Another day of low clouds, mild temperatures and rain. Such conditions never dampens Aki’s love of the North Douglas forest trails to the beach, For me, it is a day for hearing, not seeing special things. The jackhammer .rhythm of a sapsucker provides a pace. Overhead, just above the canopy, the leader of a line of geese gives a single honk. We startle a small raft of mallards and they burst up from an opening in ice made by a stream flow into a muskeg pond. They are gone before I can see more than their characteristic wing pattern. On the beach, when we are just abeam of Shaman Island, I hear a splash like a child makes by tossing a large rock into a pond. Near the island a bald eagle, talon deep in the ocean, struggles to free itself from the water. Two other eagles cry and circle around the scene. The partially submerged eagle manages to fly off but without anything in its talons to show for it. I think of the men and women on nearby False Outer Point, who also fish in the rain for king salmon.

Across the channel from the Treadwell ruins, the boring buildings on the Rock Dump port form a community of colored boxes. Cheap and almost durable, they do the job, but nothing more; make no attempt to lift a viewer’s spirits. On the Treadwell side, the forces of decay have nibbled away at the symmetry of wooden pilings so they now squat like Naguchi inspired chess pieces on the exposed sand. In the woods, similar forces pit complex patterns into the iron pipes, gears, and valves that once served the gold mine. They even attack alder and cottonwood trees by covering graceful limbs with electric green moss. On the channel, decay delivers more beauty than architects. If only we could harness decay or organize bacteria into flying squadrons of artists.