Aki loves sunshine. If a shaft of summer sun warms a spot of floor, the little dog curls up on it. She seeks shelter from the rain but does not hesitate to follow me onto this rain soaked mountain meadow. In fact, it was her idea.
This morning, with the storm playing a monotonous song on our tin-roofed house, I tried to settle in for a good read. Aki used her powers to push me into the rain. Standing four square on the living room floor, the little dog stared at me until I put down the book and grabbed my hiking boots. I wanted to diminish her enthusiasm by lifting her up where she could see rain water cascade down the streets of Chicken Ridge. I thought about shoving her out into the back yard where she would be exposed to the deluge. Then, I remembered that bad weather always looks worse when you stand inside a warm, dry house in your stocking feet. On went the rain gear and out we went through the door.
Top to bottom waterproof but breathable clothing keeps me dry. Her thick gray fur drips water after a few minutes on the muskeg. I could wring streams of water from her fleece wrap after she wears it for half an hour.
The rain that coats browning meadow grass and fading leaves concentrates faint light into reflecting jewels. I photograph the dead and dying, ignore the plump blueberries about to drop onto the soaked ground. Above, the uniform, pale gray marine cloud layer offer no way to predict the afternoon’s weather. I’d be worried if we traveled by kayak on Lynn Canal but this meadow will not turn treacherous in a rising wind and even a heavy rain won’t wipe out the trail home.