There, and Back Again

Bilbo’s book – the title so succinct – how much lies in between “There” , and “Back Again”!! 

As I sit in the sunshine on the back deck, safely home again in Montana, the events of summer are already feeling like the aftermath of an intense movie I watched somewhere – profoundly moving, but now safely insulated from present reality.  We made it home.

Everybody we see has asked, “How was it? How’d you do?”  Weirdly enough, we ended the season with a very optimistic outlook.  This year we became indebted to a degree we’ve never been – so many tangible and intangible kindnesses and assistance received – my lesson for the year has been one of humility.  I don’t like to admit I need help of any sort, and over and over again, others have seen our needs and helped in so many ways.  If you read this and can see yourself in any measure being one of those, thank you from the bottom of our hearts.  In fact, just reading this account helps more than you know!!

We put in the new engine, worked thru the accompanying problems, upgraded our rigging, hayrack, and gurdies.  Not a small undertaking by any standards, and poor planning on my part lost us the first month of the king/coho prime time.  That hurt.  Weather seemed to hammer us over and over, cutting fishing time by 30 percent at least.  Fish were smaller, even the biologists were publicly pondering the fact on the radio before we left; the schools were smaller and more scattered.  I heard all these complaints numerous times, from numerous sources as we waited for our plane ride out.  So, financially, the season was a bust.  Can’t wait to do the books… 

The weird part – the optimism?  The boat runs great!  the rigging works fantastically! Gurdies – wow! New places to fish – cool!  New species to target next year – yes!  All these things somehow cancelled out the negatives, and leave us with that farmer-style hope for next year, should that be on our path.  Meanwhile, it’s survival mode in Montana for the winter – anyone need diesels rebuilt, fish cleaned, songs sung, or stories written? Will work for food…!

Time – such a blur.  One day in Hoonah, Lovie was talking about something that would happen, and she asked, “What day is this?”  I told her it was Saturday, and she, very startled, looked at me with wide eyes and with panic in her voice, said “WHAT HAPPENED?”  Somewhere, somehow, Thursday and Friday had slid right off her charts, and she thought it was Wednesday.  Yeah, back to the land of cell coverage, internet, calendars, cars… 

Gotta love it all.  Stay tuned!

Excursion Inlet, to Sitka – Lovie’s Version

Lovie read my last post, and decided that I just didn’t project the full intensity of the night.  Here, in her words, are the events, as well as some comments about the trip home to Sitka.

Bad, Ugly, and Terrifying!

The details that need filling in to the Excursion Inlet / Peril Straits Run.

I hate to sleep in my yucky, smelly fish-gurry coated clothes as it will ruin my sleeping bag and I’ll have to smell it for 2 months.  So, I sleep in sweats, commonly made of cotton or as called in Alaskan Survival Schooling, “Death Cloth”. 

The irritating bumping sound that woke us at 2 a.m. – I just snuggled deeper into my warm cocoon as the boat is chilly even with the oil stove going as you have to leave windows open for ventilation.  My thought was “Aaahhh! Reubin’s taking care of it..” and next it’s “Get your life jacket on, the dock is breaking up!” 

I looked out the door to water rolling and breaking over the boards and Reubin jumping from the heeled-over boat, running and pounding on Steve’s door.   Got his boat started and cast off and ran back to ours. 

I jumped into my ExtraTuffs to keep from slipping and started undoing the stern line.  We’d tied up with 4 ropes because of the tidal current.  We’d bought a new bow rope earlier which we thought was too long but it’s saved our necks a few times already.  Reubin looped it under the cleat and back to the bow for me to hold.  I’d grabbed an additional sweatshirt and my raincoat as it’s always pouring even in pitch dark.  The far side of the dock broke loose as Steve barely cleared it and our boat.  Out into the middle of the (River!) he headed, up to find an anchor spot as he’d been there before.  

Our GPS didn’t come up right away, so I shivered with teeth chattering, hanging on to the end of the rope as the dock swung downstream with us still on it.  Thank goodness the other side of the pilings held.  Reubin had our engine running and looking at the depth sounder as we’d swept from 17 fathoms to 2 fathoms; our boat is 6 feet deep in the water – 1 fathom!  Afraid we’d hit the bank he hollered into the wind, “OK, cut her loose!”  We could barely see Steve’s light in the driving rain but he’d anchored by then and we aimed upstream to tie up – jazzed by adrenaline, which we have been several times in this occupation.

 

 

The Peril Straits trip home…….

We had to keep driving 13 hours, into the dark night to hit tides right for making Sergius Narrows at 6 a.m.  We were following Kirk and Jason as it got dark, seeing the blinking lights of beacons from one rocky point to the next.  Red beacon, green beacon, white beacon, 3-second flash, 1-second flash, as marked on charts so you know where you’re at. 

