I'm on the deck overlooking a surprisingly calm and quiet inlet. There was already a little breeze coming in off Gilbert Bay when I arrived at 11:00 am, and by noon the bushes and trees were swaying in the steady wind under alternately blue and cloudy skies. It was this southeasterly system that drove my morning. Watching the weather all week after our Echo Ranch weekend, Saturday was the first day that popped up with good wind conditions; unfortunately, it was also the day that Rory had his second concert of the season, which I did not want to miss. Each day I watched the forecast, and as of Saturday, the light and variable winds were forecast through Sunday prior to a gale scheduled to blow in Monday morning. The concert was fabulous, well worth leaving a day later, and I was optimistic I'd have smooth, sunny sailing after church the next day.

That is, until I rather casually checked the forecast this morning while walking Cailey, the leaves calm, the channel glassy. I could see immediately that the text was more complicated than it needed to be! NNW winds turning to SE in the morning, potential showers starting at 10:00 am. Oh no! This changed everything, and an hour could make a difference. I stopped by the store on the way to church to pick up some apples for Ezra to feed Starburst when he comes by, emailed Bob to see if he could acolyte for me, and rushed about setting up for the service. Thankfully, Bob was able to take over, so I fled home at 8:15, changed clothes, grabbed the perishables, packed the car, said goodbye to Ezra, and was underway from the harbor at 8:50, perhaps an hour and 15 minute earlier than I could have if I'd stayed for the service.

On the way out, I noticed that the breakwater was unusually devoid of gulls, then heard what sounded like a sandpiper. I glanced over and saw a very un-gull-like gull flying on the other side of the breakwater and calling. I recognized the voice and thought it was a raptor, but what kind? Goshawk flashed through my mind, as they make similar calls, though not usually over the ocean. As my mind processed the sound and visual, the bird passed in front of me, then turned south again, and I saw the long, slender wings, realizing the familiar call was that of an osprey, calls which had erupted from streaming nest cams all spring and summer while I worked. An osprey on migration! It seemed an auspicious sign, and indeed the trip down the channel was perfect and I even shaved off five minutes from my usual 30 minute run to Marmion Island. And that's when the chop came up, 1-2', throwing spray over the side of us if I wasn't careful, and we went slowly, puttering along at about 3,200 rpm. Cailey was uncomfortable, and I was smelling gas from one of the jerry jugs whose cap wasn't quite tight, wondering if/how I could stand this all the way to Snettisham. I wouldn't have chosen to go out in this, fighting all the way down, if I'd known.

Somehow, though, I thought I'd just better grind my way to Point Arden and see what it looked like from there. As we moved farther into the Open, it became more and more clear that the seas were coming from the east, originating on the shoreline around Slocum Inlet rather than straight up Stephen's Passage as would be usual for a southeasterly. Indeed, these seas were apparently coming out of the Taku and mellowed as we passed Arden and put them on our stern quarter. The view up the inlet was stunning, the nunataks stark against the blue sky. But my easy sailing was soon shattered by something else entirely! I could see a cute line of fog crossing Stephen's Passage from the mainland to somewhere along Grand Island (and over to Admiralty) and I soon entered it, finding it an alarmingly dense layer. At first I could see 100 yards in the distance but soon this diminished to maybe 20 or 30 yards, too close to want to travel at speed without knowing where the shoreline was! For a while I could see the tops of the mainland mountains, but when they disappeared, I decided to turn toward shore so I could follow it rather than risk losing my way or stumbling onto a point without knowing it. I was sort of angling toward Grave Point when a huge blat sounded ahead of me--the worse possible danger, a cruise ship! I had no idea how far away he was, only that it sounded close, and I amended my gentle angle toward the point to a 90 turn from my usual trajectory, straight for the mainland which I could soon see above the layer fog, fleeing at full speed. I just needed to get out of the way of that cruise ship! I knew that it wouldn't hug the shore, so if I could get close/behind Grave Point, I would be safe from collision at least. Somewhere in there, I noticed that Cailey was chilly. I had thought that the sun would keep us warm, but we had both been in the shadow of the boat as we were heading toward the sun, and the fog added a chill. I couldn't find her yellow blanket, but put her jacket on and covered her with a tarp and she soon warmed up.

I'd made enough southeasterly progress that when I did hit shore, I was near Grave Point and soon felt the smooth rollers of the cruise ship wake, which I had not seen any sign of, nor heard, again, surprisingly. I wonder if the horn was for my sake, a tiny blip in the path of the mighty ship (I like to imagine the pilot chuckling as he saw my dramatic course change). Here again the fog was dense, so I took another compass heading and angled toward the shoreline in the direction I thought would take me past the mouth of Taku Harbor and back to the coast. It was eerie leaving sight (very quickly) of land again, cruising over calm seas (except for some mysterious, smooth swells) with some flotsam and a few gulls, and absolutely nothing to indicate land. Was I going in a straight line? Shouldn't I have found the shoreline by now? Was I going in circles?? Where was I!? Unnerved, I angled a little more sharply toward shore, first finding myself quite close to a little yacht abruptly manifesting out of the fog to my left. Thankfully, I finally saw the mountaintop through the fog and realized I'd made more southerly distance than I expected and was nearly to Limestone Inlet. I passed it offshore, seeing only the tops of the mountains through the fog, and soon passed the entrance to Swimming Eagle Cove which I could actually see. And then I lost sight of shore again as I continued south, not wanting to hug the shoreline as the area inside of Seal Rocks is a morass of kelp. I kept on, seeing something off on the starboard bow which I figured for a boat, but couldn't be sure until, thankfully, the rocks showed up off the port bow. I cruised past them and into the port, the fog now breaking up and the mountaintops shining brilliantly in the sun. There remained patches of fog, but nothing that couldn't be navigated through easily. I passed the boat which had looked so odd from a distance, seeing that what looked like a boat with a tow or a net stretched out behind was a landing craft with a very long bow kicking up a comically large rooster tail of a wake. I passed him shy of Sentinel Point, and cruised through the last fog bank and to the homestead. Such a relief!

