January 1, 1998

Martha Gets a Boat

It did not look good. Fifteen knots of steady SW breeze, working against the tail of the flood, roiling the waters off the Refuge ramp, pushing chop and froth along the channel. But, there stood Martha, looking hopeful, just-completed Pygmy Coho on the gravel, in the drizzle and wind. Hi, there, nice to meet you face-to-face, finally. Boat looks nice. What do you think about this weather? Yeah, I believe those folks in the Jocassee and the two Kiwis setting out are in for a surprise when they get around the corner into the wind! Well, give us a chance to get organized, and by then maybe George will have shown up.

Fifteen minutes later, there's George, Solstice on his pickup, grin on his mug, jaws already beginning some ribald joke. OK, we'll get loaded up and see what the weather does. (The wind picks up; the Jocasse and the Kiwis are joined by a canoe, ferrying Scouts and adults back and forth across the channel.) Hell, if they can do it, so can we!

Another half hour passes, and the boats are packed with slippery-wet gear. We shove off, Martha marvelling at the stability of her new craft, as we admire her handiwork. Into the breeze, to the edge of the point, grasping pickleweed. OK, let's sit here a while and see. Ten minutes later, I think the wind has dropped. Let's go! Yup, definitely a break. Martha is not so sure, but her boat surges ahead, like a new bird dog.

Half an hour later, we are around High Point, out on the exposed water, and there is so little chop we giggle and grin at our luck! For once, the weatherman was right -- front passed through right on schedule! The Kiwis and Jocasse are pulled up on shore at Pinnacle Rock CG, drying off, pitching tents, as we glide by. Martha in the lead, now, spotting loons and gadwalls.

Sandspit CG is an hour away across a smoothing sea, and abandoned as we slide ashore on cobbles. Clouds are lifting. Nobody here except tons of elk sign -- have they been eating beach grass? Tents go up, tarp pops over the decrepit picnic table, and ... the eating begins! Martha stands open-mouthed: Don't you guys ever stop eating? (We notice she has no trouble keeping up.) Time to laze around and listen to her stories of the Harris's hawk -- falconing the hedgerows down in the Willamette Valley for voles, mice, and the occasional rabbit. Wind drops to nothing, and the Bay empties, bringing gulls and herons to walk the muddy edges, sneaking the odd fingerling or clam or worm into their gullets. More loons in the distance, mournful. A redtail buzzes overhead, and warblers (Martha's specialty) flit in the brush at campside, chasing dying berries and insects.

The Scouts arrive on foot, some five-plus miles of road-walking from their put-ashore point, adults eying our beer, and pitch tents just above the high-water mark. George tells them stories of floating away in the night, and we admire their naivete.

Stir fry, tabouli, pasta salad, and cookie (crumbles -- victim of intense hatch-packing). Martha: Don't you guys every stop eating? (She is slowing down.) A fire from abandoned 2 x 4's smolders to life, the cord holding the lantern up melts, sending it to the deck, still lit, and more stories of the hawk follow.

Becky has a rough night, the beginning of what will turn out to be a two-day struggle with sinus pain. We eat fried potatoes and smokies as day creeps over the bluff behind us, and George whomps up more granola than a horse would eat. Slow morning, while Becky sleeps off the pain, and we gather gear quietly. By eleven, the Bay is getting full again and all is ready but her tent, so we roll her out into a camp chair onto the gravel, and shake the dew off.

The Scouts head out, walking the shoreline to Smokey Hollow, intending a visit to the Grove of Ancient Cedars enroute back to civilization and a stop at the Astoria Mac Shack, their reward for putting up with the adults for a weekend.

Launching onto lake-calm waters, we head south, reversing yesterday's paddle with a difference: our Folbot double has only one paddler: me. But that's OK, George and Martha are content to dawdle and gab as I punch away at the water. More loons, singing in the distance. Surfbirds on foot-square chunks of rock, peeping as we creep up on them, finally bursting into flight. Around the Point, across the southern end of the island to the ramp, fighting a little head-current. The Kiwis and the Jocassee are loading up as we hit the ramp. Becky drifts in and out of consciousness, and finally rolls out of the boat onto shore, walking to the pickup and assuming a head-back position on the passenger side. A couple in a Nautiraid slip ashore nearby -- and tell of their sweet night amidst a herd of grazing elk on the east side of the island. I admire the 10-year-old boat, wooden longerons and wooden frames holding the hull out.

Martha's boat still looks gorgeous, and none the worse for the wear. She thinks she will build another, maybe a stripper this time. She can't figure out how to fill her spare time unless she has a project. I'd say she should deepen her relationship with this boat, and not flit off to a new one. We make plans to go watch the hawk hunt in a couple weeks, hoping to get in some paddling on Tahkenitch Lake.

Yeah, Martha got a boat. We notice she pats it a little after loading it on top of the pickup, to return to Waldport. The boat wags its stern with affection. We think she will keep it.
---
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR

Copyright 1998 by Dave Kruger.
May not be reproduced or redistributed without author's permission.
Republished here with permission.