Monthly Archives: February 2020

Walking Like Mr. Natural

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Yesterday’s indulgence of sun ended as we completed our walk. Rain came next, followed in the evening by showers of wet snowflakes. This morning the rain has returned. We head out to the glacial moraine to see it when it is completely inundated by fresh snow. 

            As I dig my ice spikes out of the car Aki dashes around the trailhead parking lot. She’d already be on the trail if a meter-high berm pushed us by a snowplow didn’t cover the access point.  We both have to post hole up and over the berm before starting our walk through the stunted forest covering the moraine. The ice spikes dangle from my gloveless hand while I try to decide if they will be needed. By the time we reach the viewpoint of Mt. McGinnis, the spikes are in my pocket where they will stay the rest of the morning. 

            The boots of earlier hikers have firmed up the trail, making for an easy walk for man and little dog. A kilometer in, the boot prints disappear. There should be prints to prove that the persons turned around but there are none. I start to ask Aki if this is evidence of an alien abduction.  Something in the look she gives me makes me reconsider. 

            We turn back to a trail fork. Turning left would mean a quick trip back to the car. Remembering my Robert Frost, I take the less trodden path, hoping that my choice will make all the difference. Only the footprints made by a person with legs longer and feet smaller than I dimple the deep snow. As long as I plant my feet in the other’s footprints, I can stay on top of the snow load. When I don’t my boot sinks into soft, wet stuff. 

            Aki, of course, just trots on top of the crust while I adapt my stride to match that of the one who went before. I find myself leaning back and shooting my right foot forward like Art Crumb’s Mr. Natural. While this walking style seemed to bring joy to the cartoon character, it eats up my energy. Aki looks back often to make sure that I am doing Okay. We are both relieved when we make it back to the car, which is now covered with new snow.  

Aki’s Edge

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Aki wants to use the campground trail—the one jammed with noisy school kids. From the racket they make, they must be as charged up by the sudden appearance of the sun as me. We try to avoid little kids. The little dog tends to treat them as puppies. She loves to dash up to them barking a “hey how are you guys doing” bark. 

Since they don’t speak dog, the kids usually mistake her exuberance for aggression. I lead her away from the packed campground trail for one covered with soft snow. It follows the contours of the lake shore. 

            Last night’s freeze formed a light crust on the snow, just enough to allow the 10-pound poodle-mix to trot across its surface. My boot crash through after every step. Aki flies over the snow, rooming far and wide in search of interesting smells. I plod on, my boots soaking up moisture from the wet snow beneath the crust. 

            I had planned to follow the lake shore to where the Mendenhall River leaves the lake. But it takes a lot of energy to pull my boot free from the snow after each step. I may not make it all the way the river. Aki must sense this. I spot her waiting for me at the start of a path that will offer quick access to the campground trail. In seconds both us are walking comfortably on the top of the firm trail. 

Calm Water, Deep Snow

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I’m rushing to reach a vantage point before the wake of an outbound salmon troller shatters the reflection of Mt. Roberts. Tired from struggling in the soft-deep snow, Aki isn’t keeping pace. She catches up with me just after I take a few photos of the mountain. Soon she is following close at my heals, taking advantage of the trail I am punching into the snow. 

            The tide is in, pushing up against the snow line. Seeing a strip of exposed sand at the waterline, I plod over to it. Instead of a dry, snow-free strip made for poodle passage, I find a soggy mess. My boots would sink as deep in the sand as they do in the snow. Aki no doubt wonders “What the heck” as I lead her away from the sand. 

            I take the first trail off the beach and enter the Treadwell Woods. Aki flashes past me. At the deep bay caused by a mine tunnel collapse, handful of Barrow golden eye ducks fish. Out in Gastineau Channel another salmon troller heads toward Taku Inlet. Tomorrow, while passing Harris Harbor, I’ll look for a hand painted “Fresh Winter Kings for Sale” sign.   

A Brief Glimpse of Sun

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The sun is a surprise. We drove through a rain shower to reach the trailhead. Snow is predicted for this afternoon. But the clouds have split open like a smile and let the sun free for a few minutes. 

            Aki wants to doddle but I push ahead to reach the beaver pond, maybe even the beach before the sun disappears. The sun and Aki are both with me when I reach the pond. It sparkles on fracture ice fragments and enriches the reflection of tree branches and sky in a section of open water. 

            We still have sun when we cross a small muskeg meadow weighed down with snow. It turns a snow-cover spit blinding white after we reach the beach. It seems like every gull in Juneau is hugging the beach, as well as most of the golden eye ducks. Two little harlequin ducks huddle together on a sliver of beach washed of snow by the last incoming tide. They plop into the water as the sun disappears behind the clouds.   

Snowed In

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Aki’s neighborhood is buried in snow. Her other human, the family historian, is convinced that we have had larger snowfalls. But then, she didn’t spend three hours this morning shoveling the stuff. On our morning walk, Aki and I pass cars that look abandoned under a foot of snow. The white stuff roars off roofs, trapping at least one of our neighbors in his house. Someone will dig him out before he even notices.

