Nearly 7:00 pm on a perfectly beautiful May day. After two weekends in town during which I tackled all gardening (with the exception of fresh bark on the paths) and dug into spring birding, I was looking forward to a return to Snettisham. I'd originally planned to come down yesterday and even took the day off, but spent it finishing projects and gardening and, ultimately, delayed departure due to the persistent southeasterly which kept the flags at attention until the wind died around this time last night. By this morning, the breeze had shifted to a northerly, according to the forecast, and I took advantage of waking up early as I have been to get an early start, heading out from the harbor at 7:45. The breeze took us nicely down the channel as marbled murrelets popped up all around us. Between the two cabin communities on Douglas, I noticed a small blow ahead and, after briefly wondering what small whale might have made it, considered if it could be an orca. Then more tiny blows arose--a pod--the wind rapidly carrying the mist away. They were heading out of the channel like me and were widely spaced, so I crept up toward the northern edge and more or less matched their pace for about 20 minutes, keeping a respectful distance. There looked to be a group of four including two calves [among them, I later learned, T038A (an old friend) and her calves T038A3 and T038A4], and at least two others, no large males that I could see, and the fins suggested transients. They moved around a bit, but wound up on the north side of the channel around Dupont when I regretfully left them.

I always agonize about the weather--when should I go and when should I postpone? It's the worst thing about cabin trips. I wonder how many times I go, or don't go, and one way or another miss some amazing event out on the water or at the cabin. In this case, the decision to postpone a night sure seems to have paid off. Not only was the wind behind me (and I'm certain I would have banged against it the whole way yesterday), but I had encountered orcas!

The seas picked up from Stephen's Passage on the way to Point Arden, two and three foot rumpled rollers, but it didn't slow us down too much. To my surprise, several Dall's porpoise cruised past close by, though no one stopped to play, a rare siting in that areas. Past Arden, I noted a second cruise ship heading up Stephen's Passage and thought I'd probably pass it between Grand and the mainland, a choke point where cruise ship wakes can be big and uncomfortable, so I thought maybe I'd take the back side of Grand during this fine weather and see if any cormorants were hanging out on the beautiful cliffs there. As I turned in that direction, more fine blows appears--a second orca pod was heading in my direction! I had lucked out indeed. These animals were moving FAST--a large group to the west, a large male in the middle, and a small group to the east that were very boisterous. I got a brief look at the larger group as they passed me while shut down, then a few looks at the big beautiful male [AG25, making this, at least in part, AG pod], then watched the raucous youngsters (presumably) for a few minutes. That group was also moving fast, but at the same time were frequently rolling, sometimes together, tail-slapping, porpoising, and, several times, spy hopping. Before I left, I couldn't help but reposition to the left of the big group for just a couple more photos before leaving them to head in the opposite direction. They milled just a couple of times, but mostly were booking it in the opposite direction I was going.

Meanwhile, our trip was getting drawn out, so we sped toward Snettisham, still taking the back of Grand in the hopes of cormorants (none). This was probably a good move anyway, for as we cruised past Grant we hit consistent 1-2" tight seas which rocked us and shot up spray as we worked for the port. We were both very glad to sneak inside where the seas diminished and smoothed out a little. Marbled murrelets were everywhere this time and a few loons flew by, then I passed two flocks of surf scoters on either side of Sentinel Point, each at least 100 strong. More were at the mouth of the river and one group after another busted or flew past, some apparently originating from beyond the homestead. The tide was dropping as I unloaded, but I managed with some effort to push the boat off the rocks and anchor, making it back to shore around 10:40. A spotted sandpiper met me there, an orange-crowned warbler was singing, and a western flycatch called cheerily from the forest, my first of the year.