The tide was lowish and falling, so I navigated into the seep channel and carried just a couple of loads up with things that I needed or wanted, and opened up in unusual order. First, to take advantage of the sun, I set up the solar panels, and soon Starlink to send a quick message, then lit the pilots on the stove, filled the fridge with perishables, set up the porch, etc. It was a pleasure to sit up the couch, but hunger soon drove me back to the boat for a few supplies and I was soon back in the hot sunshine with a quesadilla. But I can never relax with necessary chores ahead, so I rested just a few minutes longer, then weed-whacked the garden, which only took about 15 minutes. I think the vegetation may be adjusting to this treatment, as there is a layer of groundcover beneath what I cut off that makes a pleasant green "turf". The young roses in the garden, despite my ill treatment of them, are thriving.

I'd also noticed that we didn't have much water pressure, so since I was up and about, I headed up the water line trail to the water source and found the hose washed out of its place. Not much else had changed, though, so I only scraped out a few rocks, replaced the hose in its nooks and the rocks on top, and stopped by the valve to ensure it was running. That sure is a good system! And then I did relax for a while, overheating in the hot, hot sun (when the clouds didn't come through), and read for a bit. When the heat was overpowering, I escaped inside and read, then napped for a tiny bit with Cailey next to me on the floor. When I headed out again, the tide had risen enough to finish unloading. I anchored the boat very close to shore both to keep an eye on it and to drain the bilge during low tides, but I'm not sure I'll be able to as the low tides are quite high. It's just offshore now.

The lodge is warming up with a little fire and I am just starting to feel a chill, but the inlet is so beautiful and the evening so calm it's hard to want to go inside! I believe it's dinner time though, and I look forward to the rest of the week.

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I intended to have split pea soup for dinner, but as it was still frozen solid, I opted for some Indian food instead. The evening was so exceptionally fine, clear and calm, that I spent about 45 minutes on the deck as the light faded, then finally packed up and headed to Hermit Thrush in the near-dark just before 8:00, navigating by headlamp. I'd already opened up earlier in the day and left the windows open to air things out. Finding my sheets a bit damp and smelling slightly of mildew, I rolled back the comforter and left it exposed while the stove ran and I stretched, read, and finished the X-Files I'd started at dinner. I don't know how much good it did, but I didn't notice the dampness as I did last month on my first night.

We slept reasonably well, though I had a wakeful period around 4:00 am. Around 10:00 pm, I could see stars through the breaks in the canopy, but by 5:00 am the rain was beginning to patter. When I finally woke up again around 8:30 am, I was not the picture of energy, motivation totally lacking. In a rare decision, I stayed inside all morning rather than spending it on the porch, even when it came time for a cup of special coffee, which I drank by the window looking out over the cloudy inlet as a little northerly cruised down the river. I'd had a sore throat yesterday and was beginning to get a runny nose, so suspected I was dealing with a little cold, only the first or second I've had at Snettisham. I lit a fire early, having slightly more success using fewer materials to get it started and only needed to work on it once or twice after the initial lighting. It was actually burning some small pieces--with actual flames--so I experimented with the only large piece of wood in the wood box, quickly quaffing the flames, but everything kept burning nevertheless. I fed it once or twice more in the afternoon and the lodge was pleasantly warm all day.

I spent a couple of hours working on my puzzle in the morning, had a quesadilla for lunch, then headed out in the drizzle to stretch my legs around 12:30, about an hour and a half before the low tide of 6.8'. I had hoped the boat would go solidly aground so I could drain the bilge water out, but it never even touched bottom despite being so close to shore. Cailey was very eager to come along, and we had a really pleasant walk along the beach (barely showing), bypassing the rocky point (which had no beach) up the freshet and back down alongside the creek. I think I enjoyed it more than usual because Cailey was eager to be along and kept up rather than toddling somewhat reluctantly (so it seems) behind me as she often does on beach walks. The rain stopped and the afternoon was bright and calm and very quiet. It's hard to reconcile the searing hot sun of yesterday with being layered up with chilly fingers today!

Shortly above the creek, I found the remains of a coho at the edge of the water, the last six inches or so of the tail stock intact and the rosy glow prominent. The skin up to the neck was also intact, but the flesh inside had been eaten. The meat was firm and smelled only of sweet, fresh salmon, and I considered taking it back to eat, but eventually decided against it. Cailey ate the backbone, but I thwarted further efforts by floating the carcass beyond her nose in the river and urging her to come along. It wasn't as smelly as she usually likes them anyway! We made our way along the narrow flats, populated by a handful of Bonaparte's and short-billed gulls, all in winter plumage, and I noticed features I learned in my gull class than I hadn't noticed before like the white in the front of the former's wings. We walked over the grass point and back and, this time, were able to just skirt the front of the rocky point.

On the way back, I walked the new garden "path" along the edge of the alders, the new cottonwood, and the potatoes, and found a beautiful Lincoln's sparrow, so started a bird survey. Everything else was seen from the porch and the conditions were perfect for watching the nine red-throated loons and four horned grebes, both in varying degrees of transition from breeding to winter plumage. Two young hermit thrushes also came by. They were targeting bugs, but this evening I saw one go for one of the many plump and delicious gray currents. They seem to have thrived this summer along with the blueberries. I finished the survey with a walk around the Waterline Trail, delivering a large chunk of lumber to the base of the fallen tree that now crosses the trail behind Schist House to make the hop over it easier. On the way back, I picked up an armful of moss to place in front of both outhouse doors to stop the mud from splashing up, which was particularly bad on the front of Gneiss House from the recent excavations. Somewhere along the way I also excavated along the edges of the landing on the lodge stairs where accumulated duff had piled up against it, recreating a gap of several inches.

