Here I am, back at Snettisham, a fire beginning to purr following my third attempt (building top down this time), Cailey snoozing at the other end of the couch. I launched the Ronquil several weeks ago in early April after a good scrubbing and once-over in the driveway where it spent the winter (having been evicted last year from my mother's boat condo where it had enjoyed sheltered winters for several years). It was with relief that I launched and tucked it safely into the boat house which the winter's tenant had recently left, already full of as much gear as I felt I could safely leave aboard. But April was a busy month with obligations in town every weekend through Easter and the weather miserable--cold and wet, the few dry days overcast and windy. So at least I wasn't grumpy about being stuck in town; there was nothing that was enticing me onto the water at all! But as soon as Easter passed and I was once again relishing daily chocolate, I began to look for weather windows in the ongoing rain, pleased that I'd managed to use the town time to do spring chores like pressure washing the driveway. Since Wednesday, Saturday was forecast as a single day of light and variable winds flanked by rain and southeasterlies. Yesterday I convinced myself it was alright if I didn't go today, thoroughly disheartened by the heavy rain and wind outside and exhausted from the month. Yet when the rain diminished in the afternoon and the forecast held I began to reconsider, then even look forward to it, and soon enough I was at the grocery store getting supplies and packing clothes and books.

This morning I went for what is probably my last April walk up the avalanche, rewarded by the first golden-crowned sparrows of the season, then took two carts full of gear to the boat, running the kicker while I arranged everything. Back at home I tidied up the garden a little, fixed the chicken wire over the tall geraniums, and lingered over breakfast. In retrospect, I should have left a little earlier, but I was trying not to rush either Ezra or I, and figured an 11:00 departure would put me at Snettisham around the high tide at 1:00. I headed to the harbor at 10:30, unloaded the last cart of gear, parked the car in long term parking, and met Ezra at the boathouse. At 10:55 Cailey and I puttered out of the harbor, she soon curling up on her bed as usual as we sped over mild chop down the channel. Everything was bright and beautiful and I was warm in the spring sunshine inside my survival suit and three layers of clothes. And then, 40 minutes in, the engine died like it had run out of fuel shortly after we passed through an immense loose flock of surf scoters. Which it had, apparently, but I found no reason why it would. I managed to pump fuel through the line until the bulb was firm, which is unusual, and the engine started up beautifully. I think we ran about ten minutes that time, then five minutes... There was no kink in the hose, the gas tank was able to vent, fuel appeared to be moving through the connections on both ends of the hose, and I couldn't find any debris in the tank that might block fuel flow (at least as far as I could tell by sloshing it around and peering through the opening). Finally, I emptied the fuel filter into a bucket, noting some rusty sludge and a few tablespoons of water with the gas. I refilled it and we headed out for another five minutes running before it died again, and again. I even took off the cowling and followed the fuel line as far as I could inside, but didn't see anything useful. Finally, just shy of Pt. Arden, I called my mechanic Scott Lawless and left a message, then futzed around with the connection to the tank again, managing to screw the connection on the hose a little tighter as well as the fitting connection to the tank itself. Figuring it would be a long trip to Snettisham if we had to stop every five minutes, I turned and headed back to Douglas, but when I passed the seven minute mark, which is how long I'd made it the last time, I made a wide turn and headed for Arden again. Scott called about ten minutes later and didn't have any more ideas for troubleshooting, so, since it was then 20 minutes in, I continued on to Snettisham.

At least I had good company. Taku Inlet was full of whales, at least half a dozen and probably more, and one made huge splashes a number of times over toward Circle Point. Just as I reached the northern tip of Grand Island, the engine died again. I pumped more fuel through it, calculating how many times I'd have to stop if I could run for 20 minutes each time, then got underway again as the chop in the Open diminished into a flat ocean, sun sparkling off the water against Admiralty and the whale who sounded close to Grand. The engine died again just shy of Grave Point, and then we took off again, me considering stopping at Swimming Eagle Cove to pump more fuel through before the engine actually died. Cailey, thankfully, took it all in stride, even stayed on her bed a few times when I worked on the fuel line.

Before we got to the cove, I saw something strange on the water and quickly broke my vow not to make any stops except for orcas. Huge birds were sitting out there--could they be...? And they were. Seventeen trumpeter swans were resting in the middle of Stephen's Passage! I couldn't get close enough to identify them by sight, they bobbing their heads in anxiety when I was still idling some distance away, but when they took to the air their calls were unmistakable. Perhaps they were migrating and stopped to rest? Will some of the Juneau birders see them on the wetlands this afternoon? Since we'd stopped, I tried pumping the bulb which quickly became firm, and away we went, not stopping again until we reached the homestead. I hope that's a good sign! There were a few loons and other birds at the entrance, a few groups of Bonaparte's gulls diving on bait balls, and an enormous flock of surf scoters at River Point. In front of the homestead and along the beach were hundreds of mallards and a pair of common mergansers which I felt terrible about disturbing. Varied thrush songs and ruby-crowned kinglets met me on shore. As I pulled up, I stared at the beach for several long moments before I realized what was wrong: the big log was gone! What a shock. And after I put all that effort into chipping away a notch last fall! I was actually rather sad.