Night is not fun as our old windows glare something fierce from the computer and radar screens.  Someday we hope to get modern anti-glare windows and a high-pressure sodium floodlight so you can see logs before you hit them in the dark. 

From 7:30 p.m. to 1 a.m. we drove on in the night to a safe anchorage just before the Narrows so we could make the tide right.  As it was, it changed extra fast and we were 15 minutes late and having to buck it, but we plowed through and kept an ear out for the Ferry coming through so it didn’t run us over.  Tonnage has the right of way…!  Let them know you are there – sometimes they can’t see a little fishing boat 4o feet below their decks.  We pulled out and let it (Fairweather) go by at Olga Strait.  Seeing the glimpses of Sitka through the mountains was a relieving sight!

Sitting on the Dock of the Bay

“I sleep so much better tied to a dock than on anchor…”  Steve said as we tied to the section of cannery dock in Excursion Inlet.  Some things just shouldn’t be said, especially in the dark, on a tide-swept inlet, in the rain, 20 miles from the nearest civilization.  Our nightmare was about to begin.

After our migration to Icy Strait, our weather problems changed a great deal.  The weather cycles that hit us regularly on the outside coast continued, but their impact diminished a great deal with the absence of the coastal ocean swell.  A blow that would shut us down for 3 days on the Outside as we waited for the seas to calm would only take one day Inside, then back to nice waters and fishing again.  Granted the fishing wasn’t quite as good; rather spotty schools of coho resulting in lower daily averages than out in the Sound, but the trade off seemed worth it.  It seemed that the larger fish were to be found about an hour and  a half across Icy Strait from Hoonah, on an empty stretch called Homeshore.  Most of the fish taken from Icy Strait this summer were hooked along this section of coast, and it continued to produce fish as the summer ended.  Unfortunately, there is no protected anchorage along the coast if it blows, so the alternatives are the run back to Hoonah, or try to find a spot Northwest in Excursion Inlet.
We were tired of the small fish and low numbers on the Hoonah side, so we went to Homeshore when conditions were right.  On September 13, the forecast was for wind - East 25 knots shifting to Northeast  30 knots overnight, with 5 foot seas and continuing winds on the 14th.  This meant the Hoonah side would  be unfishable, but the Homeshore side, while rough, would have enough shelter to make it possible.  If any last runs of fish were to be had, it would be under these conditions.  The thought of a possible rough night on anchor if the wind shifted just a tad Southeast bothered me, but so did the thought of another day tied to the dock at Hoonah, not fishing.  Tensions were high on our boat as we discussed the options (read “yelled at each other!).  Kirk and Troy had opted to stay at Hoonah; Steve was going across to look for fish.  We finally decided to go for it and follow Steve.  After the crossing, it was obvious the wind and seas were picking up.  Four or five other boats were anchored in the small spot that usually provided protection.  Only the Ebb Tide and the True North were fishing in the short, ugly chop.  By dark, we had four fish on board, hardly worth the effort. 
As we passed the anchored boats for the last time, I was cleaning the last fish in the pit.  I carefully cut the entrails into small portions and threw them overboard every 30 seconds or so.  Clouds of hungry seagulls swarmed out to the boat, giving the illusion of me cleaning a large number of fish.  I knew there were several sets of binoculars watching as we passed the boats, and I could just hear the skippers thinking “That’s a lot of gulls; boy, we missed out on the bite this evening!!”  We find amusement in small ways out here…!
Steve pulled his gear in, and we headed toward Excursion Inlet in the twilight.  After an hour of travelling, we could see the lights of the dormant cannery in the distance.  Tidal currents from the ebbing tide swirled us one way and another – a lot of water forces in and out of this fjord-like waterway every day, so one must constantly be attentive to steering.  At last we drew alongside the huge pilings for the dock.  During the peak of season, a long dock area is heavily used by tenders, seiners, and trollers to offload or tie up overnight.  Now, with the operation in the process of mothballing, only one section of dock remained, a piece about 60 feet long by 20 feet wide.  Tidal current made the tie-up process a little tricky, but we managed to get secured to the dock, and Steve made his famous comment about sleeping better.  I was a little worried about the current, so tied an extra spring line to help us stay put.  We had a cup of tea, and crawled into our bunks, glad to be done for the day.