            When you are not shoveling it, the snow looks lovely and brings out the beauty in most things. The three totem faces that watch over the Capital School playground wear Russian Cossacks made of snow.

            The weatherman promises rain and a lot of it today. But the snow keeps falling. I wonder if it has discouraged the city snow ploughs. None has even attempted to clear our street. Maybe they are waiting for the promised rain. If the temperature is warm enough when it arrives the rain will melt the snow like ferries’ gold. We should head back, little dog, and watch as the snow falls on something besides us. It’s a good day to hunker down.  

Catch Basin of Calm

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Aki, tiny even when up close, diminishes to a dot as she and her other human climb away up the pioneer road. For awhile I struggled to keep up with them. But the bottoms of my old skis are sticking to the snow so I give up. Is what it is like to cross country ski in sand. 

            This is the first time we have skied on this pioneer road. In summer it is just a gravel gash through three and half miles of spruce forest. Buried in snow, like it is today, it offers a chance for silence and solitude. Walled in by forest on both sides, the road doesn’t distract, permits my mind to wander, to eventually sink into a calm catch basin. I am almost there when the wind rises to chill me and blow snow off the spruce tops. I am surprised to find myself welcoming the drama of blowing snow. 

Sun after the Storm

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Yesterday’s storm left Mendenhall Lake covered with a half-a-meter of snow. Aki can’t handle such deep stuff without some help. She gets it from her other human and I. We ski ahead, packing down a trail for the little poodle. 

            We started the ski in the woods on a trail that winds though a stunted spruce forest. Only light filtered by the snow-covered forest canopy reached the ground. I felt like one of Plato’s cave dwellers when we emerged from the forest and dropped onto the sun-splashed lake. The snowy woods offered a restrained beauty, but it was only a pale imitation of lakeside trees, weighed down with new show, crisp in full sun. 

            The lake ski trail normally offers great views of the glacier. Today, we can barely see it through a veil of thin clouds. I stop pointing the camera at the ice river and turn it on the normally mundane: a flat covered glacial erratic rock, that island of dwarf trees and the shadows that they throw. 

            Aki keeps up as her humans ski near the top end of the lake. Small snow balls bounce on her legs as she trots after us. But her tail never drops. She does fall back on our return journey to the trail head. I wonder, as I wait for her, whether to pull off some of her snow balls.  She must have stopped to chew them off herself. The little dog trots by me and sprints to catch up to her other human. 

Clumps

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Last night’s snow stopped a few hours ago. Down channel, the sun climbs the shoulder of Mt. Roberts, painting a scattered of snow clouds with yellows. Aki has to squint when the car turns us briefly into the sun. We are heading out to the glacier trail system. I picked that for a destination because it has one of the few trailhead parking lots already cleared of snow. It is also one of Aki’s favorite places to explore. Hopefully memories of our morning adventure will help her get through this afternoon’s visit to her dog doctor. She is due for her rabies shot. 

            The normally crowded parking lot is half-empty when we arrive. Deep snow covers everything, even the path to the trash bin. I post hole over several meters of it to deposit Aki’s poop bag.  Last night’s snow has turned the stairs down to the lake into a ramp. I could see Mt. McGinnis and the glacier while I parked the car. But a rising snow storm soon hides it from view. We pass two ravens having a companionable chat in a cottonwood tree. They are the only wild things we see on the walk.

            Snow collects in Aki’s red sweater and clumps onto the fur covering her legs, This does not lessen her excitement. The little dog has always loved new snow. The storm thickens as we approach Nugget Falls. We can hear but not see it. A man passes us on cross country skis and disappears into the white. 

I might be scared of getting lost in the storm if the people who walked the trail before us hadn’t pounded out a trench-like path into the snow. It is easy going the little dog and I as long as we stay in the trench. This doesn’t stop her from porpoising through the deep stuff to read her pee mail.  

Confused Skies

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Snow shoveling delayed our morning walk. Two hours after picking up the shovel, Aki and I could head out to North Douglas for a walk on the False Outer Point Trail. That didn’t, couldn’t, happen. Just before we reached the trailhead, the blade of a snow plough raised a half-meter high snow berm between the highway and the parking lot. 

            With no safe place to park, I turned around and headed toward the Nine Mile Creek Wetlands Trail. Aki, who had squirmed with excitement while we approached, did not like this change of plans. 

Deep snow covered the Nine Mile trailhead parking area. But it was safe to park on the low traffic road that provides access to it. Aki had to porpoise through the parking lot snow to join me at the trailhead. Only a thin layer of white covered the trail. The snow that would have made travel a slog had pushed down the trailside alders into low tunnel. Tiny Aki dashed down the trail while I, sometimes bent almost double, stumbled after her. 

            The little dog froze when we reached the open wetlands. She stared as I post-holed out to Gastineau Channel. The sky over the wetlands was confused. The south view was socked in by snow clouds. Sunshine flooded the northern view. But the sunny area shrank as I watched, consumed by another advancing storm.