This is March at its best—day long sun, long days, little wind, comfortable temperatures. Looking across to Douglas Island from our kitchen window I can see where Aki and I will spend part of it.  Just below the ridge line lies a mountain bowl drained by Kowee Creek, now flooded with afternoon light, that we haven’t visited for some time. That must change today.

In minutes we reach the trailhead and start up a trail packed down by snow machines. I’m carrying snow shoes but soon stash them along side the trail. They are not needed on this well set trail that takes us past dark forests and slanting meadows covered with sensuous mounds of snow crystals that sparkle like rock candy. I grab and hold Aki when two snow machines approach from down trail. They whine as they move towards us driven by riders dressed in sleek jumpsuits, dark goggles, and molded helmets with mouth protectors—-high tech insects passing over old ground.

Aki gives a light hearted chase to the machines as they move up trail. I feel the same way about them on this perfect day; reminded by the sound and smell of their half consumed hydrocarbons of our old life in Western Alaska when we used snow machines to gather food and firewood. As their sound fades I hear for the first time the open waters of Kowee Creek mix with songs of birds sheltering in the belt of trees that hide it from view. Two college aged woman approach and begin gushing about Aki in her bright red wrap. She is such a chick magnet, one that thankfully came into my life after I could use her as a bridge to loveliness.