About 2 am, I was awakened by an unusual “bump,bump” noise on the hull.  I groggily thought I should go out and check out the source.  As I crawled out of the bunk, I just about fell over.  The boat was heeled at a 20 degree angle, far greater than I had ever seen it.  Wide awake now, I opened the door on a frightening scene.  We were in a whitewater river of rushing water, with waves rising over the upstream side of the dock at over 5 kph by my estimation.  The boats were straining their mooring ropes to an incredible tautness and were heeling over due to the water rushing against the deep keels.  I immediately yelled to Lovie to don her life jacket and get clothed for action, then did so myself.  As I watched, wondering what it was all about, there was a loud splintering noise from the opposite side of the dock – the water was literally ripping the huge timbers in two, tearing the dock loose from its’ mooring – and we were tied to it!
I leaped over the two foot gap of rushing water to land on the wet, slippery dock section, and ran up to Steve’s boat.  I flung the door open, and screamed to him “We’ve got to go!  The dock is breaking loose!”  You can imagine what that does to a good sleep – but good sailor that he is, he was instantly out the door assessing the situation.  He immediately started his engine, and we cast his lines loose.  As he moved away, the dock completed its breaking and swung around downstream.  True North was running by then, and untied except for a looped bow line.  As the dock swung around, I saw that the other end was tied fairly well, and that it wasn’t going anywhere immediately.  I had Lovie hold the line that held us to the dock, as it seemed prudent to remain attached to a known position rather than drift downstream while Steve tried to maneuver his way to a clear spot.  As the torrent continued to move the dock around, I began to fear it would  come loose and force us into shallow water alongside, possibly grounding or capsizing us.  We let go, and drifted clear. 
Jogging midstream in the dark, we watched Steve’s navigation lights as he searched for a suitable anchorage.  He finally settled on a site about 20 fathoms deep, and set his anchor with a lot of scope (scope is the total amount of line between anchor and boat; more scope is better, if possible.)  He called us on the VHF, and we carefully proceeded over to tie alongside.  Needless to say, we were all a bit wired up due to the adrenaline rush, so Lovie made hot cocoa as we relived the experience.  I put my GPS chart plotter tracking system on to see if our anchor was dragging, and began the watch for the remainder of the night.  Steve went to  catch a few winks of sleep; Lovie drowsed in and out, and I carefully watched shore lights and computer as the current slowly subsided.  What was really weird – the torrent that broke the dock was rushing OUT of the inlet – at peak flood tide, when the current should be doing exactly the opposite, flooding IN to the inlet.  What happened?  We still don’t know, but suspect a glacier calving, small earthquake, ice dam breaking due to the heavy rains; maybe we’ll never know.

At daybreak we headed down to Homeshore, for a rousing fish score of ZERO.  That was the first time this season that Steve and us both got skunked.  The weather had increased, beating us up more than our lack of sleep could take.  We finally pulled gear and eased our way across the Strait, a ninety minute trip of short 5 foot chop.  That night, tied to a more secure dock at Hoonah, we went to bed at 7:30; at 6:30 the next morning, we awoke to a beautiful day.  Kirk had analyzed the weather report and told us we had a two day window of good weather to make it back to Sitka, if we left on the morning tide change.   Not a problem!  We sold our puny catch, filled up with ice for ballast, and Jager and True North headed out on the 11 am flood.
We travelled the whole day and arrived at the mouth of Peril Straits at dark.  In order to clear Sergius Narrows on the morning tide change, we had to continue on for another 6 hours to anchor at Goose Bay.  Kirk had some floodlights that let him dodge logs, so we got right on his stern and followed.  At 1:30 am, we anchored.  Six a.m., off again to slide thru Sergius at about 7 knots.  A 3 hour stint fishing in Salisbury in hopes of picking up a few fish to bring home resulted in a catch of 3 – so, on to Sitka.
We made it just in time; last night the weather turned – it blew gusts of 65 knots here, with seas building over 28 feet just offshore, and worse predicted for the rest of the week.  A few days of preparation, and we should be able to head back to Montana.  Mixed feelings.  Dock should be a little more stable there, if nothing else.

Fish on.

Two Minute Warning

“Anybody listening?  Jager? True North? Anybody??”  The words carried an urgency that caused me to leave the pit where I was pulling gear with a leap, to run to the wheelhouse and grab the radio mic.  Steve’s voice, usually cool and well modulated, like the radio announcer he is, was pitched a little higher than usual; something unpleasant was happening.  “I’m in South Inian Pass, and I blew the tide.  We’re in the Washing Machine, taking water over bow and stern.  If I don’t contact you in two minutes, you know what to do!”  Well, that was a bit of a problem.  As mentioned before, South Inian is one of the places you don’t mess around with.  When the tide ebbs, it collides with any ocean swell at 12+ knots, and the result is a chaotic jumble of water, often not survivable.  I’m told that there are 58 recorded deaths in South Inian Pass; our first venture through last year sure got my attention.  The story Steve told us later in the week only adds to the air of deadly respect mariners have for the two mile stretch of water. 

