Don't Give Up

Hang in there.   Don't stop looking for new posts.  

I was called out of town suddenly and as soon as I get caught up on some chores aro

und the homestead, I'll be back with a post showing you why and what.

Serendipity and Closing Doors

On a bright, sunny, and very cold day, Serendipity opened a door on silken hinges and invited me in.  Then, she held me in her embrace by summoning the easterly winds, bringing their 40 mph gusts and rollicking the seas, making my exit through that same door impossible for another day.   I could not have chosen a better place to be stranded by weather.

Serendipity arranged for me to be in the company of friends in Halibut Cove, a small, picturesque, and somewhat remote hamlet across Kachemak Bay from the town of Homer, which is itself located at the southern end of the road system on the Kenai Peninsula.

 

The Homer Spit, a long gravel bar projecting into Kachemak Bay.   My journey took me to the far side of the bay and to the left.

I had no plans to go to the cove when I began the 130-mile drive to Homer earlier in the day.  Instead, I was driving to visit a friend who was hospitalized.   I planned to return home directly after that visit.

Hoar frost covers trees along the Kenai RIver in Cooper Landing.

During the drive, I made a couple calls to wish others a happy Thanksgiving Day, and one of those calls went straight through Serendipity, who routed it to the friend I had dialed, who immediately invited me to her home.

The RUssian Orthodox Church at Ninilchik.

I hesitated.   It’s not an easy thing to get to the cove.   Instead, on this day our nation set aside to share with others and give thanks, the husband of the house warmed the cabin and engines of his catamaran-hulled boat and plowed his way to the small boat harbor where I waited.

I do not use the word “plowed” lightly, because that is exactly what we did on the return trip to the cove.   I swear the waves and swells were deep enough to make the boat seem to scrape bottom at times.   I almost fell out of my seat several times and had to brace one foot against the interior bulkhead and wrap an arm around the back of the chair I tried to occupy.



 

The cabin of my friend's boat, the Far Side.

The Far Side in Halibut Cove.

Sunrise color across the bay.

It’s funny how things happen.  Just a few days before I thought how much I missed them and Halibut Cove and opening the door for Geri the cat.   And here I was, joining them for Thanksgiving dinner and turning 76 years of age shortly after 6 o'clock.

The winds ruled on Friday and I smiled about being trapped in a slice of paradise.

A sea otter hauls out in Halibut Cove.

My private quarters at Halibut Cove.

Geri, ruler of the house.

The view from the front deck.

Saturday morning, my passage back across Kachemak Bay would not be on my friend’s boat, but on the venerable Storm Bird,* a 65-foot former Army T boat with a 17.7-foot beam, licensed to carry 49 passengers and freight.   This steel-hulled boat, often called “the boat that built Halibut Cove,” ignored the waves in the bay, and, in less than an hour, I was in my pickup and pointed north towards home.

Jay maneuvers the Storm Bird into the small boat harbor.

The Storm Bird tied up in the Homer Small Boat Harbor.

I stopped by the hospital again before I left town, knowing full well that there would be no conversation.    The meds have taken that from her.   Instead, I held her unresponsive hand, said my silent goodbyes and thanks for her friendship, and left before tears kept me from finding my way out.



As I drove home, I realized that Serendipity had stopped a door from closing forever, so that I might slip through for a moment of grace.

Many sea otters, like this one and her pup,  have taken refuge from the high seas and are feeding in the protected waters of Halibut Cove.

A Steller's jay waits for breakfast in Halibut Cove.

*    For information on the remarkable Storm Bird:
http://www.mxak.org/community/stormbird/stormbird.html

The Herons of Halibut Cove

I pulled over to the shoulder on the long downhill slope to the “End of the Road,”  as the City of Homer bills itself.  There are many “ends of the road” communities in Alaska, primarily because of its paucity of roads and also because all but one side of this huge state, the one that abuts Canada,  end at salt water.

Kachemak Bay with the Homer Spit extending into it.  The small boat harbor is the thick portion at its end.

This end of the road was Homer, the farthest you can drive on the Kenai Peninsula south of Anchorage.  My immediate destination was the Homer Spit, an almost five-mile long bar of gravel that juts into Kachemak Bay from the mainland, and then across the bay to Halibut Cove.

 

I drove through town and onto the Spit.   At the iconic Salty Dawg saloon, I turned left and backed onto a portion of the small boat harbor, where I unloaded my luggage and groceries.  Then I drove around to the other side of the Salty Dawg and parked my truck where it would remain for the next three and a half weeks.

The Salty Dawg Saloon

With the help of Jay and others, all my gear was loaded onto the Stormbird, a retired military vessel that now plies the waters of Kachemak Bay and carries the denizens of Halibut Cove, the US mail, groceries, appliances, and freight for the small settlement across the bay.  I took a seat in the wheel house, avoiding the larger passenger cabin with its sight odor of diesel fuel.

The Stormbird is the green and white boat tied to the dock.

An hour later, the Stormbird sailed through the tiny entrance to the C-shaped cove, past Clem Tillion’s lighthouse B&B, and tied up to the dock.

As soon as we passengers debarked, a raucous cawing across the water got my attention and when I turned I saw a large, crooked--necked bird fleeing for safer environs.  I had no idea what it could be and why it had chosen to winter in Alaska, unlike the hundreds of thousands of fowl that head south to warmer climes.

Jim pulled his skiff up to the same dock and we loaded all my stuff into it and motored across the cove to his dock.  I asked him what that bird could have been and his reply was “Herons.  They nest right there.”   He raised his hand and pointed into a grove of spruce trees.

Sure enough, a heron burst from the shrubbery and landed in a nearby tree.  A heron, for Pete’s sake.  I had no idea they wintered here.  In the eight years I’ve been coming to the cove to house-sit and open the door for Jim and Jan’s cat, I’ve neither seen nor heard the herons before that day.  A second heron remained hidd

And that day was the last day I managed to get a decent photo of one of the herons, though it was silhouetted against the winter sky.

I've seen plenty of crows, ravens, sea gulls, and sea ducks, even some sea otters.

The crows or as they are known locally, The Motorcycle Gang.

A sea otter diving off a dock, another reason I turn the camera on before I get to the dock.

A mallard drake with two hens.

Sea otter.

The same sea otter with its pup.   Have to take the better camera to get a better photo.

Tara bringing me some groceries from Homer.

Part of Halibut Cove.   Homer is located in the hills beyond.

Where I'm staying and opening the door for Geri the cat.   Such a tough life.

My view from the living room.

Night lights in the cove.  This was over the Thanksgiving weekend.   I almost never see lights on this side of the cove.

Every time since, when I walk down to the dock to check on the boat and skiff, I turn on my camera before the last curve on the approach to the dock.   And every time, the heron gets outta Dodge before I can get a photo.

The steep, icy corner where I turn on the camera.

Until today.  Today I managed to get somewhat of a photo.   Not a good one, though.

There it is, fleeing for parts unknown.   Two more seconds and this could have been a much better photo.

 

But one of these days those herons and I are going to have a meeting of the lens.

Halibut Cove in the mauve alpenglow of a late winter afternoon.