By then it was about an hour past the high tide, so I unloaded my rather large load onto the wet beach as quickly as I could, fetched my kayak, and anchored the boat while Cailey began looking up the many bones she'd buried in September (at least that's what I suspect she was up to). With hunger beginning to lurk, I carried one load up to the porch and then turned on the propane tanks and got the range going and the oven heating up, anticipating leftover pizza for a late lunch. Two loads later I put my pizza in the oven and it was quite hot before I finished bringing everything up. I brought the porch couch out, set up Cailey's bed, and soon I was sitting in the sweltering sunshine (first of the year) eating pizza. With so much work ahead and such a long ride down, it wasn't exactly relaxing, but it fueled me up, and I was soon at work. First I managed to light the refrigerator pilot, the third try, very relieved. It just really takes a long time to get the gas flowing after the winter, or any long break. Then I took the tarp off the outhouse so I could retrieve the ladder behind it and got to work on the smoke stack. I had to fetch more roofing screws when I dropped the one that was holding the metal strap up, but otherwise getting it secure went relatively easily. It was connecting it to the stovepipe inside, which was the female end, that was the trick. I actually gave up and fetched a screwdriver and a chisel to try to force them together, but couldn't get an angle to make them work. Perched on the woodbox, I eventually got them to meld.

After that I think I attached the sink and the gray water drain and tidied up a bit, finding that I seemed to have less gear lying around getting in the way than usual (I think I was just working more efficiently). I then got to work at Hermit Thrush, carrying sheets and the comforter and blankets and first making the bed. Like the lodge, it smelled wonderful, untouched, not a hint of dampness or mustiness. Perhaps the damp rid tubs are working? Both looked exactly as I'd left them. I returned to Schist House to take off the tarp and stow it so I could fetch the ladder and put up the smoke stack at Hermit Thrush. I didn't even unscrew the metal strap first, just putting the stack up right through it. I was wearing out by then and looking forward to a real rest on porch, but decided instead to make a run back to the lodge for the rug, pillows, and the 12 volt battery for lights--not so much because I need lights tonight but so I won't have to do that exhausting march later on.

Finally I met up with Cailey on the porch, poured myself a tall glass of wine, and collapsed, utterly exhausted, just as the sun went behind the mountain. The tide was dropping and gulls beginning to gather, and I started a bird survey despite myself when I saw my first-of-year (FOY) Lincoln's sparrow scratching among the salmonberries. The dominate birds are the charming ruby-crowned kinglets, but I've heard/seen golden-crowned kinglets, wrens, and thrushes, male and female hummingbirds, and three, then four, greater yellowlegs foraging along the edge of the sandbars. When a group of small ducks flew in I finally came inside to assemble my spotting scope to identify, as I'd expected, a large group of beautiful green-winged teal. Nearby were both mergansers, a large flock of common goldeneyes (I saw one tilt his head ALL the way back, a characteristic of commons, before I saw the all-white flanks), and buffleheads. I was too exhausted to count the myriad gulls. There was also a loon, but he disappeared before I could ID him. It wasn't my most alert survey, but a good start! I'm now tucked under a quilt and looking forward to my cozy cabin later on. Pretty much everything is put away now. I hope to get water going in the morning and then explore the possibilities of internet. With zero expectation, I am not dreading it, as I don't expect it to work and, if it doesn't, I will return with Starlink next time. Since tomorrow is supposed to be overcast before another stretch of endless rain, I also hope to make it over to Sweetheart Flats to birdwatch, but we'll see how the day goes! A COASST walk is of course on the agenda as well, probably on the low tide in the morning if I can pull myself away.  It will be very nice to get the main chores done, and perhaps relax a little bit. This has been a good, but not very relaxing day and, right at the moment, I have nothing left to give! At least Cailey seemed to have a really good time this afternoon, digging up, chewing on, and reburying a hoof and who knows how many other things! I think my hope that she would love being here because she can entertain herself with her favorite pastime without too much stress on her leg is coming true.

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It was April cold in the cabin when I arrive, and the slightly pink evening light illuminated the snowy mountain across the river as I went about my bedtime chores. There is something oddly enjoyable about puttering around dealing with small tasks! The Nordic stove worked beautifully and soon went about warming the cabin while Cailey, wrapped in a blanket, was predictably curled up in my spot on the bed. In addition to the usual tasks, I organized things a bit and hooked up the battery to the light so we soon had electric lighting. I was beat, and thoroughly enjoyed tucking under the down comforter in my pajamas and fleece onesie and opening up my childhood fantasy novel while the kettle simmered on the stove.  By the time I closed my eyes around 9:30, the sun was down, but the snow on the mountain was still visible beneath and deep blue sky.