I came inside and made notes to prepare for the upcoming Discernment and Search Committee meeting and to further plan our work, then read for a while on the couch. Around 4:30 I headed out again with another eager Cailey, as the heavy rain that had started falling during the bird survey had stopped and the inlet was again glassy calm and there were hints of blue behind the clumps of clouds passing overhead, and I felt I should be outside. I headed to the water's edge and continued my task of removing all the rocks that poke out of the beach where I usually land the boat. I left a few that had too many arthropods beneath, but moved a lot of others and it's really looking good. Cailey bopped around the garden and carried a stick I threw for her briefly. When I'd done all I could do, I grabbed three flat rocks I'd found and added them to the patio in front of Gneiss House, slowly filling that in. It won't win any awards, but hopefully will be sturdy and functional. Finally, I put Cailey back inside and took the kayak out to the Ronquil to bail the water out, since I don't think I'll be able to pull the plug for a few days. I used the float plane pump from my childhood, perched over the fuel tank, which worked very well (I had to remove debris that clogged it up once), and it has much less water in it now than it did when we left Juneau. The trim line, which disappeared underway about two feet from the stern, is now visible all the way down, despite filling the tank with fuel. The evening was so fine I was tempted to take a long kayak, but opted to deal with my increasingly anxious stomach instead, and hope for more calm water at some point this week. Finally, I returned to the woods to pick a small batch of blueberries for a pancake tomorrow, maybe a quarter of a cup, from the trail to the water source and down by Harbor Seal Cabin, having noted berries in both places. I was careful to leave about half the berries in place, as few as they are.

By the time I came in, I was quite hot, and the lodge felt sweltering, so I quickly changed my mind about the order of dinner. While the split pea soup heated up (liberated from the fridge this morning to thaw), I put the blueberries in a saltwater solution and buttered a piece of bread; when the soup was hot, I sat on the porch with the last grapefruit G&T and the bread and enjoyed it as I cooled down, looking out on a seriously lovely inlet. That's when I saw the hermit thrush secret away a berry deep inside the bushes. When I got chilled, I ate the soup inside and continued the DS9 episode I'd started at home while sending texts, etc. I clearly needed a day of relaxation/recovery and enjoyed it, and hope that a desire to work will come to me in time. Tomorrow is supposed to be mostly overcast in the afternoon, so I may try to sneak away to Gilbert Bay for a survey, as the rest of the week promises rain and, on Wednesday, a big storm.

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Two days later, it's even more clear why I needed rest. That night, my nose, which had been running more than usual all day, produced a deluge and I was glad I'd finally added some antihistamines to my adventure bag. I thought it would also help me sleep through the night, which it probably did, but I was somehow restless and achy in the morning.

As promised, the sky was cloudy and dry, a little northerly coming down the river. I was clearly sick, and not energetic or motivated in any way. This time I did start the morning on the porch with the giant blueberry pancake--a bit of a disappointment actually, not because of the blueberries but because I hadn't used the most delicious mixes available (using some others up) and had failed to add enough ameliorations to make up for it (e.g., not nearly enough baking soda). This was chased with a hot cup of decaf coffee, one of the more pleasant moments of the day. Really, the day was fine, I just wasn't feeling up to very much. I read and worked on the puzzle until noon, then took an eager Cailey out for a walk around the property. The tide prohibited a walk on the flats, so I took a tour of the cabins, pouring the contents of their dehumidifier tubs into a bucket and replacing the chemicals and locking them for the winter. Cailey disappeared while we were down at Harbor Seal cabin (such a shame that fine cabin rarely gets used), so I had scraped the moss off the stairs next to Schist House and removed the water filters from the back of Cottonwood before she scampered up with a happy glint to her eye. I returned to the Harbor Seal Cabin area again and scraped the stairs there (using the deprecated trail down toward the freshet now that the bridge is impassable).

I had lunch and a cervesa on the porch as the day became more enticing, the clouds lifting, the wind calm, and my enthusiasm for heading out to Gilbert Bay grew. I left around 1:40, paddling the very short distance to the Ronquil with spotting scope, binoculars, camera, and backpack of possible necessities (e.g., bug dope, inreach, and leatherman). By then the day was so bright that I'd put out the solar panels which were bringing in 150 watts when I left, enough to charge the battery fully within three hours. I was hot in my raingear and quickly shed my jacket. I could tell my mood wasn't quite right when the intense mat of stringy green seaweed covering the anchor chain (so dense I couldn't see the chain in most places) infuriated me. It didn't help that I'd forgotten to bring the batteries and SD card I'd intended to replace those at the River Point cam, so puttered into shore and grabbed them. Finally, we headed to Gilbert Bay, arriving around 2:00. I was still surprised by the more than hour between the tide two days ago and the tide yesterday, so I drug the kayak up a little farther than was necessary and wrapped the line around a rock just in case. Today's tide is another hour and 15 minutes later than yesterday's.

Grumpy and sweating, I carried my gear to my usual place on the point between the bay and the estuary. It was a similar tide to last time and, if I continue to bird watch there, I think I'll make sure I'm on a higher tide. There were ducks, but not the numbers I was expecting, and I found myself frustrated by identifications of distant birds or closer birds that just wouldn't show me the features I needed to see. I wanted to count the gulls, but just didn't have it in me to take the time. All in all, it was okay, but not particularly satisfying, and I began to wonder if it was worth the anchoring, lugging gear, etc. Back on the boat, I encountered a surprise near River Point: a very small humpback whale, a welcome neighbor.

The tide was lower when I came back and some of the flats were showing, so I puttered in until I went aground, dropped the anchor, shoved off (requiring me to jump in to push), and reversed until the anchor caught (back inside). Then I paddled the kayak the short distance in, dropped off my gear on the porch, and drug the kayak back to its place at the no hunting sign. I was glad it was over. The day was still calm and fine, but the cloud cover had increased shortly after I left and I'd only added 2% to the battery charge. Worth a try, though! I don't remember much about the rest of the afternoon, but I recall a glass of wine on the porch, somewhat more relaxed than I had been earlier. I made a variation of my signature one-dish dinner: risotto instead of yellow rice cooked with veggies (carrots, brussel sprouts, and cauliflower) with a portion of Sweetheart sockeye steamed on top. I watched the rest of the DS9 episode I'd been working on, then retreated back outside to look out over the serene inlet as the light faded. I think we made it to Hermit Thrush by around 7:30 this time, and I lit the kerosene lamp instead of using the electric light and put on an X-Files to encourage me to take my time stretching in front of the diesel stove before tea and reading in bed. Again Cailey left her spot on the bed in favor of the rag rug on the floor for most of the evening after she got her cabin treat. I coaxed her up for the night, but she went back down this morning after I got up briefly. I'm not sure what's going on there other than her new expectation for multiple cabin cookies, partly caused by my giving her evening pills over there since we leave the lodge before they're due.