By the time I finished opening up, it was getting toward noon and I realized I was quite hungry, so I made some lunch (having to change the propane tank in the middle of cooking) and then settled into my couch on the porch with Cailey, overlooking the beautiful lush view and the solar panels charging their battery. I read for a bit after that and, by the time I felt I was being really decadent and should do something, was surprised to find that it was only 1:00. I resolved to weed whack so I could stop dreading it and could look out over my "civilized" path. I started out by weeding around the roses and the many blooming forget-me-nots, which were not only along both sides of the stairs where I'd originally planted them, but also in front of them and in a couple of places to the side. They were reseeding themselves! Good news. The oldest rose also has a full stem with a blossom on it that is coming from under the porch, so it has started sending out runners. I also pulled up all the cow parsnip I could find and clipped some of the salmonberries. By the time I was ready, it was 1:40, and half an hour later I'd weedwhacked the path, all around the deck, and the boardwalk, and left the grass to dry in the sun. Then I settled onto the porch again, finally warm in my three layers. Earlier, with the porch still shading most of my head, the wind had raged in and kept me chilled even in three layers plus my down vest plus my quilt; I'd gone to work partly to warm up!

After another pleasant spell on the couch, I looked out over the flats and the boat sitting on the edge of them and thought it might be nice to take a walk and explore them, surprised at how extensive they were given the 3+' low tide. Naturally I wound up taking a COASST and eBird survey, a much quieter one than last time, though the flats above the rocky point were nearly as extensive. I was extremely pleased to see an eagle sitting on the nest and hope they will be successful this year. I found the sandpiper again in the creek outlet, and possibly a second. Eventually I made my way inside, quite chilled again, lit a fire, did some chores online, and cooked some Sweetheart sockeye and carrots for dinner. Even then I was cold, and finished the X-Files I started over dinner in front of the wood stove at which point my fingers finally thawed out. I'd intended to start the stove in Hermit Thrush early so it would be warm for us when we went over, but decided to stay behind and stay/get warm there instead. Now I can hear a hermit thrush singing and Cailey is snoozing deeply beside me. It is great to be here.

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We somewhat ashamedly left the calm inlet with the 3/4 moon hanging above for Hermit Thrush around 8:00 pm and found a scene of disaster on the way to the cabin. My beautiful bridge was destroyed. A good-sized dead tree that stood just on the uphill side of the great fallen tree maybe 20 feet from the downriver side of the bridge had broken off and a portion of it about 18" in diameter had crashed into the center of the bridge and broken through the uphill log support and partially tore the bridge apart. It was a well-placed assault and will require some work to sort out, probably work for another time this summer. So I crouched under the log to get to Hermit Thrush and, after the endless ablutions and preparations, read until sleep. I'd turned down the stove after it took off dramatically as it sometimes does, glowing orange and making alarming thumping sounds, but turned it back up a bit later when it was clear we needed a little more heat. I was troubled when the cabin was still cold an hour later when I shut it off until I realized that I'd turned it the wrong way--further down rather than back up. Oh well! So it was that I suited up in my fleece onesie over my pajamas and slept until I overheated sometime during the night. Removing my outer layer, I was cold afterwards and huddled until I fell back asleep, waking exceptionally warm and cozy somewhat later than I have been.

It had been a quiet morning as far as I had noticed (in terms of bird songs) and I found that the quietness persisted over the inlet which was dead calm and glassy. Although a part of me considered working right off the bat, I was obviously hungry, so plunked myself down outside with some oatmeal and peanut butter and began a bird survey when I saw two harlequin ducks paddling away from the beach (why not?). This quickly turned into a serious endeavor as my spotting scope landed on a handful of birds straight across the inlet feeding in the main channel. There were about four loons--two in non-breeding plumage and two with reddish throats and dark backs. Could it be my first red-throated loons? To confirm, I repositioned my scope at water's edge, fumbled about raising its height, and hunted those birds. Eventually I had clear looks at them both floating with the current along with a red-necked grebe. I wound up down at the water for some time counting scoters, loons (including a common), and murrelets. Somewhere in there, a whale cruised the inlet briefly. I also turned to see a savanna sparrow alarming from the little spruce tree. I finally returned to the porch for a cup of special coffee to warm my chilled hands (I'd needed all four layers to survive the chill, grateful it wasn't breezy). While there I heard faint singing or warbling chatter and cupped my ears to hear it better, only to have a loud clear song erupt that sounded a bit like a Lincoln's sparrow but longer and ending with tinkling notes that I associate only with thrushes. I immediately turned on Merlin and let it run for several minutes before listening to recorded gray-cheeked thrush songs (inconclusive). If only he would sing again! I turned on Merlin for another ten minutes in the hopes of one more song, but he was silent, whoever he was.