The cabin soon cooled and I had to cover my head most of the night to stay warm. Cailey only moved once, which was a kindness, as I have to reposition the blankets over her every time she rolls over. She never came to snuggle against me, but I confess I shifted over towards her a few times in the hopes of picking up a little heat. Dozing in the morning, I heard a Townsend's warbler sing, which I hadn't heard yesterday. The tide was far out when we emerged shortly after 8:00, carrying back with us the dehumidifier tub of water to put down the drain (there's something toxic about it I think). It was high overcast as predicted--not my favorite weather but a good day to work outside. After pilling and feeding Cailey (she ignored the food) and washing up, I headed to the water source to install the hose. It was still against the bank under rocks as I'd left it, the area clearly having flooded last fall/winter. The channel has more clearly changed now with the collapse of the wood "dam" and the old log, curving against the latter over the degrading falls.

Upon inspection, I saw that the hardware cloth over the opening of the hose (to keep debris out) was beginning to rust and, more importantly, the screen inside of it was ripped. It was time to swap them out, so I pulled the contraption off and took it back to the lodge, stopping at the shed to pick up tin snips and look for bits of leftover hardware cloth (not finding any). I set up the step ladder inside and accessed the attic where I found a lot of screen and one piece of hardware cloth that used to cover the stove pipe opening I think, in about the same state as the one from the hose. I wound up taking the parts to the creek to assemble them there, wrapping the hose end in screen, teasing the prickly hardware cloth over it, and then covering that in the stove pipe piece. The latter was probably unnecessary and made things a bit awkward, but I don't think it'll hurt anything. I then secured it, hopefully, with zip ties and placed the end in the little falls where it was last summer, damming the area around it a little, laying a rock across to secure it, and excavating a trench for the hose as it went under the log. All this latter work took only a few minutes and I could clearly feel water coursing through it--for once it was obviously working, partly because of the spring volume of water to be sure. A quick stop by the valve and I could hear the water plunging through. Cailey had eventually followed me and was standing guard as she so adorably does when I'm up there. She seemed very happy and romped down the trail as though she had no pain. It was a joy to see.

Back at the lodge I closed the hose valve that was gushing water, then put away the tarp from the outhouse over the grease trap as usual, and started to install the water filters behind the lodge. I decided to use the newer filters from Mink cabin instead of those from the lodge last year as they had grayish spots that seemed like mildew perhaps and the others looked like new. I had to tighten the first filter carefully after it leaked on the first try, but soon the only drip was the usual one at the end and there was clear, cold water coming through the faucet, no drips beneath. That is always such a moment of relief and pleasure!

When up in the attic I'd noticed that there was a whole box of red-rimmed filters--10 microns--and I wanted to also take an inventory of 1 micron filters. Alas, I found none so marked, just a number of 5 micron filters which I think I ordered in lieu of 10 when I couldn't get them as well as some unrecognizable filters and two that I later found that looked just like the ones in the 1 micron filter housings, which means I only have two new ones. I definitely need to order more! I felt better after I removed the ladder and put the empty totes back in their space behind the couch. Although I hadn't eaten breakfast yet, I decided to go ahead and install the filters at Hermit Thrush too to get that done. It took me three tries. The first time, the third filter housing (the one with the 1 micron filter) didn't fit the head on the cabin. I went back to the lodge and grabbed another one, which also didn't fit (a poor choice because I needed a female filter housing and I'd grabbed a male). It turns out that I have two sizes of female filter housings, which I'm not sure I knew before. Apparently I lined up the filters for the cabins poorly last fall and mixed up Cottonwood's and Hermit Thrush's! But in the end I had water at Hermit Thrush again and took the opportunity of those trips to deliver the sink bucket, the empty dehumidifier tub, and toilet paper.

Nearly ready to take a break, I did a little prep work on satellite internet, installing the radio on the dish and attaching the new coax cable to the radio, taking it through the door for the time being to see if it worked. While I heated water for breakfast, I also made hummingbird nectar, then sat on the porch for my very late breakfast of rolled oats soaked in hot water with raisins. The flats were already rapidly flooding and I was kept company by very active ruby-crowned kinglets and the frequent purrs of nearby varied thrushes. After breakfast I heated up more water and made myself a cup of special coffee and relished a bit of relaxation on the porch, reading about ospreys when I wasn't gazing at the view or peering at the birds. It wasn't long before a male hummingbird stopped by the feeder (clearly a pro) and at least one female is around as well. I also watched a pair of sea lions across the river, one of whom repeatedly opened his mouth in my direction, the pink quite visible! Was he yawning? The movements were certainly leisurely.