My nose was weeping outrageously, so I took an antihistamine shortly after I arrived and, when that didn't seem to have an effect after half an hour or so, I took another. Consequently, I slept well all night despite getting up several times, knowing each time that I'd sink into sweet, drugged slumber right away. I think it's warmer this September than usual, or perhaps things are less damp? Or I'm spending more time inside than usual? I haven't been really chilled outside, and haven't felt a need to don my special Snetty down vest yet as I usually do this time of year.

It rained a little later in the early morning, but by the time I got up it had stopped, the residual drops pinging on the roof. In fact, it was quite a surprisingly bright morning and fairly calm, not what I was expecting. I had some oats and yogurt on the porch, then made a cup of Moroccan mint tea just as the breeze and the rain started, and then the front came in fast. Suddenly gusts swept in and soon swells filled the inlet and the Ronquil began to rock at anchor. Wide berms of white caps came almost up to it and the swells, smooth-topped, came all the way to the beach. The berry bushes bent in the wind, facing the river, which must mean the wind is hitting the mountain and rushing back out. The Ronquil hasn't been facing upriver as it did when it partially sank last time, but it's often facing the shore, with seas quartering its port stern, or laying in the trough. When the rain started coming more steadily, Cailey and I retreated inside as it swept onto the porch. I lit a fire and worked on my puzzled until I had placed all the cherry blossoms on the antlers of the Spring Elk, had some lunch, and am now getting caught up on computer work shortly after noon.

I worked until about 1:45, prepping for the next Discernment and Search Committee meeting, then, with energy to spare, decided to brave the storm and head outside to putter around on more little projects I could do before final close up, which if the forecast holds is likely to be on Saturday. It was actually pretty pleasant, the wind and rain undaunting in full rain gear and hat. I started out by wrapping the tarp over Gneiss House as I'd done to Schist yesterday, then nailed in the plywood protectors around the back porch that keep the mud splatters off for the winter, then pounded a longer stake in next to the new perch post in the garden and screwed it in, adding another screw to better secure the perch to the top. After that, I ventured into the woods, wrapping tinfoil around the Cottonwood and Mink cabins valves and then scraping the moss off the boardwalk on the way back. I was surprised to find moss growing in the grooves of the pressure treatment! Cailey was clearly anxious for a longer walk, so I looked at the lowering tide and thought it looked about like it did when we walked upriver a couple of days ago, so off we went through the grass paths and around to the freshet, up to the creek, down to the beach and across the creek. And....there's wasn't much beach from there. We could have continued, but it would have been on the upper layer of shale mixed with seaweed, the seas washing in over us. I didn't think either of us wanted to clamber over those slippery rocks, though Cailey was enjoying herself and it took some coaxing to turn her back. We walked back along the Waterline Trail to add some interest, and then to the lodge. I had built up an appetite by then, but thought I might at least start harvesting potatoes. I took off my sweater so I was in only a t-shirt under my raincoat, grabbed some buckets, and started on the downriver bed. It was a bit chaotic, the stems so long and laying over the bed that it was hard to identify where each bundle of potatoes would be. But it went well, and the harvest is good--six to twelve good sized potatoes each, I'd say, though I wasn't able to keep track of where one plant started and another began. There weren't as many piebalds as I'd hoped, but they'd been overshadowed by the Haidas. I couldn't remember how many Haidas I'd planted, so I kept the potatoes from about the first four fingerlings and the piebalds in one bucket, all the rest in a larger bucket. Cailey stayed in the garden the whole time, in the rain! I clearly didn't have the energy to pick all the potatoes, so I went from the first bed to the new bed by the new cottonwood and harvested those, where the piebald I'd planted there produce half a dozen large potatoes. After harvesting, I returned all the soil and the plants to the inside to nourish the next generation.

Inside, I took off all my wet clothes and hung them to dry. Right now I have a quilt wrapped around my legs while my pants hang on the smoke stack; for some reason, I brought a spare t-shirt and sweatshirt over this morning but decided against spare pants. I have a meeting at 5:30 and need to prep for that, and I'm hoping that the Ronquil will go aground on the low tide so I can easily bail or pull the plug. I think I can walk to it now and there's another 45 minutes to go. All in all, it's been a pretty good day. The storm was fun, I got outside and did some work for almost two hours, I did a lot of home work, and finished the antlers on the elk. I'm also physically feeling better, my nose not haunting me this afternoon quite as much, and my energy recovering.

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I read all the available docs for the meeting, then walked out to the Ronquil and bailed it, it being not quite high enough to pull the plug. At 5:00, I discovered I was hungry, so quickly heated up some chili, added some cheese, and ate it on the porch overlooking a rainless and relatively mild inlet (though still a little breezy). It took them 17 minutes to connect me to the meeting, just as I had pulled up a DS9 to keep me occupied until I gave up entirely. I was a bit anxious about it, but it went well, and around 7:30 I headed to the cabin for the night. Figuring I deserved a little reward, but wanting to retire to Hermit Thrush before dark, I filled a little glass of wine and carried it over. It almost worked. As I passed under the log, I neglected to slide my backpack off one shoulder as I usually do so I can hunch over and walk beneath, forcing me to bend my knees completely and shuffle. With no hands to help me as I lost balance, I tipped over backwards, sitting in the mud and spilling half my wine. I guess that's what I get for taking shortcuts! As I walked alongside the cabin, I noticed that the devil's clubs all along the hillside were bent over toward the river, many showing their pale undersides, frozen in time. The gusts from downriver were so strong and persistent that it had a lasting effect on the leaves!

Inside, I sipped the rest of the wine before brushing my teeth and reading until late, sleeping surprisingly well despite the evening socializing. It's been very cozy and relatively warm getting up in the morning in the cabin and I love to linger under my sea green comforter. When we arrived at the lodge at 8:00, I was pleased to see that my hope had come true: three hours into the rising tide, there were still significant flats exposed and the morning was fine. Cailey and I both forewent our breakfasts in favor of a lovely walk, a COASST survey even. The air was breathless, the sky overcast and, other than several wrens chips and a few distant gull calls, very, very quiet.

