Pushed up against mountains and an ice field, Juneau enjoys significant micro climates. Downtown gets the wind and 100 inches of rain each year. Douglas receives more of both. Most storms pass over the small area running from North Douglas Island to Smuggler’s Cove, which only receives 60 inches of precipitation.  With a strong rain soaked wind hammering the house on Chicken Ridge Aki and I hope to find a sheltered walk in this dessert on North Douglas Island.

Apparently a strong believer in meteorology, Aki is unperturbed by wind that rocks our car on the Douglas Island Bridge and whips up white caps on the usually sedate Gasteneau Channel. She stares down the road with anticipation but does not smirk when the rain and wind drop as we reach False Outer Point.

We have the forest to ourselves but find the beach crowded with water fowl. A small raft of ducks who were tight against the shore when we arrived move slowly into deeper water. A pair of loons feed in the open space between us and Shaman Island.  We all enjoy the flat calm sea only occasionally dimpled by rain. An incoming tide shrinks the beach and threatens to force us into the woods. Wanting to walk a while on ice free ground we quicken the pace to round the next point before the tide makes that impossible.  We make it just as the tidal door closes, leaving us alone with the birds.

Two eagles in trees just behind us exchange angry words and more of their kind tussle for roosting space on the Outer Point side of this now flooded bay. Some chase each other over the water, talons extended out as if they were about to snatch a herring from the water. Seems too early for their mating dance —-the one where they lock talons and then spin in circles as gravity pulls them to ground. I saw that hookup once but the tangled eagles dropped out of sight behind the tree line before I could see if they broke off before hitting the ground.

We find the fresh carcass of a loon washed into the rocks. Just off shore another one floats aimlessly by. The eagles go quiet and nothing breaks silence except the flutter of gull wings.

The sight of death saddens me as does the loon appearing to morn but the silence is a perfect gift and I remember Slavic (Russian Christmas), which was celebrated yesterday in the Kuskokwim River villages of Western Alaska where we use to live.