It's been a weird week. I came back from my unexpectedly-solo Taku trip last Monday and prepped for the delayed Jia Jia/Kyle trip to Snettisham scheduled for the following weekend, fueling the boat, etc., on Thursday. Unfortunately, the very fortunate weather forecast that was well into its third week took a turn, for Friday alone. They couldn't go Thursday, and Monday was no longer a possibility, and we wound up canceling the trip. Jia Jia took the weekend to finish her masters thesis. Instead, I worked on Friday to make up for Monday and made bison burgers for them in the evening where we celebrated Jia Jia's job offer as a teacher at Glacier Valley Elementary School. The next morning I headed out for a long, leisurely bird survey at Eagle Beach where I finally found reasonably cooperative California gulls and a surprise parasitic jaeger. That took up much of the day. I did my usual Sunday morning routine and felt physically terrible the rest of the day and, unusually, Monday as well. Tuesday I woke up feeling great, but quickly crumbled under the sudden work load following the close of our call for proposals last week. Today I felt well physically, but my mind and heart were under a dark fog of stress, sorrow, and anxiety. It was a glorious, warm day, but I could muster no enthusiasm for anything. The continuing forecast of light and variable winds which had extended into Friday earlier in the week had slowly disintegrated, first Friday, then Thursday, until today looked like the only time I'd be able to get down to Snettisham over the weekend. I worked hard all morning, took Cailey for a lunch walk, and returned to find that a special birthday card I'd sent had been returned.

When I recovered from that disappointment, I plunged back into work with a specific goal in mind that I wanted to finish before I left around 3:00, but soon found that it would simply be impossible. It wasn't strictly necessary, and I did what work I needed to make up for it, finished packing, and tried to pull myself together. At 3:04, I headed to the harbor and met Ezra there as I was loading a cart. He took it and the dog while I parked, then we toddled our way down to the boat house, me carrying, then pushing in a cart, my poor Taku cottonwood tree in a bucket of soil and water. I was underway at 3:30, extremely pleased that the brisk west wind that had pushed up white caps in the channel had, as promised, diminished in the afternoon, and we sped down Gastineau Channel in record time (about 20 minutes from the bridge), despite the several wakes. It was pretty good across to Arden and all the way to the bottom of Grand Island where a quick little southerly slowed us down temporarily. It was somewhere in there that I realized I felt more or less human and normal, which I (guiltily) thought was a good sign. We picked up speed at Grave Point until an easterly slowed us down until I moved closer to shore, then a east by southeasterly, came up, followed by a stronger southeasterly which curled in tight little seas from Swimming Eagle Cove to Seal Rocks. We really had to slow down there, but it died as soon as we passed the rocks, only to be followed by a much bigger southeasterly as we turned into the Port. These turned into 2' swells and followed us all the way (in lesser form) to Sentinel where we found shelter. As I passed to the river, I peered toward Sweetheart Creek and saw at least three boats in Gilbert Bay, though only one that I could see at Sweetheart. But, I know I can't see smaller boats from that distance.

We were going to come in shortly before a 5' tide, so I was happy enough to get reasonably close to shore, going aground at the edge of the channel some 10 yards from shore on the upriver side and twice that on the downriver. I soon discovered that I was on the downriver side of the channel, though, as I couldn't walk the upriver route and had to take the longer way. I lowered Cailey down and had to guide her through the shallows as she wanted to take the shortcut which was probably over her head. While she began her investigation of her stash of buried goods, I set an anchor on the flats and fetched my backpack, the bag of perishables, and Starlink, and headed up.

Oh, did the place look good! The grass had grown a bit and could use a trim, but it was still noticeably a "garden" and the lodge looked perfect. This may have been the most it felt like coming home in a long while, if not ever. I did smell a foul, rotten scent as I came up the path which turned out to be the bison steak I'd left two trips ago, ripped open and being licked up by Cailey. I sincerely hope that she's not the one that ripped it open, but she definitely got a snack. Fingers crossed it doesn't upset her stomach, as she is only just recovered from a recent bout. I set up the front porch, took down the newspapers, lit the stove pilots, put the rotten plastic scraps in a ziplock, set up the Starlink, lit the fridge pilots, washed all the hummingbird feeders (all empty except one with a few inches), filled two back up, swept the deck, stairs, and porch, all in short time. Finally, I wandered back to the boat to grab the wine along with my clothes/book bag and dry bag, then heated up some Indian lentils with turmeric which I ate with chips and some wine on the porch. Though in the shade since I got here, it's still quite warm outside, so I'm here with a mosquito coil going for the noseeums while Cailey snoozes next to me, having skipped dinner. She's barely stepped inside, having spent the rest of the time while I opened up checking on her cache. I think I heard the eaglet calling plaintively when we landed, jays have been calling from downriver, a pair of Wilson's warblers (one with a black head, the other olive) foraged in the bushes to the right, and a few larger birds have been by. I look forward to reacquainting myself with the locals tomorrow. Now it's time to go move the anchor up. I'm letting the tide come in a bit before I fetch the tote, beer, and propane tanks, then will anchor the boat.