I had toast and hot chocolate on the porch for breakfast and, when I saw two swans flying together upriver, started a bird survey. There were the five red-throated loons on the glassy inlet and several red-necked grebes out there to enliven things; I even took the spotting scope to the water's edge to confirm the latter. After that, I retreated inside and tried to light a fire. At first it went as usual, or maybe a little better as I'm improving my technique, but then it all went south. In addition to leaking out the door, smoke started leaking out of every joint in the smoke stack! Nothing at that point was coming out of the top of the chimney. What on earth was going on? All I could do was cease my efforts and open windows. I later read the instructions and it said that this was a symptom of inadequate air flow--which I had already figured out, but had blamed the design of the stove while they said it was the fault of the chimney. I suppose that makes sense, since it seems to have gotten worse since I got it, but I don't know what to do. I guess I'll try to clean the whole stack? It doesn't seem like I've used it enough to need it, but who knows. And that's a task for another year, so tomorrow I'll take it down whether I leave the next day or not and at least inspect the end of it.

In the meantime, I started my little buddy which faithfully ignited, then died and wouldn't start again. Uh oh. Gas maybe? Sure enough, the bottle was empty and, thankfully, I had two spares. I've always held the little buddy in reserve, but hadn't given it much attention; now I'm very thankful it works and that I had extra fuel. It started up right away and quickly warmed me up as I sat at the window, had some lunch, and filled in most of the green sections of my puzzle. At 1:30 or so, I suited up and finished harvesting the potatoes, filling up a cast net bucket with the new goods. Yesterday I'd put a tote and some firewood over the other two buckets, but this time I grabbed a tarp and covered all three to keep them from greening in the "sun". Then I did a few other errands and headed back inside, a little bit depressed. I suppose it's mostly the issue with the stove, and maybe the impending departure/close up chores, and the uncertainty of when I should leave. For now, both Saturday and Sunday call for 2' seas, as good as I could hope for, but Monday picks up a little and I'm afraid if I stay overnight on Saturday that the Sunday forecast may change as it did last weekend. It is starting to feel like fall here, but despite my obvious underlying exhaustion, I just don't feel ready to close up. Plus I keep knocking things over and spilling things, adding to my frustration. Maybe tomorrow will be better!

In the meantime, the back-to-back pre-mixed gin and tonics helped my mood considerably, and I finished the puzzle. I chopped up some vegetables and a bison steak for dinner, then headed out onto the even larger flats to pull the plug on the boat and drain the water out. While I worked on that. I walked with Cailey upriver, spying an eagle sitting on a mostly-submerged bar in the middle of the current eating something. I walked close to the edge of the flats to see what it was, but he was too far away and a gull was blocking the view. I have a feeling I know what it was though. On the way back, a huge coho head with a pronounced kype lay in a puddle. I wish I could fish and join in the harvest! The tides this week have been very poor for scavenger fishing, and I haven't had the motivation to try for myself.

In the garden I picked about half the rhubarb stalks and made a little sauce while dinner cooked--veggies and bison in a Korean BBQ sauce with toast. I watched a little television, washed the dishes, and headed over here to Hermit Thrush at 7:15 (the rain had dimmed the waning light and the lodge was already quite dark). I actually thought I'd need a flashlight, but made my way just fine. So now it's 8:00, water is hot for tea, and Cailey will get her pills with special treats in a few minutes.

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I watched a two-part X-Files until late and had trouble getting to sleep, but otherwise slept reasonably well despite my aching leg and shoulder pain. The rain had picked up again after we arrived and, by the time I was watching television, the rain was so loud I missed a few lines of dialog. It's now after noon the next day and it hasn't let up. The freshet stream is coursing along the base of the Schist House stairs and starting to wash over the bottom step. I packed and winterized Hermit Thrush (other than sweeping) before heading to the lodge with my first load, suited up, and was ready to get back at it, but Cailey had other ideas. She wanted to get outside and, since there was still beach exposed, I figured it might be best to go ahead and take her for a walk so she can rest better while I work. I could see that we wouldn't make it around the rocky point again, so instead of walking the beach and up the freshet, I took her back down the main trail, down across the freshet, up the Harbor Seal stairs, and down the edge of the creek. She was reluctant, and I had to coax her repeatedly for the first portion. We descended to the mouth of the creek, waded the rushing current, and headed upriver on a beach about ten feet wide. Cailey wasn't looking enthusiastic about it at all. I walked up to the sandy point downstream of the grassy point and turned around, discovering that the beach had mostly disappeared behind me and we had to cross shale for some sections. It was hard for Cailey to get back up the wet rocks into the forest and, in general, it not the greatest walk! I did notice that there was were tiny seas from upriver which didn't seem to be influencing the heavy rain and clouds--at least not yet.

On the way back, I picked up the blankets and linens from Hermit Thrush, put Cailey back inside and returned to Hermit Thrush with drill, line for the outhouse, and tinfoil. All suited up, I considered how working in the rain isn't so bad, especially as I was wearing only a dirty flannel and t-shirt under my raincoat and had dry everything back at the lodge. Then I stood under the eaves to remove the smoke stack and began to hum a different tune as the roof rain poured over me! Still, it went well enough. I finished winterizing the cabin, removed the water filters and covered the lids with tinfoil, and managed to carry the rugs and comforter in one load. Somewhere in there I also wrapped the line around the already-tarped outhouse, putting the plywood in front of the door to protect it as usual.

I tidied up the shed, tried to add gas to the generator but couldn't find the funnel, and inserted the canopy of my never-used grilling tent. Then I took down the lodge's smoke stack, which is where the unpleasantness of standing under the eaves became dire. It was easy to take down and I did notice a lot more creosote dripping down the outside than usual, and took a photo of the buildup in the inside section. I discovered that I'd used the usual piece of plywood for covering the smoke stack hole on the back porch protections, so pulled it off, used it to cover the hole, and replaced it with two other pieces, returning to the shed for extra nails. Finally, I did some other assorted projects like rinsing off the bottom two feet of the outhouse with water and a rag to remove all the mud that had splattered up, hoping the moss will reduce that in the future and figuring it would be better to leave it clean in the fall than let it dry over the winter. I also brought in the garden trellises and moved the mint to a preliminary winter position next to the wood stack.