Around noon I got to work again, testing the old modem and the modem that the Hughesnet rep just gave me. With the new one, the install button took me to the pointing screen which showed a max signal strength of 35. Reading over the notes I'd made when first pointing the dish, I saw that this meant I was definitely on the right satellite but needed to make small adjustments until it was in the 120-140 range. I recall that I used to have it between 113 and 120, so this was a dramatic drop. I've always been told by the reps that I should never have to reposition the dish once set up, but I figured I had nothing to lose, as this was the last trouble-shooting I planned to do with a Hughesnet device. Since the system had failed abruptly last fall (dying on and off for two days before quitting entirely), I didn't think it was the dish moving that was at fault, having worked without adjustment for three years. I set up the laptop inside facing the door so I could easily check on the signal strength, then proceeded to adjust the tilt of the satellite dish downward, surprised and pleased to see the signal strength go up markedly with each half turn. But I got over-excited I guess, and also loosened the screws mostly holding the dish in place so it would be easier to make adjustments and they probably went too fast after that. Subsequently, my signal went from a high of 70 back down to 9--basically nothing. I retraced my steps, but never got it above a 12 again and, when my 20 minutes of experimentation were up (actually about 25), I officially declared myself done with Hughesnet and a future patron of Starlink. Yeah, I'm sorry world. Please give me a more ethical option and I'll take it, but at this point...it is hard to argue with what seems to be the one reliable satellite internet provider in Alaska which is not only $20 cheaper a month than Hughesnet, but is apparently hassle-free. Just set it up, use the app to position it, and watch the satellites passing overhead. I'm a bit worried about the signal strength, but am heartened by someone's report that they had excellent signal in Ford's Terror which is not only nearby but much more hemmed in by mountains than I am.

Anyway, as the day went on I became increasingly jubilant at the idea of NEVER AGAIN TROUBLESHOOTING HUGHESNET. Oh how many hours, hours and hours and hours I've spent trying to get it to work, never mind the agony of frustration and the waste of money. Later in the day I gathered all the modems and radios and placed them together on the counter for return to Juneau. After that, I took Cailey for a leisurely walk downriver, first checking on the second cottonwood tree which is doing great, the buds smelling as sweet as can be on a trunk that is very nearly as tall as I am. I also went up to explore the old landslide on the waterfall and found that more debris had come down some time in the last year, piling up a large wall parallel to the river against which the stream has cut a deep channel. Farther down the beach, I saw an immature eagle perched beneath the nest and noted the golden feathers on his wings and dark tail. Not wanting to disturb her, I sat down on a log, noting how perfectly horizontal it was and at just the perfect height for sitting. "What a nice place to sit this summer!" I thought. Then I glanced back toward the end of it and noticed a strange vertical cut in it, a sort of notch...yep, it's my carefully-notched beach log, having made a journey of a couple hundred yards downriver. I wonder how many beaches or sandbars it has rested on in its many years?

Back at the lodge, the interior was finally warming after my hours-long battle to get a fire going. I rested outside with Cailey for a few more minutes, then decided I should make good on my vow to bird watch the Gilbert Bay estuary while the weather was good. I could tuck Cailey into a warm lodge for a well-needed nap and slip off for a couple of hours. The water was calm and while I could have happily sat on the porch the rest of the afternoon, I've dedicated myself this summer to being more adventurous than I have been of late, reinvigorating myself for exploration. And the forecast would forestall my going tomorrow, no doubt. I put Cailey inside, grabbed my backpack, binoculars, camera, and spotting scope, loaded my kayak, and headed out to the Ronquil. After adding a jerry jug of fuel and pulling the kayak aboard, we set out for the ten-minute ride to Sweetheart Creek (during which we did not stall). I anchored in about 20 feet of water and kayaked in to the southern point of the peninsula separating the estuary from the bay. On the way in, a handful of pipits flew across the beach (FOY for me) and, more exciting, about 15 peeps. Alas, I was awkwardly paddling and balancing my spotting scope between my legs, and I caught only a flash of them in binoculars. They were my first peeps of the year and, last I checked, none had showed up in Juneau yet.

I set up my scope on the end of the peninsula and began a sweep of the estuary. I had wanted to see it at low tide (partly for those peeps), but missed my chance this morning when the boat started floating, deliberately, for all the work I had to do. So it was flooded after the 16.8' tide, but there was still quite a lot of activity including my first swallows (violet-green or tree, I could never tell), about 70 greater white-fronted geese (which flew out of nowhere from the direction of the estuary to noisily land in the bay), many green-winged teal, American wigeon, mallards, both goldeneyes, both mergansers, buffleheads, Canada geese, a common loon, and so on. A short walk down toward the trailhead yielded a hairy woodpecker and savanna sparrows and there was a Lincoln's sparrow there and Townsend's warblers too. All in all I saw 32 species. The peeps never came back that I saw, so I skirted Birding Beach just in case they were there, but didn't get too close to shore as the ducks were heavy and I was wary of bothering them. On the way out, I glanced back to make sure everything was okay and was alarmed to see water flooding over the back of the boat. I stopped and looked around, but found nothing wrong except that the scuppers under the engine were clogged. As I puttered away, a small log appeared, so it must have been stuck in such a way that it kicked water over the transom.