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I think it was about 8:30 by the time I'd brought the boat up to the bottom of the shale beach, anchored the boat, and hauled everything up to the lodge. The evening was quiet, so I finished unpacking and then headed to the cabin with Cailey around 9:00. It was still very warm out despite having lost the sun four or more hours earlier, and there was no need at all for a fire in Hermit Thrush, but I started one anyway and left it running just long enough to boil water for tea, about when I was ready to crawl into bed. I found the comforter and the sheets a tad damp, which was disappointing, but the latter dried out well enough after a short time and only slightly smelled of mildew. Perhaps I should take the comforter over to dry in front of the fire when I build one after the weather changes.

Cailey had waded out into the river over her belly when I went to anchor the boat, which was unusual, so I laid the blanket down for her and covered her for the first half of the night. Twice she got up and drank large amounts of water, but otherwise we slept well through the night and I was up at 8:00. By 8:50, I'd washed up and weed-whacked the garden. I ate a little breakfast and then a lovely cup of Moroccan mint tea, settling into the porch for a bird survey. I'd been surprised to find the sky still clear (overcast was called for) and set out the solar panels first thing, though they didn't see the sun until 9:30 or so. The bird survey was quiet, to say the least. I saw a wren and one hummingbird came by--the second time drinking deeply. A couple of red-throated loons were warbling, there were many murrelets out on the inlet, and a large flock of mergansers I couldn't identify for the glare, an eagle, some scoters, and not much else. No warblers or thrushes came by, or at least not long enough to identify. While waiting, I checked work email and responded to a few things, then ended the survey with a wander upriver to check on the new potato mound and scout out places for the new cottonwood tree. I settled on a spot for the cottonwood just next to the new potato mound, behind an old log and in front of the alder fringe.

But by then I was quite hungry even though it was well before noon and knew I'd need fuel for work, so paused for a quesadilla. When satisfied, I scoured the meadow for small logs to built up an area for the deep-rooted cottonwood behind the log I'd decided on, finding very little. It finally dawned on me that I had many large chunks of firewood and carried over an armful of rounds and huge chunks unsuited for my new stove. I was pleased find that digging a hole was easy, right down through the clay layer, or something similar, and that I'd brought enough wood to crib in a nice area up and around it. The tide was too high to collect sand, but everything is ready and the cottonwood is on site for when the beach is exposed. I then picked up trail cameras (neither picked up any wildlife), greased the hinges on the step ladder behind Schist House, and settled on the porch to work on discernment questions for the committee. Now it's almost 2:00, the sun is coming in out and out of the clouds, and the wind, which picked up around 10:00, continues to gust heartily and blow most of the time, but not quite enough to drive me inside. I thought I was going to have a guest a few minutes ago when I heard engine noise from upstream and saw an inflatable come into view with three people aboard (barely) heading straight for the beach. Perhaps they were coming to check out the boat, because I could clearly hear them say "Oh, there's a cabin" and "someone on the porch". I put on a fleece and started walking down the path, but they'd already turned around upriver and soon appeared on their way out, perhaps bound for the nice yacht anchored in sight in Gilbert Bay. I don't think they're competition for fishing sites. In another hour or so I'll think about heading out for my first attempt at Sweetheart. I saw one boat leave last night and only saw one come in today, but it's still so close to peak season, I'm not optimistic. Plus it's been sunny for at least three days now. I might take my spotting scope and do a Birding Beach survey if I am disappointed, but we'll see. I hate the stress of not knowing if I'll be able to make an attempt, but I am trying to think about this as an attempt, not THE attempt.