Back inside, everything was chaos, so after removing all my wet gear, I tidied and organized, cleaned and swept, and a did some fall chores until, by 11:30, the lodge looked as clean as it will with all the linens stacked up to go, and I was ready for a break. I'd originally intended to have a pancake with rhubarb sauce for breakfast, but it was already noon and I was ready for lunch (I'd had a yogurt after our walk to help fuel up). I had a hot and delicious quesadilla and Pacifico at the front window with the little buddy heater warming the area and beginning to dry the insides of my rain gear. Unfortunately, it just died, and that was a whole canister of propane, so I will really need to be careful to use the second one sparingly. The forecast, which had called for 2' seas Saturday and Sunday, has 3' seas tomorrow, 2-3' Sunday, growing again into Monday. That was not my expectation, so I think I won't pull the lodge water system tonight, figuring it's more likely I'll leave Sunday rather than tomorrow, and I can always do it in the morning if needed. That's one thing in favor of the otherwise unhelpful tides this week!

I chased lunch with a delicious cup of Moroccan mint tea in front of the window, pretty content with the state of the day. I read and worked on things on my laptop for several hours, cozy on the couch while Cailey snoozed beside me, then prepped dinner before venturing out to drain the water in the boat. The rain hadn't lessened all day, torrential, briefly accompanied by wind off Gilbert Bay, but mostly not, the inlet fairly calm. I suited up in my secondary set of rain gear and found a decent amount of water in the boat. I left it draining at 5:10 and headed up to the water source, for the pipe had been washed out of the creek again. The water was raging so that I had to very carefully step into it and spent as little time there as I could, always in danger of missing a step and winding up in deep water. The hose's little canyon was still in place, so I used a handy stick with a rootwad to hook the hose and set it in place, then piled a few flat rocks on top and called it good. After all, if things went well, I intended to take it out in the next day or so. When I got back to the boat I was very surprised to find that the water was still steadily draining out, as the rain continued to steadily fall. I dug out a dry seat pad and sat down for a few minutes, mixed some fertilizer for the rhubarb that I'd left in the boat, got out and cleared some debris from the scupper, and stood around for some time longer. When it was still falling but with much less force, I closed it up and returned inside, changing into the third pair of pants for the day as the brief excursion had allowed the rain to soak through my gear. That is perhaps the bigger loss of not having fire--the inability to dry things out.

I made pancakes for dinner and ate a huge one with the rhubarb sauce by candle and lamplight. It was cozy, but I was feeling very uneasy about the never-ending rain and the poor prospects for escape. When I was finished, I turned a light on, which brightened things a bit, watched a bit of Heartland to warm me up, and then read until late. Whenever I sat or laid down on the downriver side of the couch, I smelled smoke strongly again, so wound up sleeping in the other direction with Cailey crashed on her big bed on the floor. I don't think she moved all night and I slept reasonably well too once I fell asleep (I think the lingering smoke was making my eyes itch).

I was up at 7:30 and, seeing the boat safe on the flats, felt a pleasant lack of need to get up and do anything. Still, I was out the door around 8:00 to once again drain the boat of water before the tide approached. I had sensed the rain diminishing in intensity, but found that it had stopped entirely once out of the range of the residual dripping from the boughs. I figured it was a good reason to go for a walk, that and the tide. I walked to the edge of the bars somewhat shy of the grassy point, not finding a partially-consumed coho as I'd hoped when an eagle flew away, then took mercy on poor Cailey and my overheated body (being bound in raingear) and headed back. Fording both the freshet stream and the hugely swollen creek had been a challenge for Cailey, and I took extra care to lead her through the shallowest sections of the latter on the way back so she didn't have to fight the current as much. Still, it was again uncomfortable for her on the slippery rocks. I wanted to check on the status of the "moat" as Ezra called the freshet stream along the bottom of the steps, so we headed up into the woods and along Hermit Thrush. The water was rushing, overflowing the bottom step, and I thought maybe I should take the loop trail instead to spare Cailey another crossing, but she gamely went ahead and wound up plunging chest-deep on the upper side of the stairs, poor thing.

Back at the boat I was pleased to find that it was fully drained, about half an hour after I had left it. There had been considerably more water inside over the 14.5 hours since I'd drained it last than there had been over the previous 20.5 hours. No wonder I'd felt a little anxious. The morning was only brightening up, so I had breakfast on the porch, a hot cup of decaf coffee, and a bird survey. The brown and swollen river wasn't attracting birds to the channel mouth as it had been, but I did see two horned grebes toward the inlet, a handful of gulls hung out on the flats as long as they were there, and a couple of common mergansers foraged through. I was hoping to hold on until a songbird other than a wren showed up and was delighted to have a beautiful orange-crowned warbler come by, perfect in every way. Just after I stopped the survey, so did two or three juncos--definitely two, but there was a third who flew across with them with white outer tail feathers, but a much shorter tail and maybe a shorter body, so I didn't log it. By then the rain had started again and we headed inside where I worked on the trail cameras to determine which were functioning and which batteries were dead. It took a surprisingly long time, but I found that two of three cameras were working and three sets of batteries were dead--two from cameras and one from a brand new box. I got the two good ones set up and, when the weather was again lightening up, took Cailey over to the downriver trail and set one there, returning immediately to clip down the vegetation more aggressively than I usually do to try to reduce false triggers. I also did the dishes, finding that the hose had washed out again, not surprisingly, scrubbed the stove top, filled the wood box, and did some more organizing for winter. I had soup for lunch, read a little bit, and am now catching up on more computer stuff. I'm all stocked up on water and hope to take advantage of another rain-less period to take out the water hose for the winter, wrap up the last of the valves, drain the grease trap, and finish all but last minute outdoor chores. It looks like everlasting rain right now though! Ezra says it's really blowing in Juneau, but it is again calm in here, the inlet calm, the water very high on the high tide. All day the forecast has called for 1-2' seas tomorrow, so I am hoping it holds before the forecasted gale comes in on Monday.