Ten minutes later, about 4:00, I was back at the homestead where I anchored up and paddled everything to shore. A rising tide adventure has the advantage of being able to leave the boat on the beach instead of anchoring and kayaking, but this wasn't a bad alternative, and I'll get more efficient with experience. I don't know how anchoring off Birding Beach would be, but it's easy off Sweetheart.

Pleased at my successful adventure, I greeted Cailey with joy and set out to accomplish a few more tasks on the agenda: sweeping the lower deck and boardwalks of the winter's accumulation of litter, gathering beach grass for firestarters, and gathering sticks for kindling. Back inside, I tore up some cardboard boxes to tidy up the firestarting area, brought in the grass and sticks, and then swept the whole lodge, now back to feeling like a tidy home, not much more than 24 hours after arriving. Sipping wine for cocktail hour with the accompanying chocolate peanut butter cup on the porch, overlooking a clean, smooth deck, was a pleasure indeed, even while contemplating the chores I need to do tomorrow before I can really settle into summer. When I got a little chilled, I made toast and heated up some chili to which I added a bit of homemade corned bison, and feasted on the porch. I saw again a Lincoln's sparrow scuttling around on the ground beneath the berry bushes, the skulking behavior fascinating to watch. I imagine they do this all summer under the grass, but most Lincoln's sparrows I see are bolding singing from a shrub or yelling at me for getting too close to their family. This view let me see the black streaks on his back and the buffy malar strip on his face. I'd run into him earlier while scavenging for twigs near Cottonwood Cabin and was so baffled as to what this tiny sparrow prowling the ground like a wren could be that I went back for binoculars to ID him. I hope they have a family here again this year.

I lingered contentedly on the porch and read a few pages before the chill and the waning evening drove me inside to the warm cabin to work on this before heading to Hermit Thrush where I look forward to a simpler evening and an extra blanket. The forecast Ezra sent via inreach suggests a Tuesday departure, so hopefully I'll be able to finish the necessary tasks (windows, raking, potato mounds) in half a day tomorrow and really get some leisure and rest. I had completely forgotten that I'd left last summer's puzzle unfinished, so there is that to look forward to!

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It's early afternoon and I've just finished watching the winter videos/photos, such as they were, and figured since my laptop was open I could update this quickly. The rain started shortly after I went to bed after reading until 10:00. Cailey had gotten up for water just before and repositioned so her head was at my feet, but thankfully it didn't impede my comfort all night. The thin wool blanket I'd brought over and perhaps the warmth of rainy weather made all the difference, and I was extremely cozy and warm all night. Again Cailey repositioned only once. After I got up at 7:00 to go to the bathroom, I snuggled back in bed, feeling a need for more rest, and didn't emerge again until 9:30. That is quite a sleep-in for me, but I obviously needed it, and allowed it despite knowing that the -4' tide at 8:00 would diminish quickly.

But I actually couldn't tell the tide had risen at all when we got to the lodge. Cailey and I both skipped breakfast and headed out on the first COASST walk of the year, walking 545 paces to the edge of the channel on the far side of the inlet, then turning north up the wide expanse of sand. It might have been the lowest water/tide combination I've ever seen, but the rain and pressing tasks kept me from exploring father upriver. Two Arctic terns--the first I've seen here--circled me along with a dozen short-billed gulls, calling (yelling at me?) until I was some distance upriver and father from their groups along the channel. At the rocky point, I walked 555 paces back to the shoreline, Cailey with me all the way. On the way back, I stopped to look at a Townsend's warbler feeding in the fringe of alders, then spotted another bird and checked it out with binoculars, astonished to see that there was a pair of hermit thrushes! They were working their way down the beach in the same direction I was going. What a surprise! I'll have to check the data, but I think this is early. Perhaps it's not and I usually only know they're around for their songs.

Skirting past the lodge to check out the rest of the beach, trying not to bother the green-winged teal in close, I saw what I think was another hermit thrush in the alders. There was also an eagle on the nest and another perched nearby. Yesterday afternoon I'd seen one of the adults dive on an immature below the nest--maybe the same I'd seen earlier--and drive it away, and there's been a long of comings and goings up there.

