I really haven't done much the rest of the afternoon but get caught up on this, read, do some research on ticks, and eat dinner. I did finish raking the rocky path and used the clipping to hill the Tlingit potatoes growing from their mound in the meadow.
The bird life has been subtle. I did a couple of stationary surveys in the mornings, coming up with around nine birds. Yesterday I saw a family of at least four wrens by Gneiss House, two of which I believe were fledglings, and their or other fledgling calls are frequent around the lodge. Some Townsend's warblers have sung along with a varied thrush, the Pacific slope flycatcher (calls), a Wilson's warbler (once), along with frequent hermit thrushes, sometimes three at once. I think I heard a sooty grouse once or twice, and about 75 short-billed gulls have frequented the inlet at low tide. Out in the port there were a couple of loons and many many murrelets, often in small groups, presumably including this year's fledglings. I hope that this is merely that time in the summer when songbirds are busy raising their young, and less prone to territorial songs--getting down to the business of raising young birds. I still have not seen the Bonaparte's gulls I've come to expect. The hummingbird numbers are up to at least six now and I see that I will want to fill the other two feeders before I go. All four were empty, but there were no signs of birds when we arrived, and none came to beg. I filled them the first morning once we had water, but interest was some time in coming and the first birds were either wary of us or didn't seem to know where to feed (presumably new fledglings). By the next morning, there was no hesitation and the first five were active and acrobatic, and often two or three fed at the same time. It's now 8:30, the only sounds are hermit thrushes downriver and the waterfall and I think I'll go check to see if my mother has sent an inreach okay message from the Taku.
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The next day was a day of rest. Very little breeze came up and I realized how much of a pleasant influence it has on hot days. I did a few little odds and ends like further hilling both potatoes with old wrack I raked up from around the path and removing the supports for the rotten bench I'd carried down to the river a couple of days before, but most of the time I aggressively read on the porch or inside or next to the canopy in the woods. While at the latter location, I was charmed and puzzled by the sound of steady rain on the tops of the devil's club fronds--not from water but from a steady stream of small pellets the size of large grains of sand, yellow, brown, and green in color. I later found out that this was "frass" (caterpillar poop), likely from the western black-headed budword infestation. Their caterpillars eat the new growth on hemlock and and spruce trees. The forest really was beautiful, beds of foamflowers all in bloom with their sprays of white flowers and my solitary saxifrage similarly blooming below Hermit Thrush. I encountered a group of five or six charming wrens together on the path to Schist House and filled all the hummingbird feeders which I expect will last a little less than two weeks at the current rate of sipping. In the evening, I browsed the salmonberries along the beach and picked about 11 cups of them, mostly yellow ones. The bushes on the upriver side are amazingly productive and I left about two-thirds of the ripe ones on the bushes (a number of them were crawling with insects, which were easy to avoid). To top off my last tub, I entered the dense groves near the lodge and reached far up for the huge clusters of fat yellow berries, enjoying a few of them myself.
I closed up Hermit Thrush and slept in the lodge that night, as is my new routine. Around 3:00, I became aware of a roaring sound like a jet, but very short-lived. It sounded like a landslide or avalanche, but neither seemed likely given the weather and time of year. When it happened again I tried to convince myself it was a jet, but around the third time I became more alert and realized there was only one likely explanation. I took off my sleep mask and saw a flash of light out the window and quite a long time later the roll of thunder, which made me think the storm was perhaps over Stephen's Passage or Admiralty. Thunderstorms had been in the forecast for the 4th of July and I later learned that Ezra had stepped outside at 1:20 am that night to a downpour that lasted about ten minutes. I wrapped myself in a quilt and headed outside, unfortunately releasing Cailey in case she needed to go out. She had to that point not been noticeably scared by the thunder, but she immediately disappeared under the porch. I was rewarded with a proper streak of lightening over the mountains behind Gilbert Bay. Real lightening! More thunder and then around 3:26, another streak of lightening, and then the storm passed. I found Cailey's reflecting eyes under the lodge at the very back with a flashlight, but she wouldn't come out. Her bowl of food finally did the trick, though, which she ate back inside, and we went back to bed. So, my poor dog did not have the stress-free night of the 3rd of July that we had anticipated! And this now makes two thunderstorms at Snettisham in two seasons.
The next morning I hoped to get more reading in, but between packing up, doing dishes, making three trips to drop off gear on the boat far out on the flats, moving the anchor, fueling up, and otherwise getting ready to go, I only had two fairly short reading bouts on the porch. The first one involved jasmine tea, though, which was very nice. The boat had gone aground just beyond what used to be the sheer bank to the channel that ran there two years ago. The channel has since filled in, but it's still deep enough to float the boat while the flats toward shore are still dry, so we were able to step directly onboard the floating boat without wading, push to deep water, and head out, which we did so at 1:01 pm. A breeze was coming out of Speel Arm and we had to fight 2' seas all the way up Stephen's Passage to the Open. The first gillnets I've seen this year created obstacle courses along the way, and I enjoyed waving to the friendly skippers on the boats I passed in close quarters. The weather improved the farther north I went, but that first section of Stephen's Passage slowed me down enough that it took two and a half hours to get to the harbor. Wild fires must be burning windward of us, as the view in all directions was very hazy. I could see no sign of Devil's Paw as we passed Taku Inlet. A couple of days later I made a delicious salmonberry cobbler (though I should have been more generous with the sugar). Cailey was traumatized by local fireworks the evening of the 4th, so next year I'll have to stay an extra night. Although I would have loved camping, it was also wonderful to have another long stay at Snettisham, and to have it doubly appreciated by friends.
Cross Stephen's Passage
from
South
Island