Monthly Archives: April 2020

Eagles in Love? Mallard’s Distain?

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Hundreds of mallards have gathered on a tidal meadow pockmarked with thawing ponds. We would not have spotted them if one of the drakes hadn’t croaked, “crack, crack, crack” in the tone of a mean-spirited bully. He could be commenting on a karaoke performance at the neighborhood pub. I stop myself from anthropizing when I spot two eagles just setting onto limbs of a nearby spruce tree.  

 Aki and I are returning from the mouth of Fish Creek. It was barren of birds except for a half-dozen bald eagles. One of the big predators gave itself away with a long, plaintive call. I wondered whether the eagle was singing the blues until another eagle flew across Fritz Cove and landed in the singer’s tree. 

A hundred meters away, two other eagles launched into the air. They circled above Aki and I. One chased the other, who was making an uninspired attempt to escape.  When the pursuer thrusted his talons toward the pursued, she quickly headed toward a spruce tree. In a few seconds both birds were sharing the same spruce limb. 

I watched the performance, hoping to see the eagles complete their mating dance by locking talons and tumbling toward Aki and I. Another eagle, perhaps frustrated by love and not interested to seeing such a public display of affection, flew out of his spruce roost and landed at the edge of the cove. While he sulked yet another eagle called out for a lover. 

Escaping the Storm

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            A storm moved in last night, bringing high winds and wet snow. We can feel the wind shaking the house and see snow flakes slam into our north facing windows. They melt on contact, creating little streams of waters that combine then course down the glass. Aki does not want to leave home this morning. 

            Always the family’s optimist, I dress the little dog for bad weather and carry her to the car. This spares her a trot through deep, wet snow. She huddles on the passenger seat as I brush slush from all the car windows. We drive through a downtown emptied by social distancing orders and out the old Auk Village site. 

            Surprising both of us, the weather clears just before we reach the trail head. We walk on a bare trail. No rain or snow soaks Aki’s curls. Only the storm’s wind remains, raising half-meter surf.  Just off shore, a small raft of golden eye ducks keep themselves pointed into the wind. They ride up and down on the waves, diving on tiny fish helpless in the turbulent water.

Tired Travelers

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As a flood tide swells the Mendenhall River, Aki and I walk towards its mouth. The ice-free river must look like a miracle to migratory waterfowl looking for a feed. On this flat-light day, the river looks to me like a dark-gray snake slithering across a barren grassland. A Canada goose might agree with me. It flies low over the drab scene, repeating over and over a honking lament. 

            Ignoring the lamentation, I lead Aki off the trail. We cross tide-soaked grass to the top of a low bluff. Below, the current carries three sleeping ring necked ducks up river. At least 50 more of their fellow travelers are waking up to feed a kilometer down river. They have a long way to go to the breeding grounds in central Alaska. After they resume their northern migration, we won’t see their kind again until next spring. 

            Aki and I squelch our way back to main trail and use it to continue our own journey to the river’s mouth. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a large mammal slinking through the wetland grass. It moves with feline sensuality rather than lumber like a bear or lope like a dog. I can’t make out a tail. Is it a lynx? A short way away from the mystery guy, two Labrador retrievers start toward it until their owners call them back. I’ll look without success for the predator for the rest of our walk. 

American Widgeon

            We will spot other recharging ducks on our walk down river. One Eurasian widgeon, with aquatic weed handing from its beak will feed along side an American widgeon. She needs to top off her tank. Her migration will take her to the Aleutian Islands, over 3000 kilometers away.  

Ravens and Lepers

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Ravens fill the Treadwell Woods with croaks, beeps, chortles, and complaints as a large family approaches. Have the big birds taken on the job of warning of the approach of the infected?  Feeling like a leper myself, I pick up Aki and move to the far side of the trail, establishing a safe space for the family to pass. 

            Given the weather, I am surprised to meet any humans here. Yesterday’s clear skies are obscured by a squall. Compact pellets of snow bounce onto the trail. I’m here for the eagles. A mated pair keep a nest in a tree overlooking the collapsed glory hole. Thanks to the noisy ravens we’ll never hear an eagle. They may also be the reason why we will never see one. 