And so I did, after chilling inside for half an hour or so with Cailey. I let her out while I went to use the outhouse, then put her back in with dinner, donned my waders, and headed for the boat. Everything went smoothly as I kayaked out, fueled up, finished packing, loaded the kayak, and headed for Gilbert Bay (well, the water wasn't smooth, what with the breeze, but it was okay). A whale blew out in the middle as I passed. I kept glancing at it and then back to the Sweetheart Beach, unable to believe my eyes and thinking that each time I looked boats would appear. But no boat appeared. Other than the yacht that's been anchored off to the side the whole trip, and which was then motoring out, Gilbert Bay was empty of boats. Elated, knowing that at least I would have my fishing spot, I anchored and headed to shore, arriving at my point at 4:05 (35 minutes after pulling anchor). I could see right away that the water was low, the tell-tale rock exposed at the base of the falls. Still, maybe with the new technique I learned last year of pulling in the line slack right away? Indeed, I caught three fish right away--pinks--and another, and then nothing. And nothing and nothing. I could see through the water and, though there were fish occasionally making their way up to the falls, it looked like they were sticking to the more active waters. I decided to give it half an hour at that location, sometimes taking several minute breaks to entice fish over to my side. On my last official cast, I made a very nice throw towards the main current and came up with five or six pinks, and more in the next cast, then nothing. Looks like I could have caught my goal in pinks with good throws and a little effort, but it didn't look like sockeye were in my future. I shifted to the crevasse down below where I was surprised not to see any fish pooling in the deep water as usual. I caught a tiny trout on my first cast, but quickly gave up, though I saw one big fish swim into view and down.

I was paddling back to the boat at 5:05 and managed to talk myself into a quick turnaround, dropping off the fishing gear and picking up the spotting scope and binoculars that I'd stashed on board in case a bird survey was in order. I wasn't excited about it, but I thought a mid-summer survey would be important if I want to monitor the Gilbert Bay estuary (deciding against Birding Beach). I kayaked back in and set up around where I've surveyed before, but the view was different. The grass had grown up and the tide was lower than usual, so many of the channels were obscured. There were hundreds of Bonaparte's and short-billed gulls and three or four herring gulls, crows, geese, and some sea birds (including a red-necked grebe), but not much else. At least not that I could see. I think I'll give up on regular visits there and stick to spring and fall when bird variety and visibility are better. I kayaked back at 6:05 and headed home. The flats were more extensive than they were last night even though it was only a foot and a half difference, and I was glad I hadn't encountered that on my arrival. After I anchored (farther out than usual), I took the opportunity to check on the eagle's nest and was tickled to see one of the adults feeding the full-grown nestling. Cailey was sound asleep and I woke her up clipping a back toenail. I cleaned up and had pizza for dinner, rewarding myself with the rest of a Heartland episode I'd started a couple of days ago. The sun had come through and managed to charge my battery from 48% to 76%--not bad for a "cloudy" day. Now it's 7:40 and the promised rain has not come. In fact, the inlet is calm again despite the three foot seas forecast for Stephen's Passage (through Sunday) and I'm about to make a rhubarb G&T and enjoy it on the porch. I don't know whether no one was at Sweetheart today because of the impending storm, coincidence, and/or knowing it was difficult fishing conditions (three days since rain), but it will be interesting to see who comes in tomorrow. I could go back after it rains, and I'm even thinking about it now after being pretty sure that was my one attempt this year. I guess that's how fishing goes! Probably not this weekend, though.

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I enjoyed the G&T out on the porch over a very silent inlet, then Cailey and I headed to Hermit Thrush for a slightly more fitful night of sleep. The rain started early in the night, but never very hard, and it remained a light rain all morning. I lingered in my cozy bed a little longer than yesterday, then took Cailey out on a COASST walk as soon as we got to the lodge. The tide was low, seals out on a couple of submerged sandbars, several dozen short-billed gulls at the edge of the channel, the mergansers at the bottom. I saw the eaglet in the nest on the way back. I was eager for another bird survey and started one right away after making my banana pancake breakfast. There were two kingfishers and a family of four spotted sandpipers (three juveniles), and eight red-throated loons, but not a single songbird came by in 45 minutes, though I did have a hummingbird several times. Eventually I gave up on the little ones and headed out to plant my suffering cottonwood. The pot I put it in up the Taku was several inches too short for the full root (which was exceptionally long) and, though it was in the shade and well-watered, it was already wilting when we headed to town. I had bathed it in water through the ride and put it in a deeper bucket covered in water as soon as I got home, but almost all the leaves died (a tiny one still has a hint of green). I expect it will recover, but it was hard going for this one! And I'd intended to plant it just a few days after uprooting it, but of course last weekend's trip was canceled. I partially filled a bucket with sand, put some in the bottom of the deep hole, placed the two roots of the cottonwood, and began filling in around it. I used the layer of silt I'd dug up to caulk the holes in the built-up portion of the hole, and went back for a second load of sand to fully fill it. I think it looks really good, mostly surrounded by its familiar sand with a little organic matter and some seaweed. I watered it with the water from its bucket, using the rest of the silt to caulk the corners where the water started to run out, and will water it a couple more times before I go. I am optimistic and I think it has a really good home if it can recover.