Despite the gale warning, the weather was calm, just persistently rainy (which didn't hurt my lie in at all). I boiled some water, started the fire lighting process, and washed the windows of the lodge and shed with hot water and vinegar, going back around after to put up fresh UV stickers to discourage window strikes. For the record, it takes about eight sheets of five stickers to cover them all. It only took 20 minutes to put them up, making it especially ridiculous that I've been dreading it, and I was all suited up in rain gear, so I grabbed a rake and buckets and started working on the potato mounds. There's lots of leaves/grass/seaweed wrack to work with, but the hard part is selecting the sites. Many of the logs I'd used to surround them last year floated off, the big log will no longer protect one of the four previous mound sites, and I'm looking at planting about twice as many potatoes as last year. I mostly got the three older sites squared away--still some log work to do--and began filling them in before I broke and came inside to clean up, coax the fire into doing something, and have some lunch. Perhaps I'll go see if Ezra has sent me the forecast so I can get a better sense for the next couple of days. It is very wet out there!

Well, the wet continued. I had a quesadilla and cervesa for lunch while absorbing the view of the inlet from inside. I then curled up on the couch and read the two books I'm working on for a good while, letting Cailey out once with a rawhide when she became antsy. The fire finally took off, but it took over an hour to warm the place, so I had a cup of decaf coffee to take the deep chill out of my fingers. Eventually I suited up again, glad that the cuffs of my raincoat were almost dry, and went back to work on the potato mounds. Usually "gardening" is my favorite activity at Snettisham, partly because it often means everything else is done, but this was an obligation and I burdened myself with so many more potatoes this year that, with the loss of the log, I have to build more mounds. It's still early and the vegetation is just a few inches tall, and the whole meadow is wet from rain and high tides, so it's not clear the best places to use. In the end, I elongated the mound downriver of the path, elongated the second mound upriver of the path, unfortunately over some marsh marigolds, and created a new one at the edge of the alders farther upriver. The abundance of soggy wrack consisting of leaves, seaweed, and grass, at least made filling them reasonable, and the mix seemed good, if very very wet. Everything is very very wet. It is a bit early perhaps to plant the potatoes, but it will likely be several weeks before I'm back and they will only grow longer sprouts if I leave them unplanted. They might not grow much in the "ground" but I don't think it will hurt them. Still, I hate to go planting tomorrow in the pouring rain.

When the new mounds were full and I was weary of working on them, I grabbed the rake and started raking around the lodge since Cailey had found something to chew. I'd suggested she stay inside where it was dry and warm, but she'd insisted on coming and hung out near me the whole time instead of retreating to her bed on the porch. She kept getting distracted every time I reached a stopping point so I wound up raking the whole path complex with the exception of the section from Harbor Seal to Hermit Thrush. I finally retreated inside and worked on last year's puzzle for a while, making some progress, then headed outside for a bird survey when I noticed a huge raft of surf scoters closer to the homestead than I've ever seen before--close enough for good looks with the spotting scope when usually they are just a dark line in the distance. Not much was happening around the lodge and I finally broke my promise to stay outside until I could identify just one bird on land when the cold seeped in just too much. Going inside to a thoroughly warm lodge was bliss and I was soon settled with some Indian food and toast for dinner, watched over an X-Files to help encourage me to do some stretching after dinner, which I only moderately fulfilled. Now the sticks hanging outside the picture window are rocking in the wind from the front that finally arrived (it was supposed to come in last night), and I hope the forecast is accurate and there are not more than two footers tomorrow. Although I had some good leisure time today, I am anxious about leaving and wish I could stay an extra day without the risk of getting stuck any longer. Even after the two-day reprieve, I find myself weary of the rain and not eager to brave Stephen's Passage in weather, especially with the uncertainty of the fuel system. Though, to be fair, the part I dread the most is packing up and leaving. Hopefully it'll seem more reasonable tomorrow! Now I am heading over to Hermit Thrush for what I hope is another pleasant evening in my cozy cabin. It was such a pleasure last night, and still such a novelty after a winter in town, that I am forgoing my new habit of overnighting in the lodge on the presumed last night of the trip in favor of Hermit Thrush.

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Though slightly more chilly while reading, we had another comfortable and cozy night of sleep, and I was relieved to be up around 7:00 even if I didn't rise right away. I was even more relieved that the rain let up in the middle of the night and there were billowy clouds low on the mountains that didn't threaten imminent rain. In fact, I had a rainless morning that began outside on the porch with a cup of tea. Actually, that's not true. It began by cleaning the lodge and packing everything I could ahead of time, washing the dishes, sweeping, etc., with the expectation/hope of leaving today. The lack of rain did a great deal to improve my mood, though the morning forecast from Ezra calling for 2' seas today and 2-3' this evening, and 2' tomorrow (suggesting building wind through the afternoon when I'd depart due to the tides) made me a little uneasy. I certainly didn't want to leave, I just didn't want to be foolish enough to miss my one weather window if the forecast changed for tomorrow, for another storm was meant to follow it. Anyway, once the main chores were done I ate some yogurt and oats for breakfast chased by a delicious cup of jasmine tea. While it steeped, I lit a fire, then headed onto the porch where I glassed the many teal clustered in the little channel on the flats downriver and the huge flock of scoters beyond. While I was concentrating the spotting scope on the teal, a bird was heading straight up the shoreline in our direction. Although something seemed different, I figured it for a crow or something, and only when it was even with us did I bother to look, only to find it a female northern harrier. I know better than to ignore anything that stands out!