            When we drop down on it from the woods, Sandy Beach is empty except for ravens and one self-assured belted kingfisher. It lands on a nearby wharf piling as a raven dances and sings on the beach.  Raven continues the performance from the top of another wharf piling. Assuming the posture of a petitioning lover, he boxes the compass, croaking to the north, east, west, and south. Kingfisher flies off but only as far as another piling wharf from where he listens to raven finish his atonal love song. 

Another Blue Bird Day

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Aki trots ahead of me on an expansive meadow. Her tiny tracks in the snow could have been left by something wild. Spring is finally winning its annual battle with winter. To be fair, the sun is the main agent of change. Its rays warm the trunks of the meadow’s pines, which radiate heat to melt the surrounding snow, forming concave-shaped pots for each tree. 

            Aki’s path parallels that of a deer now hiding in clump of trees. It must be cheering on the sun. I’m cheering on an eagle that glides above the meadow. It sings as it circles. I’ve never heard the song before.  It’s their time for mating. Maybe this guy is looking for some action. 

This would be a perfect place to watch eagles mate. Nothing would block our view of them locking talons and tumbling towards the meadow as they do their business. They almost always break their embrace before hitting the ground. My eagle stops singing, adjusts its meter-long wings, and glides east. Without even one wing flap it holds its angle of descent as if attached to a flying fox (zip line). I feel a warm flutter of infatuation. Aki, am I crushing on an eagle? The little dog acts like my ridiculous question is not worthy of a response. 

            Just before we leave the meadow, I pick bog cranberries from a snowless patch of muskeg. Like the deer and the eagle, the berries survived a very snowy winter. Wondering if they will be sweeter for it, I pop them into my mouth. But winter’s bitterness has replaced their autumn sweetness.  

Nothing to Going Bother Her Today

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Timing is important during these days of freeze and thaw. The little dog and I need to be on the moraine just as the strengthening sun softens the trail ice into something I can walk without slipping. That same sun will eventually weaken the snow crust. When that happens my boots will make six-inch-deep holes with every step. 

This morning we might be a tad early. I’m slipping on trail ice every fifth step. The lighter, more compact dog has no problems. Recent snow fall and a series of cold nights have opened up areas of the moraine we rarely visit. I plan on taking advantage of this after we take the traditional dog walking trail to the Mendenhall River. I’d face a mutiny if I veered off the normal path now. 

            You’d think we in a dog park the way Aki is dashing around. But we have not seen so much as a cockapoo on the trail. The little poodle-mix has always valued personal encounters with dogs higher than a chance to sniff their pee. Today, she is all about the nose.

            Aki shows no reluctance to follow me off the trail and onto Moose Lake. It’s the first time in years that I’ve chanced it. Just last year swans and ducks feed on its waters in early April. Now we are walking across it. It’s as trilling as sneaking onto a baseball diamond when the stadium is closed. The trail has softened while we were on the lake. Aki and I take the spur of it that leads to Mendenhall River.  I’m occasionally breaking through the crust but we still make good progress. 

After admiring the reflection of Mt. McGinnis in a river eddy, I walk up stream to a spot that offers a good glacier view. A trumpeter swan family watches our approach. They are the same swans we saw on previous cross-country ski trips down the opposite side of the river. Mellow birds, the swans soon return to their feeding.

We turn around and head back to the car. Rather than dig her little paws in the snow when I walk past the trail we took to get here, she dashes in front me as I continue down a large, snow-covered gravel bar. A few meters ahead, she dives onto a patch of sun softened snow and squirms, a ridiculous smile on her face.

Ice Ghosts

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The last time we passed by a beaver pond, Aki trotted out on the ice before I could stop her. This morning, she wants no part of this pond. With her paws firmly planted on solid earth, the little dog watches me ease onto the ice. It holds firm as I creep over to an island where the beavers have their lodge. 

            The ice formed quickly enough to trap sticks, blades of grass, bubbles of air, and even feathers. The encapsulated sticks look as gray as death. I feel like I am walking on ghosts. Aki joins me when I am only a few meters away from the beavers’ house. Small logs, each stripped of bark, lay scattered around the lodge like chicken bones outside the widow of a lazy teenager.  But we can’t see any other evidence of the beavers’ presence. The big rodents must be inside sleeping.          