Since I was suited up, I went on to some other tasks, first installing a perch on top of the no hunting sign that I found in the meadow nearby. It has prongs on either side and looks a little bit like antlers, which is kind of funny. Then I grabbed gloves, clippers, and the ladder and went around the spruce tree in the meadow clipping off the many volunteers curving toward the sky. The lower boughs are so long it was difficult to get close to the top and I had to use several different positions to do so. It wasn't until later that I discovered I'd missed a couple on the downriver side. In the meantime, I replaced the asphalt shingle on the bottom step of the stairs past Schist House that had washed away in a flood last year because Cailey's back feet keep slipping on it. When I got back, I lit a fire, then returned to the spruce and managed to cut the last two sprouts by leaning the ladder against the crush of boughs, which barely held while I did the job. Then I moved one of the two hummingbird trellises Ezra gave me for our anniversary and am quite pleased with both placements now in front of giant lady fern clumps. Now I'm inside and it's just after noon. I think the fire may actually be going now and I believe it's lunch time. Very cozy, misty inlet, light rain, and light winds here, though it was breezy out on the flats. One large boat came in earlier, maybe a USCG cutter, and two small boat left Gilbert Bay after that, maybe tenders or maybe I missed their entrance earlier.

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With a quesadilla for lunch, I watched an X-files, then read for a long time on the couch, probably checked work email, and dozed until 4:00 cocktail hour. Cailey and I set up on the porch while I sipped a glass of wine in the company of a persistent wasp who may have been attracted to its scent. I finally lit a mosquito coil just to discourage him from constantly buzzing around me. The rain and, apparently, the wind had upped their game and my knees were getting wet, so I packed up and took everything inside, then took a walk around the waterline loop trail with the machete, slicing back the devil's club and ferns that were reaching into the path. It's actually in great shape and fun to walk, especially through the downed tree area with its blanket of moss. I didn't accomplish much else that evening except to make some progress again on my puzzle, and headed to Hermit Thrush early for tea before bed.

I had another fitful night of sleep until a few hours before I got up when I fell into a cozy sleep, perfectly comfortable under the down comforter. The rain had picked up in the night and was pouring, though the wind again did not live up to expectations given the forecast (downgraded to two foot seas, though, today). I dried off the porch couch and had some breakfast, then excellent Moroccan mint tea, all the while watching for birds. The tide was low and I logged gulls, a loon, mergansers, and a hummingbird, and nothing else. A warbler and probably a thrush cruised through, but plunged into the bushes and did not emerge again for an ID. Now I'm inside fighting with the wood stove again, the windows open to air out the cloud of smoke that still lingers from my repeated attempts to get it to burn. I'm hoping to actually work on my laptop now for a while and make some headway on my many projects.

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I worked until noon, mostly with inserting photo album links and actual photos in trip reports thus far, then wrote a long-overdue letter after a lunch of leftover rice and veggies. I read a bit, made some cherry buckle with pancake mix, and did a few other odds and ends. The lodge got very warm until I'd stripped down to my t-shirt some time after feeding it for the last time around noon. It had barely picked up after much work, then burned through the several thin pieces I'd put in to light it as well as two larger pieces to keep it going, all of which has kept it extremely warm all afternoon (it's now 6:24). Around 3:00, I made three gallons of fish fertilizer solution, suited up, and fertilized the garden, also watering the cottonwood while I was at it. The rain has not slowed down all day (a trip to the outhouse got my pants noticeably wet), so everything was soaking wet, but the inlet was dead calm and misted over. It felt like there was no wind whatsoever, very serene and quiet but for the pattering of the vertical rain.

When the garden was done, I grabbed some gloves and made an excursion to the broken bridge to pick up all the loose pieces I could from underneath. I was optimistic when I started this project a few weeks ago, but now I see that there is nothing I can do to salvage it. The mountain-side log supporting the bridge was crushed by the falling snag, but not the river-side log, so all the treads (most still attached to it) are dipping into the gully. The large snag lays over the crushed log and leans on the other, and it's too large and in too awkward a position for me to deal with using a chainsaw. I can unscrew the treads, but that's about all. Furthermore, the tip of the great fallen tree broke last winter from between the two trees in which it is wedge and overhangs the path beyond the bridge. This too is too large a project for me, so it effectively blocks the trail, resting atop the stairs to Harbor Seal.

Cailey came and found me and we headed back to the lodge together, the loose pieces of the bridge stacked on the side of the trail. At least there is good, PT lumber to salvage. I was hot from working in my raingear, so sat on the porch in my t-shirt until I cooled off, which was extremely pleasant. I then washed the dishes and headed back to the porch with a commercial G&T for cocktail hour during which I saw little but a harbor seal on the calm river. I began to get philosophical about living life as a seal when I die, and then considering from what perspective I would remember it after. From mine or the seal's, or would I have an altogether different perspective after death? An angel's perspective? Anyway, I was hungry when I finished and came inside for supper and another X-Files.

