Category Archives: Aki

Wing Strikes

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Light is precious this close to the winter solstice. Even during last week’s stretch of clear weather, dusk settled over Juneau before 3 P.M. Now the clouds are back as is the rain. Aki and I move with caution down a Treadwell trail covered with sloppy snow and ice. When the marine layer shatters over Gastineau Channel to let in light, I understand why my Celtic ancestors honored the winter sun.

 

1            The forest that hides the old mining ruins still retains snow from the last storm. It brightens the reflection of the twisted alders growing along a shallow pond. One triangle of pond ice juts into the air but the rain is already eroding its sharp corners. Tiny waves, the concentric rings radiating out from each rain strike, crash against the ice—wing strikes on softening marble.

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Acceptance

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Fresh, foot-deep snow forces us onto a narrow trail that winds along the edge of Mendenhall Lake. It never leads us out of the shade. When I look out at the sun soaked glacier and Mt. McGinnis I feel trapped, like I am in Plato’s cave. Aki sticks to the trail too, keeping station behind an old human friend. But she can’t resist taking a few exuberant dashes out onto the sunny portions of the lake.

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The glom trail provides a good metaphor for the mood that has taken possession of the other human and I. During our drive to the trailhead, he received a call from a mutual friend with news of another death. This makes the third death notice received this week. I haven’t the words to cheer my friend. I’ll be heading south in a few days to attend my cousin’s funeral. Turning to the mountain, a white pyramid against the azure blue sky, we acknowledge that death is a part of life, which brightens our moods so we can appreciate Aki ability to make us laugh.

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Pushing The Tide

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When we stop, Aki lifts her front right paw off the snow, drops it down and lifts up her rear left one. She alternates feet like this, doing a slow motion cold weather dance, until I switch off the camera and head down the trail. It’s cold, nine degrees Fahrenheit but there is no wind to riffle the incoming tide. I press as though rising waters ooze our escape path.

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Aki and I slip on the thick layer of salt-water ice that formed over the trail during the last high tide. The tide must have rinsed away any interesting animal smells but the little poodle-mix doesn’t hold back. When the sound of rising water cracking ice encourages our retreat, I take a trail that parallels the channel’s edge. But, Aki doesn’t join me. Instead, she moves quickly onto the alder-lined path that leads to the car. I follow, walking hunched over to pass under a tunnel of alders themselves bent over by loads of frost and snow.

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I don’t have to encourage Aki to hop into the car. But she doesn’t object when I drive to the Fish Creek trailhead and ask he to join me on another walk down to salt water. Here, at least, the tide hasn’t washed away the smells.

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Deep Snow

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The sun is teasing us today, appearing as a fuzzy ball above the Douglas Island ridge. It casts Gastineau Channel in an arctic light even though the temperature has already reached 22 degrees and there is no wind. Welcome to fjord country, little dog.

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Aki knows about fjords, having spent her life on or near several of them. She loves climbing up trails that start at salt water and allow us to reach alpine-like meadows in twenty minutes. But she has learned the hard way about deep snow and today she refuses to follow me onto a trackless Gastineau Meadow. She waits, a statue of concern, on the packed path as I wear myself out breaking trail in a 15-inch deep covering of soft snow. It doesn’t take much to read her thoughts: Have you finally lost it, man of mine?

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Aki Does Love Snow

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Wind blown snow, like that swirling around Chicken Ridge today, narrows your world. It limits us to views of the neighborhood, denies any chance to see Gastineau Channel or Mt. Juneau. I worry that it will discourage Aki from venturing much beyond her yard. But the little dog leans into the wind, walking quicker than usual to reach Basin Road where craftsmen houses provide us a windbreak. Even though it means facing into the wind again, she pulls me across the old trestle bridge that leads to the Perseverance Trail. When I let her off lead, she charges ahead then looks back to make sure I am still following my poodle-mix lead dog.

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We pass the old wooden chute that releases overflow from the flume carrying water to a small hydro plant behind the Salvation Army store downtown, head up a trail covered in drifted snow. Aki pushes on, porpoising in and out of the six-in-deep stuff. Soon she is plunging her muzzle in soft drifts and twisting her head when she comes up to cast off the flakes that stick to her gray fur. Most hangs on to give her a white mask.