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Last entry (I hope!) from Snettisham this year. It's 11:00 am and I'm finishing a cup of mint tea at the picture window before I bring the porch couch in, stack everything that goes outside, eat the quesadilla I made last night (so I could wash the dishes, except the quesadilla cutter), and load up. I checked on the boat when I let Cailey out this morning, taking with me the first load of garbage and dog food, and decided it didn't have enough water to take the time to drain it. Rather than kayak out to the boat later, I let out a bunch of anchor line and drug the anchor high on the beach. About half an hour ago I went to use the outhouse for the last time, wrapping it up afterwards, then seeing that the tide was creeping up on the rocks where the anchor was, went ahead and pulled it all the way up to the end of the rocky path, doubling back several times to unhook the line from protruding rocks as it drug across the flats. Now the Ronquil is sitting calmly offshore waiting for us on a fairly calm inlet under pouring rain. I am truly weary of dealing with the drenching rain every time I go out. I'm on my second pair of pants today, the raingear I'd hoped would be dry at the time of departure now has wet cuffs because I was foolish enough to wear it to the outhouse, and from there to the boat (granted, my other rain jacket doesn't zip), and I've pulled out a third pair of pants for just before we leave, as I expect I'll get wet again.

The rain-less window I was hoping for yesterday afternoon never manifested, so at 3:40 with nothing else on the agenda, I suited up and headed upriver with tinfoil and WD-40. I struggled more than last year with securing the water line along the side of the creek because, with the high water, it was only a few inches above the edge of the water and the mesh filter had washed off in the last flood. Salmonberry bushes overhung the area closely and I was trying again to avoid the deep, rushing water in parts of the creek. I'm not very satisfied with the security of the rocks I laid upon it to keep it in place, but hopefully it'll work. I also wrapped some tinfoil around the top to hopefully help keep debris from entering the pipe, but I am a little worried about that.

From there I drained the water from Hermit Thrush and Harbor Seal cabins, tinfoiled their valves, oiled their doors and hinges, and said goodbye for the winter. On the way back, I opened the downriver cabin valve on the main line and watched most of it drain from the filters behind Cottonwood. I removed the filters from the back of the lodge, tinfoiled everything, then scooped up most of the water in the grease trap into a bucket and dumped it in the river, rinsing the bucket to use under the sink. Inside, I removed the faucet and unhooked the sink trap for the winter. That was an hour of work and I was very happy to again be in out of the rain. I worked on my Discernment and Search Committee meeting until 5:45 with my little buddy heater quickly doing away with my chill, and also beginning to dry the cuffs of my raincoat again, then had an amazing grapefruit G&T and read some science fiction (classic Arthur C. Clarke short stories). Eventually I heated up some Indian food and toast for dinner and curled up on the couch for a gratuitous bout of Heartland and another G&T in the cozy, cozy, fall lodge.

Since Cailey began the night on her end of the couch, I slept in the usual direction again, pleased that the smoke smell was somewhat diminished. It was a decent night of sleep, but I've been nonstop busy since then doing all the little last minute chores and tidying. It's going to be a big load home, crowding the boat I think, and looking at it now, I think I'm going to want to bail before we leave. I hope to stop by River Point on the way to set up the camera again--something I don't look forward to, but will be grateful for in the spring (I hope). Now I think it's time to put away the solar batter and start the porch loading...fingers crossed.

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Well, it was the last Snettisham log, thankfully (?). It's now almost exactly one week from my return to Juneau and I'm only now feeling up to writing about the journey home--partly from exhaustion, but mostly because it was the most traumatic boat ride I've ever taken. The forecast for 1-2' seas held through the morning and the inlet was calm from the Gilbert Bay direction, but I was troubled by the brisker-than-usual northerly coming down the river, pushing up little smooth swells down the river. "Please let me not encounter one of those odd Taku winds I sometimes find when taking a southeasterly home", I thought! It wasn't the last prayer I said that day by a long shot.

I was hoping for a pause in the rain for loading the boat, but nothing manifested. A little after noon, I started the loading process, beginning by setting up a dry tarp on the deck in front of the passenger seat and bringing down the solar battery box. From there I carried down all the other items I wanted dry, tucking each under a series of tarps until they were all secure, then following with items that could get wet, leaving only the dog blankets and a few other things on the porch and pumping the water out of the bilge between trips. When the final close up was done, I fetched Cailey and we boarded, the anchor now almost entirely under water from the 16+' tide. It was 1:00 pm.

I puttered downriver in the slightly diminishing rain, barely getting up to speed before we turned the corner and came ashore at River Point. The black sand beach was entirely flooded, so I tucked the anchor in the rocks and scampered over to the trail and into the forest, hastily setting up the camera on a tree a little farther down the path to avoid the grove of devil's club and other vegetation that might trigger it. By the time I came back, the rain had stopped, the inlet was brightening, and the seas coming down the river were evident, bending toward the entrance to the port. Please, no northeasterly, please.

The crossing to the entrance to the port was blissfully calm, but then a following sea took me toward Stephen's Passage, another sign that Taku Open might be kicking up. I was not optimistic about my prospects there, but there have been times when these signs haven't manifested in a Taku, and I didn't object to having a rare following sea as I left rather than the expected southeasterly slowing us down. Cailey, for her part, was laying down facing the bow, tucked under a blanket and the camo rain jacket and under the influence of four dramamine pills. And then, a bit beyond Mist Island, we abruptly hit those southeasterly seas and they did not look promising. It was so strange to encounter them so close to the entrance when normally I'd feel them just past Sentinel. Very abrupt and quickly building to two and three foot seas, already more than the forecast. The river, apparently swollen from the rain, sent its silty water far out down the entrance despite the rising tide and the regular spray splashing over my face from the seas told me when the water turned from fresh to salt--I had to stand to see and navigate. The seas seemed serious, and were surely larger out in the Stephen's Passage, and I considered whether turning around might be a good idea. But I really didn't want to. Closing up is always a big job, but the final close up is much bigger, and I had all the items that needed to be dry onboard that would need to be hauled back up, including the battery on the very bottom. And knowing that a serious gale was coming in that night meant it would be at least two more days. Plus I had that meeting the next day to go to, and surely once I got beyond the Seal Rocks it would lay down like it usually does...