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It's two days later now, and I suppose I'd better write down what's happened. I don't remember anything about the rest of that evening--Saturday--but I think we retired to Hermit Thrush around 8:30 and had a good night's sleep. The torrential downpour slowed overnight, and the morning was overcast, breezy when on the river, and only occasionally rainy, at least as far as I can recall. (There's a reason I try to write these every night.). I cleaned and packed up Hermit Thrush, thinking I might be leaving the next day, had toast and hot chocolate for breakfast over a bird survey on the porch, pleased that as many as two different Wilson's warblers and one probably hermit thrush came through--a veritable flurry of activity relative to what I've seen the rest of the trip. At 10:30 or so, I headed out for a walk on the flats with Cailey. The 24+ hours of torrential downpour had changed the river considerably. The low tide (-2 something) revealed a cut bank toward the opposite shore, most of the river as usual these days occupying the large, single channel. That morning, however, it was flowing hard with varying lines of standing waves, eroding the cut bank on the far shore, woody debris from sticks to full logs flowing past regularly. Gulls, mostly short-billed, perused the flats above. And a deepish channel was flowing between the homestead and the Ronquil which quashed my plans to drain the boat from the residual water built up below the level of the bilge pump. I continued the survey through the walk, staying closer to the mountain than usual since it wasn't a COASST survey and because most of the flats exposed at low tide was then covered with water. I only poked my head around the grass point before turning around. Both eagle parents were perched nearby, but I still couldn't see the nest to assess occupants. Both adults eagles had been at the homestead nest two, and for the first time I could see that there were TWO eaglets inside! I had up until then only seen one at a time.

As I passed the Rocky Point on the way back (Punto Petras?), I saw an unusual line in the water, what turned out to be a small wave front rolling up across the flats. I was fascinated! I ran toward the water and took a couple of videos to record it. It looked like a tiny bore tide, just a couple of inches tall, but washing over the bars at a considerably pace, less than a walking pace, but far faster than any tide I've ever seen. The tidal difference was a -2. something to a 16ish tide, which didn't seem too dramatic, and I've never seen a bore tide here before, but what else could it be? I later learned that a landslide in Tracy Arm around 5:30 am had caused a huge tsunami that tore through the fjord and, in Holkam Bay, was locally  ~20+ feet high (washing away much of the camp of a kayaking group on Harbor Island), and I wondered if this could possibly be that tsunami, five hours later and quite a distance away? If so, how lucky was I to be out to see it! And how lucky that no humans were in Tracy Arm at the time. I wonder how many seals and bears and other creatures were?

When we got back to the lodge, I finished the survey by walking through the property and around the loop trail, carrying first the jug of diesel to Hermit Thrush to fill the tank. I started to do that when I arrived, but was unnerved by the sight of green-colored fuel, very thick fuel, and was concerned I'd filled it with the wrong substance. Aborting that, I walked back along the Waterline Loop, up to the water source where I saw that the water level was well above the buried water line, then back to the outhouse and to the lodge, adding exactly zero birds to the survey.

I worked on some things in the lodge for a while, including looking up what diesel looked like and satisfying myself that more viscous was usual and so was a yellow color--I figured that yellow fuel on a blue funnel would make it look green. I went back later to finish fueling and was again put off by what was obviously a natively green color, not just the result of yellow and blue. I once again stopped. Since I was out, I grabbed gloves and the swede saw and cut off all the protruding branches, including a huge one that needed several breaks, along the newly-falled tree on the loop trail where the trail crosses the log. I also filled in some of the low areas near the log with small branches and lots of moss to try to make that area more flat.

I got back from those projects around 3:00 or 3:30 (I hadn't brought my phone) and settled in to work on my puzzle. I'm sure that I'd glanced at the river and the boat when I'd gotten back and all looked well. But at one point, as I was working on the belly of the buck who brings the spring, I glanced out the window as I've done innumerable times before, and saw the Ronquil....half underwater, the fuel tank floating like a red buoy over the stern. Shocked, appalled, horrified, I leapt up, ordered Cailey to stay, and raced for the kayak, paddling out to the boat as quickly as I could. The worst possible thing to see what staring at me--my boat was sinking, the engines in the water. I didn't know what to do, but had to have a closer look. It wasn't raining, but the seas had picked up and were about the biggest I've ever seen here--one foot or more, rolling in tight and hard, and they were a struggle to paddle against. The boat was facing upriver and, when I got there, I saw a horrible sight: the kicker was about completely submerged, the main half or two-thirds submerged, the whole back of the boat underwater, things floating over the boat, the water line up toward the bottom of the glove box, though not over the controls. There must be a lot of styrofoam in the bow, for the bow was holding the whole boat up, pulling at the anchor, totally dry. My first thought was that a piece of debris had somehow nudged the plug out and allowed water to fill the boat and I desperately wanted to find out, and replace it if I could. It was hard to maneuver and do anything with the current pulling me back and the seas rocking me wildly around. I wound up tying my line to the submerged rail on the port side and feeling my way onto what I think was the back bench before stepping aboard. I thought perhaps from there I could reach over and find the hole and see if the plug was there, but I was already over my xtratuffs and the scupper was far too far underwater. And I wasn't helping anything by being aboard.