I finally stopped the bird survey and turned my attention to the "garden", first weeding the rhubarb pot and then raking the cut grass and sweeping the stone path. Then I set about repairing the potato mounds that had suffered somewhat in the last two and a half weeks, perhaps wind and high tides, adding more grass to them (thankfully there were still piles suffocating the fresh growth upriver) and clumps of green algae that made up the bulk of a thin line of wrack nearby. To help protect them from high tides, I moved a couple of small logs to the downslope side of two beds and used the surviving log support from the disintegrated bench near the fire pit for the downriver side of the mound at the end of the big log. By then I was overheated and had stripped my top layer off, but it started to sprinkle so I broke for lunch. I started a fire while I lunched on a quesadilla and checked messages, then returned to the garden to finish the potato beds, after which I finished a book on the porch. I started out at a perfectly pleasant temperature, but by the time an hour had gone by my fingers were frozen again and I found the inside of the lodge warm, but not warm enough, and went about resuscitating the stubborn fire. I still haven't worked out how to manage it. It's now just after two and soon I'll go back out and plant the potatoes finally, maybe haul some sand up the path to see if I can raise the level of the low stones that are awash with water during wet seasons. Cailey is taking what I think is her first proper nap of the day. It has been overcast most of the time with the brief sprinkle and, recently, pockets of blue. During lunch, a Hughescraft type boat came screaming up the shoreline from River Point as though it was heading right for me, then abruptly made a sharp 180 turn and retreated--perhaps they had finally noticed my skiff, or perhaps the no hunting sign. It was unnerving. It seemed a more determined pace than just "checking things out".

So I immediately went out and planted all the potatoes, though having done so I think I'll add another layer of grass to the mounds if I have time and energy. Then I did get started at that long-awaited/dreaded project: the rock path. I fetched a shovel and a small bucket and filled it about a third full of wet sand from the one sandy patch at the end of the path and hauled it up to the top edge of the path where the stones start getting flooded. I excavated the first stone, shoveling and levering and scraping away the dense root masses around it until I could dump the bucket of sand and replace the stone, now higher and level and perfect. It was satisfying, but once I had started digging around I realized that I needed to work higher up. I discovered that the extant path is actually considerably wider than I realized, but the upriver edge was very close to the salmonberry hedge and, as the branches had crept closer, ceased to be used and had grown several inches of vegetation over them. I wound up refitting six stones/three rows above the one I started with, leveling them and shifting stones from one side to the other to widen the path in the direction now used, away from the salmonberries. This involved endless uprooting of sedges and other vegetation which I used to fill in the holes where I'd removed stones and to help fill the soggy trench to the side of the path. It was mucky work, but by the end I had nearly a third of the soggy path replaced. From here I might remove all the stones and clear the whole path of vegetation before replacing them instead of doing one at a time. I think it'll all need about four inches of sand to raise the stones above the water table and I plan to use the mats of vegetation I dig out to form a dike to help hold the sand in place.

By that time it was 4:20 and I needed a break, so I sat on the porch with Cailey and had a glass of wine before coming inside, pleased that it was very warm and cozy--actually exceedingly hot while I was overheated from working (in a t-shirt), but I knew as soon as I cooled off outside it would be welcome, which it was. I put one more small piece of wood on the fire, but I think it'll be good for the evening. It takes that stove so long to get going, but once it does it's a total dream. Tomorrow I hope to head out for a Snettisham adventure by 9:00, perhaps swinging by the birding beach in Gilbert Bay and, depending on the weather, maybe the beach Katie and Rob and I picnicked on two years ago to look for mussel shells to use in the garden at home as slug detterent (I think I remember picking some up there at the time). The birds were fairly quiet this afternoon as usual, but I did have a Wilson's warbler finally pass by singing and heard the western flycatcher sing as well, all I've heard from him all day.