Fishing a larger boat this year, he was able to hire a couple of deckhands, two girls he went to school with.  One of the hands had to get back to Sitka, and a tender from Sitka was sitting inside Icy Strait, preparing to return and unload.  Arrangements were (hastily!) made to rendezvous and transfer the passenger for a ride back home.  Several boats had already made the jump to the Inside (as we call Icy Strait, opposed to Outside which is Cross Sound and the outer coast) at the correct time, the beginning of the flood tide.  If you wait until the beginning of the ebb, you are in trouble.  The last minute decision to meet the tender put Steve at the last possible moment to attempt the Pass.  The message we heard tells the result – he was caught at the decisive moment.  The three previous days had been spent tied to the dock in the Cove, along with most of the other boats, waiting out one of the seemingly endless storms we’ve had this year.  Lovie and I had ventured out into Cross Sound to fish, and were fishing in some large ocean swells generated by the storm.  The combination of a large ebb tide and large ocean swells is not one that boded well for Steve.  He decided to gamble on the run, and made a start.  Once he committed, the currents and waves were chaotic; after about two minutes, he knew he was in for a ride.  It was as if the whole thing exploded – he looked out and his stern was completely under water.  A glance out the front showed a similar situation on the bow.  Waves slammed him from all sides simultaneously, and a porthole window blew out.  All the gear on his deck was washed off, including his pit cover.  He reached for the mic, and made the call.  There is nothing anyone else can do for you in this situation.  We began to pull our gear, watching the clock.  If he didn’t call, we would call the Coast Guard and begin to patrol across the 2 mile stretch at the mouth of the Pass, looking for floating debris and survivors.  Connley, fishing about 45 minutes away on the Inside, got on the radio, also ready to pull gear and run down to do what he could.  Steve just pointed the Ebb Tide up against the ebb, put the throttle to full, and went.  He told his deckhands to be ready to get wet; just grab something and hold on to the boat when it went, because there is no way anyone would find them if they were separated from the vessel.  The wooden boat most likely would not sink for a while, but would be totally awash, giving some safety to the crew.  He was a bit worried about planking above waterline; a trip on the grid a couple of weeks before had confirmed that the below waterline wood was in good shape,  but the upper section needed quite a bit of work.  This doesn’t help the worry factor, either! 

An eternity later, he made progress into a calmer section of water.  We all breathed a big sigh of relief.  Standing at the dock here in Hoonah yesterday, we noticed a repetitive pumping of the bilge; a seam has opened up somewhere, but for now his pumps keep up.  He has a big rework planned for the winter, and will fix it then.

We made the plunge a couple of days later, along with Kirk and Jason on the Jager – we carefully timed the tide, and made it without incident.  Even on a decent day, the swell and tide made for a very confused sea, but we wallowed our way through with no problem.  I made a short video that I’ll try to get on YouTube; it really doesn’t do justice to the feeling of being there! 

Link To Video - South Inian Approach

 

Inside – we’ve spent a week here fishing out of Hoonah; weather is a lot nicer here, only a couple of days stormed in, and flat calm the rest.  The fishing, for us, has not been hot.  We’ve barely caught enough to cover food and gas, but we feel like we have to keep trying until season ends on September 20.  If we don’t pick up a few more, we plan to fish our way on around to Peril Strait, up to Salisbury Sound, and then to Sitka at the end of season.  Hopefully we will catch enough to get a plane ticket back to Montana for the winter!  Not our finest year, financially. 

Friends to fish with are one of the bright spots.  A storm coincided with Labor Day, so we had a cookout in the blowing rain, rafted with the gang at the docks at Hoonah.  Steve cooked burgers and pork ribs; potato salad, beans, brownies, cinnamon rolls, and hot coffee.  Not too bad for a blustery evening, at the end of summer.

I had a revelation this morning; Lovie and I were consoling each other with the fact that we had each other, and we’ve had quite an adventure together.  I commented that it wasn’t necessarily fun, but it was definitely adventure.  I just realized – Lewis and Clarke, Shackleton, Peary; all wonderful adventures to read about, but probably not to be considered “fun”.  Fun and adventure only go together at Disneyworld, where the illusion of mortal peril can be invoked to adventure level, yet in the background of one’s mind there is the understanding that the danger is minimal and the duration is short.  In 15 minutes, we’ll have cotton candy and watch the puppets,  along with 10,000 other people.  It’s awfully hot on the asphalt today, isn’t it?  What’s for dinner? 

Adventure is different, folks.

Fish on.