I hopped back on the kayak, horrified and heart-broken, knowing that engines don't usually survive being swamped, not knowing what the problem was or what would happen, imaging not just the end of the rest of the summer but the end of cabin trips until...who knows? Would the boat float again? If I had to buy a new engine, what would I have to give up? And my precious boat, underwater, maybe damaged... There was nothing I could do from there, but I started thinking about what people do with sunken boats and remembered that adding flotation is the key. I reluctantly left the Ronquil and paddled back to shore, for the first time breaking into sobs. Once back, I drug out one of the two 50-gallon barrels from behind the shed which, if I remember right, Torsten used to raise his sunken boat (the other one had two unplugged openings in the top which didn't seem useful), then pulled out all three of my other kayaks from under the lodge and drug them to the water. I hastily tied them all to my kayak, put the drum on one, and began kayaking back to my boat. It was slow, hard, and awkward, and I was exhausted quickly, laboring into the seas (1" seas, or maybe 18" seas are significant on a sit-on-top kayak) and pulling three kayaks behind. I hoped that perhaps if I could tie those on, it would raise the level of the boat enough to....I don't know, ideally to be able to bail it out, or get the engines out of the water. But dealing with the rocky seas and the current while trying to maneuver kayaks into place was difficult to say the least. I had to tie myself onto the boat to not be swept away, then turn around while still on the bobbing kayak to untie another kayak, then try to pull it into place, first (I realized) tying the bow of the kayak to the side of the boat, which required me to untie MY line. It was a huge cluster as the seas bounced me around and I despaired at helping my precious boat and engines. This time I'd left my phone at home, already wet, and put a life jacket on at least, as I twisted and reached, and, eventually got one kayak tied tight to one side and another tight to the other side. The boat had been listing to port and, with a kayak tied there and the jerry jugs shoved to the other side, I think I raised the boat about two inches. But it was clear that it would not be enough to make a difference. It had been a foolish errand to begin with, but I'd had to try something. Heart-broken, and probably sobbing again, I left the Ronquil, towing the third kayak back to the homestead. I dumped the water out of Cheech and tied it up, tucked the other back under the lodge, and retreated inside for the night. Poor Cailey didn't know what to think. Everything I had on was soaked except my t-shirt, so I changed, updated Ezra on the events of the evening, ate ramen and green beans for dinner, and wiled away the time while the tide dropped. I only hoped the .8' tide would be low enough to ground the Ronquil.

Thankfully, it was. Shortly before 8:00, I suited up in my waders and rain jacket and went to check on my boat. My xtratuffs were soaking wet and inside to dry, so I was glad to have the waders, though the ones I brought for Sweetheart are leaky and I stepped into one cold, wet foot (sockless). The channel separating the beach from the Ronquil would have gone over my boots if I'd tried to drain the boat that morning as intended, so I was right to avoid it, but in retrospect it might have prevented the boat from going under. I slopped my way across the slippery mud and, at 8:00 pm, found the boat full of water (but for a few inches at the top) and the plug intact. So there went my first theory. The boat was so heavy that it had settled several inches in the mud, perfectly upright rather than leaning one way or the other as usual. I excavated the plug and pulled it, a boisterous steam of water emerging. Since it was below the mud, I used the long 1x2 to scrape out a chute down to the nearby channel, which I did several more times over the next hour or so, mostly just using my foot. The rest of the time, I bailed with a bucket I'd brought (onboard buckets were gone), first from the outside, then from inside as the water level dropped. Bail, rest, clear the channel for the scupper water, bail, rest, repeat. The water from the scupper formed a deep pool as it flowed out so I periodically stood between the engines, placed my foot behind the hole, and swept back, distributing the water in the pool all around it, thereby lowering the pool level enough to prevent back flow. That's what I did for about the last ten minutes when bailing was no longer practical. I also checked the battery by trying the tilt; I did not expect results, but the engine moved, suggesting that the battery had not died in the deluge. I also took the cowling off the main engine and was surprised to find that it was quite dry inside. Was it possible that it was sealed against such an immersion?? Surely not! And yet....it has seemed awfully dry, and when I clamped it back on, it made a nice seal.