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While relaxing on the couch, a skiff with two people aboard cruised by and disappeared upriver and, later, the other boat I'd seen drifted around close to Gilbert Bay, apparently dropping pots, before cruising back north. I said a prayer for the local bears and headed to the cabin around 8:00 in full daylight, grabbing the bridge camera card after I got the stove going, happy to see that it was in good shape and could remain set up on the same post despite the damage.

I went to sleep warmer than the night before and doffed the fleece before turning in for the night. With another good, cozy night's sleep under my belt, I got up about the same time as yesterday and had breakfast on the porch under a mostly cloudy sky with a touch of breeze, but not enough to inhibit our planned adventure. We pulled away from the beach right on time at 9:01 after fueling and loading the boat with camera, spotting scope, backpack, wash tub, and boat blankets for Cailey. Fifteen minutes later we were pulling onto the point with the big slabs of rock at the beach in Gilbert Bay I explored last summer and was feeling grumpy and pessimistic. There weren't loads of birds on the water, which for some reason I thought there might be, and I couldn't keep my left boot out of the water as I disembarked, which was already cold and wet (I'd put the wrong left xtratuff on when I left the house, although a waterproof one was nearby--the risk of having three pairs of xtratuffs hanging out together!). But as soon as Cailey was off the boat and we were anchored to the beach, I began to enjoy the easy walking and the beautiful place. I first went west onto a section of beach which has a nice topping of flat paving stones, then passed the boat again and headed east. Being a north facing beach, the vegetation was less advanced than at my place, the leaves on the alder fringe quite small and the grass only poking up a few inches. Walking either on the gravel closer to the water or up on the grass bench in front of the alders was easy and pleasant and I thoroughly enjoyed it. And there were lots of birds! Along with the usual three warblers, I heard a yellow-rumped warbler singing, unusual for Snettisham (this might be the first) and a pair of robins appeared when I walked slightly inland along the creek's floodplain to some patches of snow. I saw a savanna sparrow and heard a Lincoln's sparrow sing, and the birds on the water, though few, were interesting and included a horned grebe, which I hadn't seen at the homestead this trip, as well as three loons which I couldn't see well enough to identify but which erupted into wild cacophany which Merlin attributed to more red-throateds. Two semi-palmated plovers were working the algae-covered beach near the boat and a pair of sandpipers flew over which didn't stay long enough to identify but which Merlin thought were least, which would be very cool. I took my time and enjoyed every bit of the walk, even stopping along the way to fill my doffed flannel shirt with mussel shells where I found a concentration of them to help deter slugs from my lettuces at home. Finally, just as I was approaching the boat, a huge flycatcher flew into the top of a spruce tree, then flew away as I repositioned to get a better look only to be replaced by another immediately (or he did some fancy flying). Anyway, although he was high, I got a good enough look to identify him as an olive-sided flycatcher based on side, the dark head, and the obvious vest. Very cool.

By the time we left the beach, it was about 11:00 and I decided to swing over toward the Sweetheart flats to see if there were ducks in there. Since the tide was falling, I went in slowly and watched over the side of the boat, seeing the spit pass underneath me four or five feet down. I crept closer to the edge of the grass, partially flooded, seeing that there were birds all along it. I tried the spotting scope a couple of times, but there was absolutely no way I would ever be able to use it on a boat. So I crept closer, trying to figure out what the tall post-like birds were standing in a rows. Nearby I saw two white birds which I assumed were gulls and thought the post birds were a little smaller, then I realized that the white birds were considerably larger than the Canada geese next to them. Swans! In the end, I logged two swans, 27 geese, six stumps/great blue herons, mallards, and gulls. There were obviously quite a few ducks in there, but the water was shallowing and the tide dropping, so I left them.

