The party is over on the glacial moraine. Most of the fall color left last week. The first strong wind will blow away the rest. We walk through it in the rain, alone but for the few ducks prospecting the far side of Crystal Lake for food.

Aki finds plenty things to smell and many trails to follow. She passes two piles of bear scat, each the color and texture of crushed plaster. A man’s boot print marks one of the piles. I’m thankful Aki ignores both and feel sorry for the guy now washing the smelly stuff off his size 10 hunting boot.

I wanted to stay in the open moraine but can’t resist following Aki down our familiar trail into the troll woods.  The light and sounds are different here.  Rain drops on the dead leaves covering the moraine trail mimicked the sound of a campfire being stirred. In the deep woods the rain is felt and seen hitting puddles and lakes but no longer heard. We stopped hearing the rain in here when the big leaves dropped.

A half and hour in I’m cold enough to wish I had replaced my cotton T-shirt with a quick dry base layer. The waterproof coat over wool and fleece isn’t doing the trick.  In this season I wonder if my bones, grown to length in a California desert can get me through another Alaska winter.  This is the time of hypothermia not my discontent. Always damp and never more than 49 degrees, our days in late autumn drive most people to Fred Meyers or Costco. Tomorrow I’ll avoid that fate with a warmer set of gear.

The bitterness of this weather grants the gift of solitude to those willing to embrace it.  With solitude comes a peaceful isolation and sometimes wonder. I was trying to engage Aki on the subject when we rounded a grove of moss encumbered cottonwoods and reached the shore of a pocket lake. Six mallard hens exploded from where they had been sheltering just feet from us. Lifting off at a steep angle, they held in tight formation until out over the lake where they spread out, blanked as a team, and headed out toward the moraine.

We see two of the hens later while trying to negotiate a trail now flooded by beavers. Having dropped all the smaller cottonwoods in reach the big rodents have started to gnaw their way through some trees a good 2 feet across. Tacked to a nearby spruce is a polite request from the Forest Service not to poke any more holes in the beaver’s dam. This is a good choice for a sign post because beavers don’t seem to chew spruce.  Another sign asks for fellow hikers to snitch on anyone, presumably wearing wet boots and a look of frustration, trying to undo the beaver’s work. We see no one attacking the dam. We see no one at all.