This morning’s solo bike ride to the Glacier predisposed me to guilt because I left Aki behind. After the usual exuberant welcome home, she hits me with one long sad look. To make up with her I pick a dog walker trail for our afternoon stroll.

At the trailhead Aki bounces out of the car to read signs left by dogs already on the trail. We encounter a half dozen on the gravel road leading up to the start of the meadow trail. She dashes from dog to dog, face frozen in an emotionless mask, only showing joy with welcoming posture and flapping ears. We are both hot by the time we reach the meadow.

Here we find Douglas Pine under stress, their needles already dry dead brown. The Mountain Hemlock look better except for one showing all the colors of a New England fall.  The high mountains still rise above the meadow, now decorated with cloud shadows. Above its all blue sky and white angel clouds.

We climb out of the meadow to enjoy the moist shade of the old growth forest and ten walk briefly along the old Treadwell ditch. I think of the morning bike ride with its  fog rising smoke like from the valley streets and of the sockeye salmon with their bright red heads and green bodies fighting for space on the spawning beds. Closing my eyes I see them and the field of blooming fireweed that provided a magenta frame for the glacier and its towers. “Why,” I ask Aki, “Am I always dreaming of one rich place while walking through the beauty of another?

The eagles are invading Fish Creek as the first pulse of Dog Salmon move up from the salt water. Eagle roost trees mark spawning beds and holes where the salmon rest during their upriver journey.  You can pick out the trees even when they are empty for white eagle scat decorates the understory plant and down and feathers gather in the upturned leaves of neighboring devil’s club leaves.

Perched over the stream on a  thin alder branch, an immature eagle eyes us and some salmon moving into the current.  Aki wades into the water for a closer look at the dogs, who don’t react to her presence. Do they sense the eagle?

I call Aki back and wait, camera ready for the eagle to move. It does, launching out over the river toward the salmon, talons extended. There’s no splash or dramatic struggle between 10 pounds of salmon and the mighty bird.  It is just the fish, stream, and Aki looking at me with that, “Shouldn’t we be moving on” look.

The eagles must be waiting for the bears that will follow the salmon upstream. Those guys will do the heavy lifting of fishing salmon from the stream. If the run is strong the bears eat only the brains and rich eggs, leaving everything else for the eagles and ravens to squabble over.

At first the trail edges a residential neighbor that must house kids for someone  fashioned a swing from an old boat line and net buoy.  Aki, reading the signs left by other dogs, ignores this icon of Southeast Alaska childhood, now beautified by strong rays of morning sun. We climbed on for an hour through a sun soaked forest.

Now I’m stopped, head down, waiting for this red dragon fly to move.  We have played this game for some time now, since Aki and I started climbing the long plank steps that offer dry passage through this meadow. I lead Aki up a few steps, the dragon fly lands just ahead of me and we stop. I stir. The dragon fly moves to the next plank. We stop. What, I wonder am I missing. Is there a deer near the meadow edge enhanced by the morning sun? Does a bear dig roots just ahead? Would these scenes be more wondrous than the dragon fly’s glistening wings?

Aki finally loses patience and charges ahead to end the game. Passing beyond the meadow we re-enter the forest for more climbing until the trail deteriorates into a small muddy stream bed.  Here we turn around and descend to the meadow, seeing for the first time what I missed while dragon fly gazing. The moist meadow, almost devoid of flower blossoms, curves into the forest below. This opens a vista of Lynn Canal with its spruce covered islands under a mix sky of blue and grey. Weather beaten spruce and hemlock are scattered in the foreground. Aki marks the spot with urine and we descend to the woods below.

This morning Seamus, the forecast icon on our electronic thermometer, wears a tee shirt and sun glasses while clouds obscure the top half of Douglas Island. Seamus is a fool or liar. After wrapping Aki in rain gear she and I head out to Outer Point.

A week dominated by clouds and some rain must have demoralized the people of Juneau for only birds and marmots share the trail with us. Summer has started its slide to fall. Skunk cabbage leaves stand two feet high in the forest bogs and still tart blue berries have darkened to their harvest color. Flavor comes later but I still try a few berries in hopes of finding a juicy precocious one.

The sun makes a surprise visit as we near the beach. “Don’t get smug Seamus,” I mutter, “It’s only a sucker hole.” Still the shafts reach like spot lights to the understory, turning ordinary tree moss to museum quality patina. A marmot’s warning whistle startles us while still in the woods, answered by another on the beach. Aki talks offense and dashes back and forth between the whistlers, barking without effect. The Marmots whistle on.

On the beach a strip  of sun light runs along the surf line. I head for a small patch of sunny beach just now exposed by the ebbing tide.  Aki and I stand there for some time, warmed by the sun while small surf sings us a gentle song.