It was 8:55 when I walked away from the boat. I'd walked around the whole outside and found no damage that I could tell, though nothing on the underside was visible it was so deeply set in the mud, and the light was poor. I tried to rock it back and forth to loosen it up a little, but it was solid, and I began to worry that it might be so stuck it wouldn't float! Totally exhausted and emotionally fatigued, I put a new plug in the scupper (the one I keep handy in the glove box for emergencies) just in case, put the emergency bag on a chair so it wouldn't float away in case of another flood (too big to carry such a long distance in my state), and slopped my way back to the lodge. I wanted to go back to Hermit Thrush for a cozy night of sleep, since it was clear I wasn't going to be leaving the next day one way or another, but decided I needed to stay and check to see if the boat floated overnight. I watched X-Files until I was too sleepy and then fell into a very fitful night of sleep. First Cailey started panting heavily and woke me up around 10:30. I woke her up and put a blanket under her head where she had it draped over the side of her bed, but she started again. Again I woke her up. The third time, I got her to get up and gave her a cookie and she fell asleep again on the living room rug, quietly. I was awake again at 3:00 because of what must be a nascent cow parsnip bite on my finger--just a tiny little thing--itching agonizingly. After I found the campho phenique in the dark, I looked out over the misty river, also quite dark, and didn't see anything. Had my boat now been completely flooded, stuck to the bottom of the river? In my mid-night haze, I persuaded myself to use binoculars and found a boat-like lump out there, what seemed to be a full-sized boat, not just a bow. The Ronquil was floating. I checked again when it was a bit lighter and confirmed. I didn't get up again until 9:00, still quite tired.

Thankfully, Cailey was quite tired too. I quickly dressed, exchanged some texts with my faithful mechanic Scott Lawless, took Cailey outside until she had a nice piddle, then suited up in my waders again (xtratuffs still very wet) and headed to the boat to take out the spark plugs and try to turn the engine over, per Scott's instruction. I first stopped by the shed to see if I could find my local spark plug pullers, but not finding any quickly, went to the boat, knowing I had one in my emergency bag. The wind had died locally (despite the forecast of 4' seas), but the torrential rain had returned in the night. It was apocalyptic. I was wearing my alternate rain coat, which I was glad to have, hood up over my hat. I found the boat as I'd left it and soon pulled out my engine manual to see exactly where the spark plugs were. Inside the same ziplock was a bag of spark plug pullers and other tools, just what I was looking for. The spark plug inspection section of the manual failed to show me where they were on the engine, so I gave up and pulled the cowling, finding them on the port side. But the tool I'd taken back with me was too large to fit in the recesses where the plugs were. I looked in the bag again and found another tool with a different sized socket on either end--bingo! Except neither of them fit either. Wasn't this the bag that came with the engine? Apparently not. I emptied out the rest of the emergency kit to find other spark plug pullers to no avail (all in the pouring rain), neither could I find any on a more thorough search of the shed.

Back at the lodge, discouraged, I texted Scott again who said that, in the absence of a deep 18 mm socket, I could just try to start the engine as is. I'd already assessed the socket set I had and determined that I didn't have any that would fit. So I suited up again, headed out, and the engine started like a champ! Like it was perfect! I couldn't believe it, what a good engine, with a waterproof case! I spent the next half an hour or so in the rain draining and bailing the rest of the water out. The Ronquil had leaned to port this time, the side where the scupper is, so the overnight torrential rain plus what was left in the bilge from yesterday needed to drain. It took a surprisingly long time, but it was good to get it all out. I got back to the lodge around 11:15 and asked Scott what to do now. He didn't respond immediately, so I started to relax, checked emails, checked the forecast, and then made a quesadilla while trying to get a fire started--not as much for heat really as for helping dry out my myriad wet gear. I'd checked on the fridge when I was getting ready to cook and found the pilot out, but everything inside still cold, so caught it very quickly and changed tanks. When I had worked on the fire several times and smoked up the room, I opened the windows and ate my quesadilla on the porch with Cailey and a beer. I was quite relaxed, and the rain paused its intensity for a bit. I lingered until the smoke was mostly dispersed and the apocalyptic rain had retuned, then retreated inside and worked until my laptop ran out of battery and all but one of the projects I could do remotely were complete.

By then the rain had once again paused and the tide was high. I took Cailey down the garden path to the water and lingered there, soaking up the sweet scents blowing in, the brown water at the mouths of the seeps, the flooded path to the upriver seep, Cailey's apparent joy in bopping around the garden. I was content and she was content. Scott had said I was good to try to come in, and perhaps to have a stiff G and T this evening, and the forecast was calling for dry weather for two days and mostly light and variable wind. How welcome that would be. On the way back, I tried to pick the second of the three strawberries that grew this year, but it wasn't quite willing to come, though quite red, so I left it. The first one I'd had several days ago was a dream--my first Snetty strawberry!

