The sun surprised Chicken Ridge this morning, by appearing without clouds in a very blue sky. It heated roofs and the bare branches of our apple tree until the snow deposited on them by last night’s storm slipped to the ground. After digging out the driveway, I hitched Aki to a lead and we went exploring Downtown Juneau.

Built in the first half of the 20th Century for mine workers, the craftsmen style houses of Juneau look best dressed in fresh snow. So does the ancient, for Alaska,  Russian Orthodox. I admire the silhouette of its golden dome against blue sky and the Mount Juneau ridge line while Aki catalogues the smells left by careless humans and purposeful dogs. 

Moving up Gasteneau Avenue, I spot lines of tattered prayer flags stretched between  alders.  They flutter over mounds of snow covered dregs of garbage feasts left by pre-hibernating bears. They didn’t treat the hillside as holy ground. Nearer to tidewater, we pass an old mine tunnel. A pillar of ice partially covers the entrance. I am tempted to duck around the pillar just to appreciate the morning sun that must penetrate it’s thick translucence. But I remember seeing a sleeping bag in the little cave, marking it as shelter for a homeless person— another form of holy ground.