Aki may be a deep file—one deep enough to remember the eagles that usually roost in the spruce trees along the lower end of the Mendenhall River. Rather than dash around the expanse of sand that I cross, she trots over the rough gravel near the tree line. When I stop to examine something, she appears briefly at my feet, then returns to the safer path along the trees.
There are eagles but they are heard, but not seen. A scattering of gulls are spread out like shy bathers on a summer beach. They tolerate the little dog and I, as well as a single raven that follows us down the river to its mouth at Fritz Cove.