Trek teaches importance of tides

N.S. NOKKENTVED

Originally published June 5, 2001

One of the greatest jobs I ever had was working for the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife during my college days -- I think it was just known as the Department of Wildlife in those days.

That job taught me a lot about birds, but I also learned to pay attention to tides -- something immensely practical when you live along Puget Sound.

I was a research assistant and, simply put, my job entailed about 20 hours a week tromping around in various parts of the Skagit River Delta with a waterproof notebook and a pair of binoculars. I learned to identify several birds from just a quick glance -- the distinctive flight of the northern harrier, the soft bullet shape of the short-eared owl. And, of course, there is no mistaking the bald eagle.

Most of the delta is lined with levees to protect farmlands and the fabled tulip fields from the ravages of tides and salt water. But one of my favorite spots was Delta Rock, a 100-foot-tall chunk probably set there by a glacier. Reaching it required crossing open salt marsh beyond the levees.

Close encounter

Early one cool fall Saturday I arrived at the end of the road on Fir Island. The tide was out, and I set out to explore the rock. My access on earlier outings had been blocked by the channels that cut through the marsh at high tide. During low water it was a cinch to navigate the marsh -- jumping from one high spot to another, stepping across narrow channels or tip-toeing though soggy areas.

Soon I was climbing the old granite of Delta Rock, festooned with gnarled, wind-twisted pines and clad with mosses, ferns and grass. I found sort of a path that led around and up the north side of the rock. Near the top I passed below a small grove of trees and a rock outcrop. But as I rounded these, I stopped in my tracks.

Not 10 yards away, two young bald eagles hung in air, riding the updraft. I eased back into the shelter of the rocks and trees to a less-exposed vantage point. They seemed to take no notice of me. Soon they swooped off to disappear in the trees beyond the marsh.

Treacherous trip

When I started back, the water was rising in the marsh. The nearly empty channels I had stepped across on my way out were full. Low spots were flooded. I was in trouble.

Working around the rising flood took time, and time was against me. Then the inevitable happened -- cold water trickled down my ankle and spread inside my boot.

I still had a long way to go to get to dry ground. I struggled to keep to the dry ground, sloshing along with one wet foot. I finally gave up and got the other foot wet, so I could just head straight back to my car.

But now the deeper channels were full -- some of them waist deep.

My failure to pay attention to the tides meant walking the last half mile wet to the knees. Only luck and a fortuitously placed log across a deep channel kept the rest of me dry.

I drove home with bare feet -- and a lot wiser.

N.S. Nokkentved covers the outdoors for The Olympian and is always looking for a good place to put a canoe in the water. He can be reached at 360-754-5445.

The Olympian Copyright 2001

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