Carless for the past few days, Aki and I have been limited to trails that begin and end at our front door. Our walks on them reminded me that even in our benign little town, there are winners and losers. The winners whistled or even smiled at my little dog as we walk past them in the rain. One young African-American man called out a hello followed by, “Stay white.” While pondering this possible mixed message, I passed the rubble of a homeless camp and the avaricious jewel merchants of Lower Franklin Street.

Today, again having wheels, we head out to the North Douglas Island trail that leads to a beach view of Shaman Island. At the end of a warm, wet summer, the fungus are winners here. So are the tall displays of devil’s club that thrive in forest opened by wind-felled spruce and hemlock trees.

I not sure whether the two kingfishers we spot consider themselves winners or losers. The hunker on rocks just offshore apparently waiting for a fingering to expose itself. A clump of gulls huddle along the mouth of Peterson Creek. Otherwise the little bay is empty. No eagles or ravens complain. No rafts of scoters or ducks bob in the mild surface.

Fog. It covers Mts. Juneau and Roberts. The temperature difference between Gold Creek and the air above it produces more fog that rises in ragged strips like souls floating to Nirvana. The fog allows me to focus on the cottonwoods that are already dropping their yellowing leaves. Leaves of maples and thimbleberries join the cottonwood rubble on the flume trail. Aki doesn’t recognize the significance of the leaves that she sniffs for dog sign. But I know they always start to drop before the fall monsoons.

Today Aki and I check out improvements on the Treadwell Ditch Trail, which follows the wood lined ditch that once carried water ten miles from Fish Creek to the mill works at the Treadwell mine site. Chinese immigrants dug the ditch over 100 years ago, cutting down huge, old growth spruce trees and busting a path through their roots. We don’t hear grunts or Chinese curses today, just the crunch of my boots on gravel and, when Aki spots another dog on the trail, her excited barks.

It’s raining. I’m pick blueberries. Aki whines and shivers. She waits for me to launch her Frisbee over the muskeg. But, I am in a harvest mood on this mountain meadow. Already the blue berry plant leaves yellow and redden toward their fall color. Some of the berries are over ripe and drop at the slightest touch. We need another gallon to get through the winter. But Aki whines so I toss the Frisbee and return to work. If the little dog were home and dry my mind would drift into areas where creative ideas are harvestable. But she is here, wet and pathetic. Tossing her Frisbee is the only creative thing I can to do.