It wasn't difficult riding in the trough between widely-spaced seas out into Stephen's Passage, but before long I realized my mistake. As I turned north, I found myself in series of four and five foot seas hurling obliquely toward the mainland. I quickly found that the best way to deal with them was to idle and let them raise me up onto their peak and wash beneath me, over and over again for several minutes until the big sets passed by, barely in control. By the time I was past Seal Rocks, I was terrified, but there was no turning back into those seas, and I prayed for safe passage into Limestone Inlet. I never moved very fast between the sets of big seas, but was able to make some progress in the interregnums, and the wind and seas helped propel me, creeping north a short distance before pulling back to an idle to let the swells pass in jaw-clenching terror, knowing that a poor decision could flood the boat.

As I labored beyond Seal Rocks, I thought the high tide had flooded the beach at Swimming Eagle Cove so thoroughly that I couldn't even make it out until I realized we were still some distance away, and I was in panic and despair. I was still standing up 90% of the time, my legs tense, only sitting for a couple minutes here and there to rest when the seas laid down a little. Eventually we reached the outside of Limestone Inlet and I considered my options. The conditions were terrible, and dangerous, but Limestone was not exactly an ideal refuge. We'd have to bring the boat on the beach and, without a tender, any departure would depend on the tide as the boat would be aground periodically. I know there's a big estuary in there, and there may be steeper beaches to camp on, but either way it would not be easy to check on the weather or leave when needed. And it would be at least two days before we'd try. We had food and camping gear, but...it didn't seem ideal, especially for my poor aging dog.

And so I made the decision to go on to Taku Harbor where there was a dock and even a public use cabin that, given the weather and the time of year, might even be available. If not, there were plenty of places to camp. And so we went on, hoping also that the seas would diminish as they often do beyond Limestone.  But they didn't, and it was awful, and scary. I gained a tiny bit of confidence every time I could make some progress in the smaller seas between the big sets, then returned to terror when they swept in. The worst moments were perching on top of a tall swell as a sudden gust raged past, dimpling the entire surface of the water and sweeping the tops of the waves into white caps. I had no business being out in that and it obviously wasn't laying down--had the gale simply come early? But we made it to Taku Harbor and then I faced another decision. Should I hole up for at least two days? Or, knowing that southeasterly seas always diminish after the craziness of Grave Point, should I let them take me home? Could I survive the seas at Grave Point which, for reasons I have yet to fathom, are always at their next-to-worst in that area? I asked for guidance and received a clear direction to try for Juneau, rather to my surprise. And so I passed my safe haven and entered the horror of the Grave Point crossing which was at least mercifully short, if I questioned my sanity for trying it at the time. But we were making surprisingly good time, considering, and as soon as I could navigate, I rushed toward the little point beyond Grave which I hoped might give us some shelter from the seas. Oh, what a joy it was to find ourselves in the lee of that little point, cruising north at speed for the first time since the port. It was such a relief, right up until we reached the next point and I was spit back into the seas.

They were better there, manageable, the sets of curling 4-5 footers but three footers then, awkward, but no longer terrifying. It was worst as we passed the northern tip of Grand Island and I gazed with longing at Point Arden where it should lay down further. But at least I was out of the real danger, provided my engine continued to run so beautifully. But again I was wrong. My engine DID run beautifully (thankfully), but that northeast wind I was so worried about was in fact blowing briskly out of the Taku and, as I got close to Arden, collided with the southeasterly I was riding. I had stopped worrying about a Taku since being so utterly engulfed in the strong southeasterly, but first I began to see that not all the seas seemed to be coming from behind me and then I was in a nightmare of almost-standing waves two to three feet high with seas coming from behind and off my starboard bow, a chaotic horror that bounced me around. At times it was like a slalom course between the seas, my bow too low in the water, risking flooding from the tall waves to either side. I'm not sure if I was more scared there than in the larger seas, but I spent a lot of breath in prayers for survival as the spray sloshed over me, longing for the respite of Point Bishop. Poor Cailey, too.

There's not much more to say but that we did make it through. In the distance, one whale after another blew, and I laughed when we finally fell into the lee of Bishop and the worst was behind us (not bitterly, but perhaps a bit ironically). Here was a Stephen's Passage Group-Up, but one that I was certainly not going to linger for. At least eight whales were feeding in the northwest side of the Open (I'd also seen a couple of others earlier in the trip) and one came directly in front of us such that I had to veer aside as I passed. Meanwhile, in the distance, the welcome sight of Juneau disappeared in dense rain. I stopped just inside Gastineau Channel to use the bucket, grateful that Cailey stood up only briefly and soon laid down again without disrupting her coverings. The rain began to pummel us after that and I threw a convenient blanket over the top of her. Amazingly, nothing had fallen or scattered during the ride as they usually do except for Cailey's water dish that immediately spilled once we boarded (but it wasn't a ride for casual drinking anyway). The rain pelted us, thoroughly soaking the boat as we gratefully sped up the channel on what had turned into a gentle following sea. My baseball hat had flown into the river on the way out of Snettisham (recovered but soaking wet) so I dug out my sun hat and wore that for some protection on the way in. Two hours and 50 minutes from departing River Point, I pulled into the boat house, silent and a little traumatized. Ezra loaded up two cartfuls of gear (there's still a cartful or so on the boat) and we limped our way up. After a shower, I did my best to dispel the effects of the ride with a Bullwinkle's pizza, ice cream, and Heartland for the rest of the night. It took me several days before I felt somewhat recovered, and longer before I felt like writing this. Probably to most small boaters in Juneau it would have been no big deal, but it was for me, and for my boat. It was certainly outrageous for someone who won't even go out when it's a little uncomfortable anymore!

The end of our fine weather went out with a subtle flourish