We were back at the homestead around noon and I, for one, was quite pleased with the expedition. I had been searching for a name for the beach and...Birding Beach might be it. I'm not very good at naming places! I had thought it would be a good spot when I visited last year, and it definitely panned out. I think Cailey also had a great time roaming up and down the beach, though she was definitely eager to return to the boat in the end. At one point she jumped from high off a log at the edge of the creek and onto rocks and I was momentarily worried about her healing leg, but she didn't react or come up lame. I made myself a quesadilla for lunch and ate it with an ice cold beer, figuring I'd warm up when I got to work. At 12:45 I put Cailey inside to rest in the slowly warming cabin (having finally wised up to the need to start the fire early) and got to work on the stone path. The first thing I did was excavate all the rocks that needed to be reset, most totally obscured by water and vegetation. Some of them had multiple paving stones stacked on top of each other, presumably my initial attempt to keep them above the water table. After that, I hacked and levered and yanked on endless clumps of vegetation to clear the section of root mats, figuring out that it's the sedge plants that have such numerous and sturdy roots nearly impossible to pull by hand (I did employ the clippers a couple of times).

At last I had a mucky path between the two sections of dry stones and began hauling load after load after load of sand up from the beach, placing stones on the way. I started by leveling the first dry stone on the bottom end with sand, then began creeping up toward the porch, laying a stone whenever there was enough sand in place to set it. The biggest labor at that point was carrying the half-full buckets of wet sand. It was difficult to fill them as most of the sand on the beach is full of stones so I usually filled the bucket with about a handful of sand/gravel in each shovel. I began tossing rocks to the side and moved my way toward the water as I worked, creating uneven divots in the beach. Toward the end, I made several sand trips in a row until I could place the last four rows or so of rocks. It was a little tricky joining the two ends of the path, sloping the stones so they met up at the same level, not to mention match them up in size.

I wound up using most of the rocks I'd excavated, but stashed about eight leftovers under the little spruce tree. Although the placement isn't perfect, especially where the two ends meet, I'm quite chuffed with the results, especially that they are all solid, more or less level, not wobbly at all. Most of the turf I dug up I laid in the ditch on the downriver side to help fill it in; others went to fill bare patches, and a few were sacrificed under the stones to help fill the deep pools where I'd pulled out stacked rocks. I also hauled up a couple loads of rocks rather than sand to fill in the deepest place (or, really, the highest place) on the upper end. When that was done, I also moved the two old logs that long ago I'd placed on either side of the path and never really liked--one to help support a potato mound and the other rolled into a trench nearby. Finally, I clipped the many spruce branches at the top of the meadow spruce tree which had grown up to replace its crown and was once again threatening to block the view.

I staggered inside nearly three hours after I began, took off my muddy shirt and donned my usual layers, and sat on the porch enjoying the spruced up garden with a gin and tonic. The poor male hummingbird whose watchful perch was atop the highest upright spruce bough hovered for some time where it would have been a couple of times, but didn't seem to select an alternative; I do hope he finds one to his liking. When I'd finished my drink, I headed over to Hermit Thrush to change my socks and pants--the former were soaking (well, the left one was) and the latter was wet from the one boot and muddy from the work. On the way I clipped salmonberries along the paths and on the way back I reset the camera on the bridge. I then relaxed for a little while before doing the dishes and making dinner, a little less interesting than hoped, as I found the bison steak frozen again from my enthusiastic refrigerator. Instead, I had Indian food (which was delicious), brusel sprouts, toast, and wine and watched them, decadently, with an episode of The Magicians. For once I was adequately or even overheated in the lodge this afternoon from keeping the fire going on its slow burn, and love not having the constant tension of being cold. The inlet appears to be dead calm now...I have no desire to leave here tomorrow and am considering staying over until Monday, depending on the forecast.

