Low clouds and fog obscure the glacier and most of the islands we can see from here on a clear day. Aki runs the beach on a search for clues of those who passed last night but ignores this fierce salmon carcass with its cloudy eye and skin dulled by death. We startle a feeding eagle to flight when rounding False Outer Point but it doesn’t cry out. I listen to the sound of wind move over its flapping wings mix with that of water running through beach gravel.

A whale exhales on breaking the surface near by, drowning out water sounds as it forces air through its blow hole. I turn quickly to the sea but find only disintegrating fog pawing a flat calm channel. Now there is only the sound of the stream, far off eagle complaints and battling gulls’ mews. The low clouds have temporarily grounded the machines of industrial tourism. All I want is for it is continue long enough for a kayak trip to Portland Island on this gentle sea.

My wish cracks the spell and a line of DeHaviland Beavers flies over on their way to the bear viewing concession on Admiralty Island. Their old school radial engines dominate the beach with a deep drone. I imagine myself a dog walker on the Hastings’ shingle cheering on a British squadron of mosquito bombers as they head for danger over the skies of Nazi Germany. I pretend that the planes play a unimagitive bass behind the manic sounds of loons and gulls for the benefit of these two eagles hanging out on the Shaman Island causeway.

Then I turn into the forest to find solace in a recently discovered patch of red huckleberries.

After we move deeper into the forest the skies clear of planes. Here three hemlocks, with deeply furrowed bark line the trail and I wonder why I never noticed their beauty before. Hidden among also rans they took years to discover. That it happened the faint light of this gray day fills me with hope.