Category Archives: Aki

Aki’s Birthday

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towerIt’s Aki’s birthday so I take her to the Treadwell ruins, a place frequented by many dogs. A light rain fell on the car when we drove here but it has stopped. Most of the frost and ice melted as the temperature rose last night, revealing some still-green leaves growing close to the ground. Aki smells and pees without canine company until we reach the beach and find a young couple kissing while a Chihuahua and Labrador circle them. With the dogs playing in the sand and the Juneau waterfront in the background, they could be posing for a travel poster—Come to Juneau, a town loved by lovers and dogs. Aki charges down the beach to the dogs, startling the lovers out of their almost chaste embrace. While she dashes around with the Chihuahua, I trace a line of relic wooden pilings out to a rectangular sided tower rising out of the channel. It could be the top of a submerged battlement but I know it is just the old air intake tower for the Treadwell mine.

waterfrontA mature bald eagle, head and tail the color of snow on Mt. Juneau, flies down channel a few feet off the water. Recognizing danger, three mallards burst off the water before the eagle can sink his talons into one of them. Usually eagles hunt by soaring over prey and then diving on them. One dove on Aki when she was a puppy. She had run down a different beach to play with a dog too far away for me to protect her. The eagle glided to a point several hundred feet above the little dog, circled and plummeted, talons forced forward like bayonets. Aki scampered into the woods before the eagle stuck. The smell of cooking hot dogs, not fear of danger saved her life. Maybe we should have hot dogs for dinner to celebrate her birthday. frost

 

Minimizing the Damage

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amalgaThis morning we drive out the road, passing through Juneau and by its glacier. We move beyond Auk Bay, the Alaska Marine Highway Terminal, Lena Cove, Tee Harbor, and The Shrine of St Teresa. Aki whines and squirms a bit each time we fail to stop of one of the trailheads along the way. She becomes almost pathetic when I slow to take the gravel road toward Amalga Meadows. The hysterics end when we move onto a little meadow covered with tall blades of died-back grass bent toward the ground by frost.

frosty iceLast night North Lights filled the sky and frost feathers thickened into dense crystalline rods. The latter rise up from the glass blades and radiate out from the otherwise naked willow branches. With her short legs, Aki has to perform a series of foot high leaps to move across the meadow. Each leap knocks loose a cascade of frost crystals that sounds like the warning of a rattlesnake. I have to stop several times for her to catch up.

Peterson CreekAfter crossing an ice-covered slough, we follow a series of otter trails up and over a forested hill. Now the little dog has the advantage. Like the short-legged otters, she can slip under fallen trees and barriers of devil’s club and blue berry bushes. She scampers while I struggle but is polite enough to wait for me at the bottom of the hill. Our roles reverse again when we drop onto another meadow. This times she walks in my wake. I break trail through knee-deep grass, sending frost rods flying with every step. Anyone could trace our progress by the strip of dead-tan grass we leave in our wake.

PondWe destroy beauty by simply moving through the country. I tell myself that it is silly to worry about it; that man’s presence always transforms. The key is to keep down the damage. Unless the wind and temperature rise tonight, more frost will form to cover our tracks. We are heading for the waterfall that releases water from the slough pond into salt water when a shotgun blast sounds. Aki cringes a little and oddly enough, so do I. She gives me her “why can’t you read my mind” look. “Well little dog, has my kind done enough damage for the day?” She doesn’t answer. Hey, she is just a dog. But she does break back down the brown trail we made through the grass.

Beauty Carved by God, Not Man

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frost feathersAki and I came to this trail at the end of the North Douglas Highway because it is cold and sunny, and the lack of wind last night has allowed frost feathers to form on the trailside plants. We arrived now because the morning sun always brings our beauty in frost feathers. In truth Aki, the miniature poodle mix cares little for visual beauty. The strong sun hurts her eyes. But she has a ball charging up and down the boardwalk trail, sounding like a galloping horse.

Big treesThe below freezing weather has firmed up a normally muddy trail along Peterson Creek, which leads out of the frost ferry land and into a solemn mixed alder and hemlock forest. No ice covers the creek so it reflects the grey and white trunks of alders that lean for sunlight over the water. I crunch over fat bladed grass, drained of all color but winter tan, covered with frost yet to be lit by the sun, to the edge of an oxbow bend where the dark shadows of alders crisscross the reflection of a bright winter sky.

creek reflectionsIt feels a holy place, a sanctuary. Like a dark corner of Chartres Cathedral, I can stand in this calm world of grey and search the shadows for beautiful shapes, carved by God, not man; see the colors of redemption shine through the prisms of frost feathers, not stained glass.AKI

Hunting Beauty, Not Ducks

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McGinnisIt is hard to know whether to look up or down. Our first cold snap has crisped up the trail, freezing up the muddy bits and decorating sand bars with frost feathers. Most of the moraine lakes are completely covered by a thin sheet of opaque ice that just manages to catch the mountains’ reflections. So while Aki sniffs and pees I look down at the frost and up at the white covered mountains looking spiffy in the late afternoon sun.

frostThere still be some open water because we hear a shotgun fired nearby. Somebody is taking one last shot at the ducks before they move out to salt water. I think I heard the hunter’s comic sounding duck call when we circled one of the lakes. Without the hunter, we would have silence. Even the squirrels are mum. Maybe that is what I like the best about winter weather. We usually have silence, especially during heavy snow to go with the beauty.Thunder reflection

Supplicant Trees

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north trees

Today the first freezing weather arrived on Chicken Ridge. The sun appeared and the wind did not. But it is mid November, a month and change from the shortest day of the year so the sun only brushes the tops of the North facing valley wall at noon. In the gloom beneath the bright white mountain top, naked cottonwoods, each 100 feet tall, each as thick at the bell as middle-aged spruce trees, form arthritic silhouettes. They dropped their pretense at growing when they dropped the last of their inverted teardrop leaves. Now they stand like supplicants to the sun, as if ready to sacrifice one of their own to bring back the rich spring light. Maybe they have. A felled cottonwood lies near the trail.