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We had another cozy night in Hermit Thrush and I cleaned up and locked it this morning, carrying with me both blankets which may have a little urine on them from Cailey's incontinence (I'd put plastic underneath them on her side of the bed to protect the comforter). There was a small but brisk breeze coming in off Gilbert Bay, but the morning otherwise looked wonderful, mostly cloudy, bright, and pleasant. The boat was already floating, which further encouraged me to try a morning departure tomorrow. I mulled about it for a while and finally decided to just make the decision to stay. After all, I've been saying that I want to make fewer but longer trips here, and am eager for another day. In the meantime, I'd had some granola and instant milk for breakfast and enjoyed a cup of jasmine tea. When three robins appeared on the algae flats at the edge of the water, I started an eBird survey which turned out to be somewhat interesting, winding up with at least seven red-throated loons and a couple Pacific loons too--that's three of the four local loons in two days. When I first saw them, they were together with three sea lions, and a whale also joined in the action on the inlet. I'm getting better with the spotting scope in terms of how to adjust its height and move the lens while watching. I wonder if there have been red-throated loons here all these years and I never used the scope effectively to see them, or recognize their wild wails? Still, the highlight was the robins, at least two of which were female, picking through the intertidal zone and plucking at the sheet of algae to forage, joined by a female varied thrush who dove to the log over the path from the tree high above to join them.

When I finally ended the survey, the blue sky had departed but it was fairly calm and pleasant outside for working, so I finally fertilized the "garden", first weeding some of the native plants from around the rhubarb and then sprinkling it and the potatoes with a mix of ash and bone meal from town followed by salmon fertilizer. Cailey was immediately drawn to the rhubarb pot, and I hope the bears are not by the time they next visit! I started watering everything and, when drawing water from inside proved tedious, dug a little pool in the channelized portion of the beach seep and drew from there instead. Then I grabbed the hoe and started scraping the moss and vegetation that had quite effectively crept over the stone path, surprised at practically every rock how large they were under the growth! Some of it came off easily, others with more effort, and a few had to/have to be cut with clippers. I made it most of the way down the path to the log, carrying batch after batch of removed turf up closer to the deck to continue filling in the old trenches alongside the path so walking is smoother. It was then nearly noon, so I broke for lunch and started a fire, knowing I'd cool down quickly eating on the porch. The breeze had picked up again and then I discerned that rain was beginning to fall so I finished reading the intro to Emerson's Essays and quickly swept the rocky path from both the sand that had dried from yesterday's endeavor and the bits of moss and debris left from scraping the others. It looks, I must say, great, though more attention to weed-whacking the vegetation in the spaces between them next time will help.

The sprinkling had stopped by then, but the wind had picked up, so Cailey and I retreated inside where I stoked the reluctant fire and settled in on the couch to read for a bit. Now the inlet is raging with white caps on the river and I am very glad not to be out on it, though if I'd left early this morning I may have missed the bulk of it. The boughs are swaying over the porch, I've shoved the porch couch against the banging shutter, and the magnets on the screen keep clanging on the door as the wind pushes them in. It's a real storm and I'm happy to be inside this snug lodge. Interestingly, I spotted a large sandpiper down the beach, wading belly-deep into the little surf and darting after tidbits on the surface. He disappeared before I could put the scope on him, but returned later and I was able to verify him as greater yellowlegs, a species I have often seen in the spring, but not lately, so I was pleased with that. Back inside, I got to work sorting through orca photos and submitting the transient set to "Happy Whale" for the first time and also to Jared Towers who manages the Bigg's catalog. I'll wait on the AG photos, as there are more than I want to burden satellite internet with. I also edited and sorted through the several eBird surveys I hadn't submitted including the large one from Birding Beach yesterday which required me to write comments for EVERY bird, all considered "rare." Must be a glitch from the lack of surveys in the area. It's now pouring down rain and the inlet is gloomy. Hope prospects look better in the morning! The tide is going to prevent an early departure, but perhaps I can work in the morning to make up the hours?

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After some serious rain, the drops slowed down and the wind diminished as the tide slowly came in over the flats. I glanced outside around 7:45 pm and noticed shorebirds on the beach--five semi-palmated plovers and a small sandpiper! And, down the beach, two enormous, regally dressed birds: American golden-plovers. What a find! I headed out, quickly returned when I realized my camera's SD card was in my computer, and set about creeping up on then and taking photos. There were two semi-palmated plovers right here with what turned out to be a lone western sandpiper and down the beach I spotted another loner--the unexpected pectoral sandpiper, and farther yet (beyond a flock of pipits) four more semi-palmated plovers and the two golden-plovers. And two spotted sandpipers! We get so few shorebirds here that I know of, this was an amazing amalgamation, including two birds I just met last week on the wetlands and two I'd studied this winter.