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Only My Camera Cares

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It’s cold, cold enough to turn water seeping from mineral rich rocks on False Outer Point into frozen brown streams. Drips from exposed tree roots build up like candle wax on exposed grass blades. But the eagles still work the tidelands for food left behind by the ebbing tide. My old friend, the kingfisher looks for baitfish near the rocky shore. Even the simple sparrow flits among stalks of dried cow parsnip made stiffer by the freezing temperatures.

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Aki, wearing a felted covering, seems oblivious to the cold and wind. Other than taking extra care to avoid any water over ice, she acts like we are out for a summer outing. Am I the only one affected by the storm that has already obscured the mountains and glacier and carries snowflakes in its onshore wind? Technically, the answer to that question is, “no.” My digital camera turns on its self timer as I set up a shot of an eagle so I have to watch it glide with talons extended through my viewfinder while the camera counts to ten.

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The Downtown Life

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The neighborhood ravens, glued in place by a nearby tasty morsel, try to stare down Aki. Knowing she is tethered by a leash, the birds don’t fly away. Such complacence shows wisdom and, I’d like to think, trust in me. I wonder what makes the ravens’ feather coat so glossy. After we move off Chicken Ridge, they return to their morning meal. They aren’t bothered by the wind that dropped the effective temperature to zero.

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Aki isn’t bothered by the wind and cold. She keeps her nose down, leaves her marks, approaches homeless people with expectations of a friendly word, maybe a pat on the head. We mostly pass homeless as we walk through Juneau’s downtown core and up past the capital. They walk, head down, on alert for slick ice, wrapped in hand-me-down winter gear. They don’t acknowledge Aki or I. One carries a thick chunk of driftwood, too short for a walking stick but heavy enough to make a good club. Like a man no longer inhibited by pain, he chooses to walk into a wind that quickens our pace.

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Winter Comes This Way

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The snow is a pleasant surprise. We expected wind driven rain on the moraine. But fat flakes meander down onto the wet trail. Three inches of new snow will cover the ground by the time we finish the walk. Is winter finally strong enough to push away the wet fall weather? The temperature drops enough to allow a snow slurry to form over the moraine ponds as flakes collect in Aki’s gray fur. Minutes later, the ground snow is cold enough to squeak.

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Three bald eagles, apparently unaffected by the weather change, strike patriotic poses on the bare branches of cottonwood trees. One throws us a nasty look and flies off.

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Desert Dreams

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I wonder if Aki ever dreams of other climates when we walk down a rain forest trail on a hard day. I do. On this wet, windy transit of a north Douglas trail, I pretend that it will soon lead onto the south rim of the Grand Canyon just as the sun rises to set off the sunset colors of layered rock and sand. But the trail will never lead me out of this land of greens and browns so subtle that they could be shades of gray. It will take me to a beach exposed by an ebbing tide.

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The rain stops when we reach the beach. A gang of surly looking gulls watch us as a formation of four harlequin ducks patrols offshore. Further out, white caps tromp across Lynn Canal and clouds from today’s storm obscure the mountains. Small, unexpected waves of contentment wash though me, keeping time with the ones dying on the shore. As fat drops of rain again soak her fur, Aki gives me a look that might be an accusation that I have lost my mind or a plea to book us both space on a jet to Arizona.

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Mostly Ice

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I hope for snow farther out the road out of Juneau that runs almost due north along Lynn Canal for forty miles. About mile 20, the roadside ditches retain a burden of snow and patches of white form abstract patterns under the tall spruce trees. A thin snow blanket covers some of the Eagle River gravel bars but only rain-slick ice covers the trail was take along the river. The tracks of an early skier have hardened into ice. I wish I had been here last week to join him.

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Aki normally loves snow. She scoots the side of her face through it and then shake away any of the fluff that clings to her muzzle when she surfaces. Today, she avoids the white portions of the trail, trotting along behind me in a track left by one of those giant-tired bicycles. There is little life to interest the poodle-mix but she manages to entertain herself by analyzing tantalizing scents. She can’t see the seal that rode a flood tide up the river to search for late-run salmon. It squints in our direction before disappearing downriver, hardly making a splash during its exit.

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