I gave Cailey some rawhide bits to bury and, while she was occupied, swept and tidied up the whole lodge, which felt great after the stress and hecticness of the last 24 hours. When she came back in, I cleaned and organized the shelves under the dish racks and shifted enough of the excess glasses and mugs down there to make more room up top. I many times rearranged the wet gear to make the most of the slowly lingering fire, never hot enough to boil water but putting out consistent heat for many hours after I added the second of only two full pieces of lumber. It is a nightmare to get going, a dream of efficiency once the clouds of smoke have left the room. At 4:15 I finished heating up the water from the wood stove and made myself some decaf coffee with cinnamon on top which I drank outside on the porch, the rain once again having diminished while the wind picked up its pace in its absence, which I see so often here. Huge gusts came in and the inlet was whipped with little white-capped seas. The Ronquil rocked and turned this way and that, but always well above the level of the water--and I kept a very good eye on it! It was just windy enough to be unnerving, but was otherwise more or less dry and pleasant and somewhat brightening. When the coffee was finished, I made myself that stiff gin and tonic (using half again as much gin as usual to finish the bottle of Amalga rhubarb gin) with garden mint, and sipped it contentedly while Cailey tried to snooze. I eventually made my way inside, had Indian food and most of the rest of the bread for dinner with the rest of the X-Files I'd started last night, and here I am. It's quarter to 8:00, the boat is still floating, just (on the falling tide), and I look forward to the courage that comes with bright, dry skies and light tomorrow. And also a good night's sleep that doesn't involve terror that my boat is permanently at the bottom of the river. Fingers crossed for the continued health of Sally my engine and an eventless ride home tomorrow or Wednesday. It certainly has been a different trip!

---------------------------

I went outside in time to see bats foraging in front of the porch again (I'd seen this in July as well in case I forgot to mention it then) and stood still at the very edge of the porch until one sped right by my face, though I couldn't see or hear it, just saw it on either side. I slept reasonably well, a few bouts of sleeplessness for no good reason notwithstanding. Unlike the night before, my eyes didn't sting when I got up (perhaps I'd let less smoke out during the fire making process, or perhaps I hadn't been crying as much), but it still smelled like smoke whenever I came to consciousness. As the light began to grow outside with the dawn, I was disturbed by the sound of rain on the roof.  In the emotional sense, not the noise! Was not the day supposed to be cloudy at worst, sunny at best? When I did get up, the whole inlet was misted in and there was no sign of sun, and the forecast had changed to "morning showers." It was still better than torrential rain, but I was sure looking forward to dry weather!

It turns out I needn't have worried. I got dressed quickly, washed up, and immediately headed out to the boat with Cailey for what I hope will be the last slog across the silty ground to the boat for this trip. My boots were still wet inside, but the soles were dry, so I put on a different pair of socks and headed out, seeing from here that the channel I had to cross was likely shallow enough for xtratuffs. I carried several buckets out to fill with the gas in the fuel tank and quickly filled one up. Wondering what to do with it so it wouldn't slosh around too much, I realized I had an empty jerry jug (which had carried much of the same gas down here), so filled that one up and the rest of the fuel only partially filled the single bucket. What I'll do with it in town is another question. I also organized things a bit and set out the seat pads and the four remaining rubber floor squares (the ones that didn't float away) to dry on the bow and hung the camera washcloth (where I lay my camera on the dash while underway) and the salmon cleaning mat to dry, and opened up the emergency kit to start drying as well.

From there, Cailey and I walked up the flats to the grassy point and back. The beach beyond the point is almost entirely gone now and the beach just below was carved into big dunes and gullies from the strong flow. Two semi-palmated plovers were foraging nearby together and a spotted sandpiper flew out over the river, so I started a bird survey which I continued for most of the rest of the morning through a pear pancake, doing the dishes, and a delicious cup of mint tea. The birds showed up for it--three Wilson's warblers together along with a surprise yellowthroat, plus one thrush and one HO wren.

Now it's afternoon and the forecast is favorable, though a breeze blows in every now and again. I think I am looking forward to being on the water, if a bit uneasy! I will have inreach withinreach the whole way home, and hope the fuel system does not fail and the west wind does not kick us to pieces. I love being here, I love this feeling like home as it has this week, but it is probably a good idea to head in!

[The ride home was uneventful and the engine worked perfectly. The gas in the bucket sloshed around so much I finally paused and poured the rest of it in the jerry jug I'd emptied when I'd refueled.]

The Ronquil holds water after settling on the flats, a hopeful sign