I slept in the lodge again, not wanting to open Hermit Thrush for single night. The wind seemed to diminish overnight and the forecast was calling for 2-3' seas--not ideal, but with the energy of morning came courage, and it didn't hurt that there were only mild indications of wind on the inlet, not at all like the white caps and swells of yesterday. The boat was so high aground when I checked at 5:30 am that I willed myself back to sleep and looked again after 7:00. The Ronquil was still aground, but not far from the edge of the water and the tide was rising. No time to lose! I rapidly finished packing and, before doing anything, carried two loads of gear to the boat (tools and propane, then boat blankets and tote). By the time I was done closing up about an hour after starting, the anchor, conveniently pointing straight to the lodge, was in four inches of water and the boat was actually floating. I scurried down with the rest of the gear, leaving the weed whacker and box of wine on the flats while I dealt with the anchor. They were in a few inches of water when I was done. I got those and the dog in the boat and then set about organizing everything, piling most things in a tarp in the bow. The wind was rapidly pushing us upriver, so I lowered the engine just enough and puttered out into the inlet. After donning all my clothes, I finally sat down and drank the barely-not-cold decaf coffee drink I'd prepared with a granola bar I'd thrown in for breakfast while idling for River Point. Only then did I get underway, right into a nice chop coming up Gilbert Bay. Looking toward the entrance to the port, it seemed calmish, but that was only because the tops of the swells there were rather smooth. Not for long. It wasn't enough to turn me around right there, which I've done in the past, but it was not an optimistic view as I slowed down to slosh and crash and bang my way through two foot seas toward Stephen's Passage. If I could just get around the point and turn north, I thought, it would be on our tail all the way home, and I could handle all of this if I could just make the turn...

But I didn't. By the time I was nearing Point Styleman, four foot curling seas were crashing around me and I nearly got green water over the bow between a couple of them, and I wasn't even in Stephen's Passage yet. It had rapidly gone from "this is going to be a very uncomfortable trip" to "this is irresponsible." I turned around, relieved to escape the worst of the swells in about five minutes. I tried to get up to speed crossing Gilbert Bay, but had to slow down there again to deal with the chop. An hour and 15 minutes from the time we'd pulled away we hit the beach again. I left the tools and the tote on board, drug the kayak back to the beach to anchor, and was soon in the lodge again. Thank God there is such a cozy, welcoming place here with warmth and food in a storm! I logged on to work and soon lit a fire which, without the warmth of the refrigerator, took hours to take off the chill. I worked until I had nothing else to do, sucking up about a quarter of the solar battery. Depending on how long I stay, I may well need to charge it with the genset. It could probably use the running anyway, though I hate to do it. Cailey asked to be a let out at one point and seemed to enjoy romping around on her own until I heard her on the porch and let her back in. She's been snoozing happily on the couch since then, most of her boat blankets drying around the fire. The wind has not changed as far as I can tell and a northerly is projected for tomorrow. My Taku trip is looking less and less hopeful unless I really did go straight up there from here.

After work I sipped some wine, finished my book, had some hot chili for dinner, gazed out the window at the brightening inlet and the flats, and then walked almost up to the grassy point with Cailey. By then it was raining again and I was getting a bit wet, so headed back, but it was nice to be out on the firm sand without any agenda, groups of short-billed gulls on little pools upriver and Bonaparte's gulls (mostly immatures) congregated at the outlets of the seeps. A dozen or so pipits have been out there, but no more sandpipers that I've seen. Such a strange and wonderful group last night!

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With Cailey on her bed on the floor, I slept quite a bit better last night (still on the couch in the lodge). The morning was calm, the flats extensive, and the sun shining down on the beach, and I was staying because of the north wind. The dry day held so much promise! I work worked out on the porch until my laptop battery died, then came inside to work while it charged. I had the solar panels set up to charge the battery as soon as the sun hit the deck. Now, mid-day, I wish I had set it closer to the edge to eek a few more minutes of light for, despite the almost perfectly clear day, the battery is being quite slow to charge and may not make it half way to 100% by the time it sets.

