Biding Time
With the skiff up on-step we were making good time. I angled into the wake of a passing jet boat. I knew that once we got passed the last fish wheel there would be no more traffic. We would have the river to ourselves just the way I like it.
The steady decline of the Alexander Creek salmon fishery coupled with the rising price of gas has cut lower Susitna riverboat traffic almost entirely. Almost. The last ten miles of river, flowing into Cook Inlet are essentially our own.
We rounded a familiar corner. I was sad to notice that the dilapidated trapper cabin was gone. We knew it was doomed last year as the river slowly gouged the bank from under it. The churning Susitna waters carve its will and way Indiscriminately. Changing what once was into swept-away forever is the order of the river. Powerless, we are but spectators and riders of the great glacial melt-off.
The tiny sod-covered cabin was cool. A snapshot to a different time, it sparked my imagination and adventuresome spirit. I liked to think that Shem Pete took shelter in it during his travels between Tyonek and the old Susitna Station almost a century ago. Or maybe Dr.Frederick Cook in his quest for McKinley stopped in to check it out as same as we have. “ Look”, I pointed where the cabin had been. “ It’s gone”. My eyes still searched for it though as we skirted by the mess of cottonwood trees that had also been sucked into the current.
We were making good time. The high tide at fish camp was at 8:30 it was important to be there on time. Unloading the boat is much easier when you don’t have to hump it up the muddy bank. It was almost 8 O’clock now. Perfect. The next few days we would set up camp. We planned to fish too if the weather cooperated. After setnetting for almost thirty years now, one of the most important things we’ve learn is when not to fish.
At fish camp, the prevalent winds come from the southwest. Stronger southeast winds spill down Turnagain arm sometimes too. Both winds can build large dangerous breakers on the shallow mud flats. I was relieved that the forecast called for calm weather. Although we weren’t fishing today, we would still have to cross Cook Inlet waters to reach our camp on Ivan River.
Morning trips are the best. I wondered if we might see a bear this morning. There was that familiar crispness in the air conducive to bear activity, but it wouldn’t last by the looks of it. The sun was already peering over the trees casting its horizontal rays onto the river. Near the far bank, the sun revealed a curtain of cottonwood seedlings floating high into the air. From this far away it looked much like snow but the seedlings seem to stay suspended in the air. Summer snow.
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| Great shot from crewman ArtMannix |
“Are we there yet?” Hazelee peered her nose out from under her layers. Like Ralphie’s little brother in “A Christmas Story” she was bundled from head to toe, a tight life jacket completed her ensemble and her snug-fit into the camp chair.
“Not yet Haze, we’re going to stop into Tide Creek first.” Slowing down, I pointed the skiff into the tiny amber colored creek. The creek drains a handful of surrounding marshes and spills unassumingly into the lower river delta. To the casual observer it’s just a slough. For us it’s a sanctuary.
Our self-proclaimed Tide Creek is staging area for our fishing efforts. Here we collect ourselves before hauling a load up river. On big fish days when our boats and nets are packed with thousands of pounds of salmon, and the tide is rushing out from under us, we know that if we can just make it to Tide Creek we can sort it all out. From here we can always make it up-river no matter the stage of the tide. Below this point the river becomes too shallow at low tide. Today we refueled, and dropped off some gas.
With the load adjusted and the kids back in their places, I powered up gaining speed in the tiny creek. We squirted back out of the little creek like a watermelon seed back into the silty waters of the Su. We had descended the river and were nearing its mouth. The river fans out into many braids here that span over five miles wide.
The mouth is a sight to behold. The tall stands of cottonwood and aspen give way to the mudflats. The grasslands dominate the geography here mingling and sharing their space with reams of twisting driftwood logs and stumps that line the banks like petrified guardians of the river. The eagles perch on the highest of these drifts waiting for something, watching. The gulls are seemingly everywhere. Long bands of the purple lupine run along the bank. Just then I noticed a quartet of pintail were matching our speed and zipped along with us; together we head out into Cook Inlet. The water was flat and I knew now that we would be there soon unloading the boat and falling into all the other usual fish camp duties and rhythms. This made me happy and I was excited to have my family with me to share it with.
“ Hey guys look, the seals!” I pointed to what looked like just another pile of drift. I knew better. Eight seals muddling on a thin sandbar were resting and squirming and soaking up some early rays. A few of them wiggled themselves off and into deep water as we scooted by. Their perfectly round heads bobbed around waiting for us to leave. Once we pass I knew they would worm their way back to the sandbar again. The promise of the warm sun would be too much to resist.
Around the next point we came upon a pod of Belugas whales. Their smooth white backs rolled as they surfaced near the boat. A calf rolled next to its mother in unison. “What are they doing?” Corey asked as he scanned the water for more sightings.
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