Mt. Juno trees

New Sun

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Mt. McAki and I returned to the Eagle River today and find a land going to rest. The clouds and their brother fog provide all the drama. The siblings let the sun slant rays through the old growth forest where it manages to infuse beauty into lifeless devil’s club leaves. We have no sun on the big tidal meadow but fog tears itself on spruce of the foothill forests. Above, the north face of Mt. McGinnis shines in full sun, its fresh snow looking bright and new like still wet white paint.old growth sun

Aki’s Ghost

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gullsI don’t like it when Aki barks during beach walks. Looking over my shoulder I can’t spot the object that has set her off this time. There is a large metal drainpipe mangled by strong tides. Sometimes the little dog barks at such dark shapes. Sometimes she just barks, as if telling a loitering ghost to move on to heaven or hell. Her alarm apparently doesn’t bother the mallard ducks and glaucous-winged gulls that float just shore. Maybe they see Aki’s ghost. It ticks me off since I am trying to sneak up on what look like crows down the beach. They turn out to the remnants of pilings for a wharf that once serviced the AJ Mine.Aki and JF

Down channel the towns of Juneau and Douglas disappear under white, rain-charged clouds but we are in the dry. We are also alone except for the birds. It is two hours short of a 19.1 foot high tide. Already the flood lifts mallard ducks, lesser scaups, and the gulls off their shrinking sand bars lunch counters. Eventually, it will cover the beach and wash away all traces of our passage over the sand. Maybe it will carry away the large lion mane jellyfish that Aki stopped to sniff. In eight more hours we could return to hunt for other things deposited by the retreating tide.down channel

Tough Old Trees

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old treeI’ve taken many pictures of the bull pines and mountain hemlocks on this meadow. None have captured the life force that drives their struggle on poorly drained soil. Their ability to root in soil too marginal to support the tall spruce gains them an open place in the sun. It also slows their growth and leaves them to face harsh winter winds alone. The old ones have the twisted limbs of an arthritic. They could have stood here when Joe Juneau and Richard Harris stumbled up Gold Creek and later when gangs of Chinese laborers dug out the nearby Treadwell Ditch. They have managed to survive long enough to watch Aki pee on one of their brothers. But, given the number of dying trees on the meadow, I wonder how many more winters they have left.reflection

Fishing for Images

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MLThis is supposed to be a fishing trip. With the trees now bare of leaves, clouds blocking the mountains, and rain discouraging the use of a digital camera, fishing seemed to be the best use of the day. Since it is small, I slipped the camera into the day back at the last minute.

CLAki is wet in minutes. My gear holds up better but she doesn’t appear to care. We have the place to ourselves until we run into the volunteer beaver patrol. Armed with sturdy, three-pronged rakes, they are opening up a key waterway so late run coho salmon can reach their gravel spawning beds. This involves deconstructing beaver dams. Since they concentrate on building up their winter woodpile, the beavers won’t undo the patrol’s work until the salmon have moved through.

stumpThe patrol’s efforts also allow recently submerged human trails to dry out. Aki and I take several to various fishing spots around the moraine. We are too early or too late for catching dolly vardens. At two of the lakes I watch trout rise in the center of lake. I was tempted to wait for them to swim to us but Aki looks bored and, since she is wet, a little pathetic.

CL IIThe clouds rise during our walk to reveal Thunder Mountain and the sharp peaks that surround the glacier. Standing on a still intact beaver dam, I watch the wake of a bufflehead duck and two companions ripple the image of mountains, clouds, and fog enriched by lake waters. This time of year, the surfaces of lakes provide the richest beauty.

Speed of the Stream

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meadowWe leave Chicken Ridge early hoping to get in a hike before the arrival of forecasted 60 miles an hour winds and rain. A thick cloud layer blocks the morning sun like a leaden cover. When we start up the road to OUR mountain meadow trail, a cosmic hand lifts the cover and let the sun shines on the car and the freshly white mountain peaks to the north. Not trusting the strength of that hand, I fret that the sunlight will vanish before we reach the meadow trail.

darkThe yellow light still shines on the meadow when Aki leaps out of the car but fades to gray before I’ve taken more than a few photographs. Sunlight will blink through for a few second at a time during our hike but only it will confuse my digital camera. Without its rich distraction I can appreciate reflections of the bordering mountain ridges in the meadow small ponds, even those broken by fading lily pads.

board walk refAki finds little to distract her on this walk. No dogs come charging up the trail; no squirrels declare the forest a no trespass zone. She still dashes about, tail wagging, nose to the ground as we climb to higher ground. She shows surprising patience when I stop on a flat section of trail and start Tai Chi warm-up exercises. It’s the prefect place for it—the edge of a pocket muskeg meadow separated from a mountain wall by Fish Creek. I face the mountains at commencement, offering an invisible globe to the avalanche chutes. Am I performing a pagan liturgical dance? Aki stands by as I single whip, wave hands, brush knee, parry, punch, block, and finally, push the mountain. I offer another invisible globe to the mountain and pet Aki. For the first time since entering the meadow, I feel in sync with the place, as if my life energy flows at the speed of the stream.