So I started a bird survey, surprised as always about what I find when I turn the spotting scope out there. It was just after a -4.5' tide and the sandbars appeared to be so much higher than the water for most of the transition downriver that the actual shoreline was lost to sight. Fascinating. Seals were hauled out in the usual place and abundant in the water. Teal, wigeons, and mallards bopped around on the sandbars and, in the water, I finally verified the horned grebes I thought I'd been seeing, and was tickled to see a single red-throated loon close to the edge. Another highlight was the surprise golden-crowned sparrow who popped out from under the porch and perched on the black pipe downriver to nibble on the leaves of a young twisted stalk.

When I was satisfied with the survey and energized with the tea, I took the potato starts down to the new beds, laid them all out on the top of the mounds until I was satisfied with their spacing, and then planted them. For the record, three of the four piebald starts are at the downriver corner of the downriver bed and the remaining one is in the new upriver bed. Next to the piebalds are five Haida potatoes separated from the Tlingits by an accidental gladiola bulb. The rest are Tlingits (and yes, I know they are apparently the same variety). I was surprised to find that my kayak, tied to a post of the no hunting sign, had turned 180 degrees toward the lodge and that the paddle was dislodged and sitting nearby covered in grass. I checked the tides and saw that it is 19.5' tonight--about as high as they get! Good thing I tied the kayak on. Spring tides would explain how my friend the beach log drifted away two nights ago to continue its voyage. The midnight tide also washed the area where I'd been scraping up the wrack, consolidating what I'd left into smaller, compact lines a little higher on the beach (a few feet from the edge of the potato mounds). This not only improved the look of the meadow but left the remnant wrack quite close to the beds. So I grabbed the buckets and began adding material, remembering how the fill sunk last summer and knowing that this would be the easiest time to grab it--before most of the lower beach plants are up. As I did so, it began to sprinkle and I soon conceded the beach and came back inside for an early lunch of lentil soup and chips.

Hoping for a forecast from Ezra, I kept going out in the pouring rain to check, and eventually heard that the forecast had not updated. By then, the heavy rain and wind blowing in off Gilbert Bay had convinced me to stay another night and I'd emailed my boss as well as Ezra to let them know. I retreated back inside to the warmish lodge and worked on the puzzle for a while, completing the challenging tree. The fire had taken off on my second attempt and I think I am finally getting the hang of it. Small logs, for one thing, building the material backwards (grass and paper on top) as well as some kindling on the bottom. At least, we'll see how that goes in the future! I can certainly split a lot of my existing wood to smaller pieces.

Naturally, while I worked on the puzzle, the rain broke and the seas seemed to die down a bit and I began to reconsider. It held and looked ever more tempting. So, just shy of 2:00, I went outside briefly to do all the outside closing I needed to do, then quietly got to work, pleased at how much I could do to prep while Cailey was dry and warm inside. By the time I opened the door, there was only hauling the gear onto the porch and bringing the couch in, all of which my wonderful dog managed to be in the way for. I only griped at her a little bit. Soon everything was lined out on the porch with the exception of all the blankets, tucked under a blanket at the water's edge, along with several other items I'd already hauled down. Naturally, it had started raining again while I was closing up inside, but the tarp was more or less doing the trick. I carried a load down to the water and, instead of fetching the boat right away, decided to bring the next several loads down first, leaving only the final load to carry after I brought the kayak up. The rain had stopped again, which was pleasant, but as soon as I pulled away from the beach in the kayak I began to doubt my decision. It's not that I couldn't see the little swells from the cabin, but they'd seemed so benign and smooth....but once I was on them, I realized they meant bigger seas in the inlet. I guess I'm out of practice. It didn't help that the Ronquil was bobbing around in the seas and facing Gilbert Bay. You never know until you get out there what it'll look like, but...I was thinking this could potentially turn us around or, at the very least, make for a very tortuous trip.