On my break I wandered down onto the shore with Cailey, the tide already risen to the edge of the grass, and brought more loads of grass wrack from up the beach to add to each of the potato mounds. The rain had tamped down the mounds as I'd hoped, and some seemed a little low, including the one Cailey has been nibbling on. On each, I put down another layer of green seaweed wrack beneath the new grass. They're going to have quite a job finding sun from down there, but once they do they should have a lot of room to make potatoes!

I had tea a little later, chilled any time I was out of the sun for the strong breeze coming in off Gilbert Bay (which had quickly picked up), thoroughly enjoying it back on the porch. Some sandpipers flew by and I crept down to check them out. Two pectorals this time with a western, who flew off, then two semi-palmated plovers with what looked like a dull western without so much side markings and a shorter, straighter bill (semi-palmated sandpipers). Then I saw what I think were two westerns farther down the beach. Very exciting!

In the afternoon, quite chilled after lunch, I went to sit on the steps down from the lower deck and reveled in what may be the first sun soak of the summer. Unlike the bench by the firepit which I tried briefly, it was slightly protected from the wind by the little spruce tree and the asphalt shingles were warm beneath me like a heating pad. The clear blue of the forget-me-nots next to me, the dry stone path before me, the roses soaking up the sun, and the sparkling inlet were all perfection and I read a little bit and thoroughly enjoyed myself.

While the battery slowly charged in the bright sunlight (looks like a full sunny summer day will charge the batter to about 50%) and I could warm up in the sun, I knew that a chill was coming, and preemptively lit a fire around 3:00, then quickly set up the water filters on Cottonwood and opened it up to air out for the rest of the afternoon for future guests. After work, I sat on the deck with a glass of wine as the cabin warmed, myself at a comfortable temperature and knowing I could retreat to a warm cabin any time, watching the flurry of activity at the edge of Gilbert Bay. There had been clusters of gulls all week suggesting bait balls and there were at least three going on at that time; earlier, I'd seen what must have been the densest group of gulls I've ever seen. When I sat down, eight eagles (later ten) circled and dove on a bait ball along with dozens of loons and at least a hundred, probably two hundred gulls. It lasted quite a long time and I watched the action in the spotting scope, seeing one unsuccessful dive by an eagle after another. Sometimes they landed and sat on the water quite comfortably before taking off again. But they were persistent and a few times I saw successful attempts, evidenced by the eagle tucking its head to eat from its toes, the pursuing gulls, and the bits of fish that dropped to the water as the eagle fed. Many more loons, murrelets, and ducks, and even a couple of horned grebes, were on the water (the loons I could identify were Pacific), and just as the bait ball broke up, two whales moved into the inlet one after the other. One or the other has been here on and off all week, not usually spending much time on any one visit: one is a smaller whale with a relatively smooth back, the other a larger animal with a pronounced hump. Here they were at once (or similar whales). I'd seen one that afternoon in the aftermath of a lunge (pectoral fin waving), so watched these carefully. Unusually, they sometimes fluked. By the end of the evening I had seen that one had a fluke with white through the center and the other with one that was nearly solid white. I had the spotting scope on a big group of loons and managed to catch most of a sideways lunge as one of the whales came up! A very lucky catch. I watched them for quite some time as they moved around the inlet, sometimes together, sometimes apart. The wind had died and the inlet was perfect and glowing in the evening light.

I read a little and went to sleep relatively early, waking up somewhat after midnight, peeking out from under my sleep mask to find a full moon shining at me through the window. I stepped outside to take in the magnificent scene--high tide, full moon, a few scattered stars, calm sea, and a whale blowing.

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The next day I added more bulk and seaweed to the potato mounds and enjoyed the part of the morning when I wasn't getting ready to leave. A mild following sea took me home in the early afternoon, to my relief, and I passed more murres around Seal Rocks and the end of Gastineau Channel.