 I take a meandering route back to trail. Aki makes a bee line back. What does the little dog sense that I don’t? Can she hear sounds that warn of thinning ice or smell a predator? We heard an eagle scream on our way here. That must be it. Not feeling vulnerable to threats from the air I stop often to study the things trapped in ice. 

At Least Aki is Having a Good Time

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I’d expect more unpleasantness in hell. But for a cross country skier, Montana Creek might be offering a taste of purgatory. Aki wouldn’t agree. She is having a great time racing back and forth between her other human and me. Already forgotten is the first half-a-kilometer of the trail where blasts from the gun range made it impossible for her to hear my calming words. 

            I just avoided a nasty fall when tree moss on the trail brought one ski to a stop while the other one pulled me down the hill. Now climbing up a hill, my skis can’t get a purchase on the ice-slick trail. Aki’s other human is having an easier time with her skate skis. 

When the grade flattens out, the shushing sound of the snow-thaw stream will calm me. I’ll notice its beauty. The meter-deep mounds of snow that cover every rock and log in the creek are shrinking. Some have been reduced to a rime of ice that covers the round rocks like a short-cropped wig. Little falls of melt water pour from beneath each surviving snow mound.

Seduced By Scent

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Aki and I are cruising through a section of old growth forest turned in to marshland by beavers. Hardened by last night’s hard freeze, the supersaturated ground can no longer pull at my boots or stain Aki’s fur the color of strong tea. A small stream drained this patch of forest when Aki was a puppy. Spongy moss softened the ground. Then the empire building beavers expanded their realm by damming the stream. 

            Live spruce trees still grow on tiny islands in the pond. Soon they will die. To hasten the process along, beavers have denuded the lower trunks of two of the larger trees. I lose track of Aki as I cautiously approach the pond’s edge. Stepping onto a spot of bog kept soft by a warm-water spring could mean a soaking—something to avoid on this 23-degree (F.) morning. There is no way I’ll chance walking on the pond ice. 

             The marsh was dusk-gray when we neared the beaver pond. Now shafts of the day’s first light paint long, straight-edged tree shadows on the ice. Backlit tree moss glow an electric green. Standing at the pond’s edge, I raise my camera to photograph the light’s impact on the pond and find Aki trotting into my frame. An image of her rolling on a pile of beaver scat, face holding a blissful smile pops into my mind. Aki must be looking for more. 

            Hoping not having to test the holding strength of the ice, I whistle for my little dog. She hunches for a moment, like she does when she finds my commands tedious. Then she trots further onto the pond. I whistle again. Aki sniffs at a beaver-scared tree, pees, and trots off the ice.

Some Shelter From the Wind

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This morning’s sun has the power to brighten the snow and throw shadows off the trailside alders. It warms the shade of blue in the cloudless sky. But it does little to protect Aki from the chilling effects of the wind. She darts sideways when hit by a gust that would otherwise hit her exposed rear end. We are climbing toward Gastineau Meadows. I’d give up on the trip if we weren’t only a few meters from where the trail enters a forest. 

            We pass the place where a lynx scored the snow with its claws. I can’t help imagining the wild cat flying across the crusted snow, snatching my poodle-mix, and disappearing into the woods. Aki has dropped behind me to sniff trail sign. I feel relieved when she catches up. 

            Many boots have pounded out a trail in the snow, forming a rut that is deeper than Aki is tall. It protects her from wind gusts that slam across the trail when we emerge from the forest. She still isn’t reluctant to follow me onto a shallower trail that will take us deep into the meadow. There we pass a runner and his very-serious husky dog. The runner and I both leave the trail, leaving four meters of space between us. Aki tries unsuccessfully to engage the dog. 

            The meadow should be covered with tracks. On past visits we spotted those of a wolf and slightly older ones made by a deer. But today, I can’t even find snowshoe hare tracks. The sky is as empty. Between wind gusts, we have silence until a Stellar Jay scolds us. I’d still rather hear the bossy bird than yet another pandemic story. 

Aki takes the lead when we turn back toward the car. She is ten meters ahead when ahead if us a deer takes a tentative step onto the trail. The deer watches the little dog sniff some pee mail and then reply in kind. Before Aki notices it, the deer slow walks across the trail and disappears into the woods. Aki never saw the deer, but she did stop and sniff at the tracks it left in the trail snow.