But I climbed aboard and added several gallons of fuel to the tank, realizing as I did so that I'd left the boat key in my backpack on the porch. That really sealed the deal. The idea of kayaking back in, grabbing the key, and kayaking back out was more than I was keen on doing, and those seas.... So I kayaked back and began hauling all the gear back up to the porch, now in the rain again. Having donned long underwear and raingear again, I was hot and sweaty and very uncomfortable, and rather grumpy. I tucked everything on the edge of the porch, brought the couch and Cailey's bed back out, cleaned up, took off the long underwear, put a fresh t-shirt on, revived the fire, and used the still-viable ice cubes in the sink to make myself a rhubarb gin and tonic. Tucked onto the porch looking out at what I could now see were white caps on the other side of the river (not sure why there and not here) with a bit of gin in my belly, I began to relax and Cailey quickly fell asleep (the dramamine probably helped). Flocks of a score or so of scoters at a time flew one after another upriver (and some downriver) and a flock of 40 Canada geese came downriver. And a whale showed up, which I'd been surprised not to see before. Oh, that reminds me: while I was assembling gear on the porch before my aborted departure attempt, I saw what I believe was a single peep fly onto the flooded beach downriver. I dug out binoculars, but couldn't find him in the grass. I meant to follow up, but forgot about him until I was back on the porch. Frustrating and tantalizing spring peeps!

At 4:00 I stopped by Hermit Thrush to grab tooth brushing materials, stoked the fire, and here I am, warm and easing the gloomy afternoon with a candle and oil lamp burning on the coffee table. The Ronquil is now facing upriver but the seas have built. The only thing I really have to be in town for is on Saturday, so I have three days to make it (though I was supposed to open our call for proposals today). Hopefully a better weather window will appear. I am certainly happy to stay otherwise, having been frustrated at the lack of....non-opening activities I've experienced, especially given the poor weather yesterday. It's a shame I spent half the day today agonizing about the weather, but I am beginning to relax and everything is ship-shape, the porches swept, the paths raked, the kitchen clean and organized. And there is the whole summer ahead, something I have to keep reminding myself of, as this feels a lot like September given the weather, the intense obligatory chores, and the chill.

I had an early dinner, watched some X-Files, sat on the porch for a while to read, wandered down to the garden, and didn't do much else.

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Although I'd kept the fire stoked all afternoon, the lodge wasn't as hot as it usually is when I do that, so I wasn't overheated as much as usual when I turned in for the night. Cailey laid on the mat next to where I was reading on the couch for a while, then hinted that she'd like to come up on the couch. When I didn't let her and told her "bed"--encouraging her to use her fleece-lined porch bed--she instead went around the back of the couch and spent the night in her stove bed, a choice I always find fascinating. With the pilot on the fridge not lit, the ambient warmth of the lodge was lost overnight and I used a second comforter from about 4:00 am on and was perfectly content. While I was wakeful during that hour, I heard a golden-crowned sparrow singing, perhaps my friend from earlier.

I got up at a leisurely 8:30, apparently needing to sleep off some of that unnecessary stress from yesterday, to a pleasant and overcast morning. By late last evening, the rain had fled, the wind had diminished, and there was a patch of blue sky over Gilbert Bay. I prayed it would last, and it did, and has since then. The inlet is pretty calm on the rising tide and I should be loading the boat within the hour. I did a few cleaning chores first thing, then had breakfast on the porch followed by an hour's bird watch. The big treat, and surprise, was an orange-crowned warbler; later, a fox sparrow came by and also a hermit thrush. I wasn't planning to unpack the spotting scope, but the calm water and lack of rush inspired me, and I was happy to have enough experience now to put it together (and take it apart) in just a minute or two. For the first time on this trip I could see marbled murrelets from the lodge, but I wonder if that has something to do with the calm seas.

After the bird watch, Cailey and I walked downriver to the new landslide I'd spotted from the boat on the way in. It must be fairly new, for the big pile of large trees are still reddish on their scars and the spruce and hemlock leaves are still bright green. It's smaller than the one just downriver from last year, narrower, but with many huge trees on top of the pile and one enormous rock at the very bottom, probably 15 feet across. I would have liked to see that tumble down--from a distance. We checked out the other slide as well, making the green-winged teal in the old channel nervous--and I was fascinated to see that all the dirt nearly to the waterfall had washed off in the winter tides, revealing a mound of rocks. I am even more convinced now that the homestead sits upon such a landslide--or many. The wide flat area just in front of the falls still has a layer of dirt on top and I'm still curious to see if anything will grow there. If it survived the 19+ tides this week, it's liable to last if not washed away by rain. I took note that the edge of the sandbars is two rocky points downstream of the large rock slide.

I checked on the boat on the way back, met the flock of pipits that flew in this morning during my survey, and thoroughly enjoyed the calm, dry morning. Since then I've been doing odds and ends (packing gear to the shore, putting the puzzle away, harvesting an arm-load of sticks for kindling). It's amazing how my mood is the complete opposite of yesterday looking out over that flat, dry inlet, and I'm actually looking forward to a boat ride. If only I had known!

Rockslide