Category Archives: Aki

Noisy Library

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This trail to the Wetlands wanders along a gentle contour line through spruce and hemlock trees to the beach. Aki and I have it to ourselves on grey but dry morning. Perhaps remembering all the birds and seals we have seen on the beach in the past, she pushes ahead, ignoring spats of white eagle spoor and down scattered on the understory plants. The big birds use the forest as a waiting place. Today, with the beach exposed by a minus tide, they must be there.

Keeping up with Aki’s breakneck pace I reach the beach in minutes and find nothing but a diminished river flowing to the sea. No shore birds hunt on the clam flats and no waterfowl pass us on the river. Even though it’s time for the chum salmon to move up river in their green and red spawning stripes, none break the water surface.

What was once a theatre has become a library so I concentrate on stories written on the rocks and beach grass. Above the high tide line a collection of rocks sport orange lichen and white eagle spoor. Nearby grass white/gray gull feathers and one of an immature bald eagle lay trapped in the tall beach grass. The faint tracks of a wandering snail mark flat beach rocks. God could use the tracks to communicate with His people but I can’t decipher the message, which will soon disappear under the incoming tide.

 

The last lesson lays in the a small “V” shaped cove where the line between wet and dry gravel marks last’s night’s high tide. In the trees above ravens begin a strange song that starts with a low croak and cascades up in a short series of harmonious notes. Then an eagle breaks from a beach side spruce. Looking beyond we spot the birds.

There are eagles, of course, and little waders.  Two mature Bald Eagles perch on separate drift wood snags and look toward shaman Island. A gang of gulls feed near the river’s edge. To reach them we have to cross a large sand flat infested with clams. Some squirt water over the sand when we start walking toward the gulls. Getting closer I am pleased to discover they are Bonaparte’s. The petite black headed guys look toylike on this beach dominated by ravens and eagles.  Aki must respect them too for she doesn’t chase the gulls even when they fly a low trajectory away from us down the beach.

 

Glory in the Mundane

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Aki searches for friends on this dog walker trail but I sink into the calming grayness of this overcast day.  Our simple walk into the mountains starts at the front door then climbs along Gold Creek and into the Perseverance Basin. After passing the old Craftsman houses on Basin Road we turn onto a high wooden bridge where the sound of Gold Creek begins to carry away last’s week’s stress.

Common trees and plants dominate this portion of the canyon. Cotton Wood trees rise tallest here now having scattered the last of their seed down over the understory. Aki sneezes when sniffing white islands of down formed at trail edge. Some of them join other seeds hitching a ride in her fur.

The white flowers of our humble Thimble Berry lay open to the grey light. Some petals fall into cupped leafs below to mix with Cotton Wood down. I understand, for the first time, how they could be called beautiful.

Leaving the main trail we transit a flat forest formed in a Gold Creek oxbow. Treasures grow inside — the purple blue blooms of a Monkshood mixing with a few red Wild Cucumber berries. The Monkshood’ pious beauty gives no warning of the plant’s poisonous nature.  Just beyond on ground whitened by Cotton Wood down is a huddle of Ink Cap mushrooms.  These finds please me beyond reason but that is normal when finding a bit of glory surrounded by the mundane.  

Harvest Time

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A child could re-create this riverine forest with green and brown crayons. Without strong sunlight to bring out detail the plant forms blend into a restful mass.  Aki and I walk through it in silence.  I spook a Varied Thrust which flies without squawk or song into a cottonwood to stare down on us in silence. Wanting to keep my hands free of repellant for berry picking I’m defenseless against mosquitos but none buzz by. It’s as if all the animals have deserted this lovely place except for a far off raven croaking out complaints.

Many would relish an opportunity to walk through this quiet verdant place. Having enjoyed a fair bit of drama lately I’m jaded enough to look for some flash but only a light shower of white cottonwood seed down breaks the monopoly of green. The feathery white flakes drift down to collect in the palms of devil’s clump leaves like snow.  There is this small spike of white orchid blossoms smelling like Parisian perfume and just ripe blueberries — our first forest harvest of the season. Using the last of my five senses in the forest I savor their complex tartness.

Human voices reach us when we near the forest edge made by a family of three. They talk loudly to warn the bears of their presence. We hear then long after passing then on the trail and I am relieved when Aki and I reach the big tidal flats. Here a dozen bald eagles have spread themselves at the edge of the water. They all look seaward, as if monitoring the progress of our large gill net fleet now harvesting sockeye salmon as they try to reach their spawning grounds on the Chilkoot River.

A murder of crows form a dark line on a shrinking island of sand. Some bicker for space but most just search the sand for food. Beyond them a large dark shape breaks the surface. I guess whale but it is too far off for me to be sure. I lead Aki over the sand flats toward the water to get a better look. Some dogs might chase after crows or eagles but she stays quietly by my side. Nearby a mature eagle stands, its talons gripping a small piece of drift wood. We circle it at a respectful distance until it stands between my camera and the Herbert Glacier. 

Absence

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Absence is the theme for this walk around False Outer Point. I stay away from here during early summer when the chance of catching a king salmon from shore draws big crowds. Then bon fires burn on this beautiful beach and a community of fishermen form on the point. Today, with the kings now up in the spawning streams, only one car sits in the trailhead parking lot.

Aki loves this trail and I have to hurry down it to keep up with her and she charges ahead. She slows where we reach the crescent beach, now half exposed by the outgoing tide. The signs of man are everywhere but I can’t spot the owner of the other car. Someone has fashioned a spiral shaped labyrinth out of smooth beach stones but we don’t try it.

When Aki stops to drink from a runoff stream I scan the ocean for life and at first see only timber covered islands and the glacier beyond. No whales, porpoise, ducks or geese appear. Then a large dog salmon performs several leaps out of the water, ending each with a happy splash. It’s as if he wants one last celebration before the fight for spawning space in the redds.

A noisy gang of crows occupies the point. After chasing off the ravens and eagles that usually hang out here, they have little patience for us. A couple fly low over me but don’t bother with Aki. By rounding the point we reach a pocket meadow still moist from the retreating tidal water. Surrounded by barnacle incrusted rocks, only salt tolerant plants can survive in the meadow. I can’t remember seeing one like it on our other travels. 

The sun breaks through briefly to light up the golden yellow rock weed covering portions of the beach nearest the water. Only artists that can recreate this color on canvas have a chance of conveying the beauty of a Southeast Alaska beach to others.

Around the next headland I spot two people sharing a conversation in a flat grassy spot between trees and the beach. As we approach I can see their camping gear. When they spot us, the campers begin to pack things away. The woman, at first standing straight and upright, bends her torso like a dancer taking a bow. Her hair forms a blond cascade that bounces as she stuffs a sleeping bag into its stuff sack.

The campers move quickly enough to raise suspicion.  Are they embarrassed by being caught acting out what seemed like a good idea last night at the Imperial Bar? More likely they are hurrying back to town for hot breakfast and good coffee. 

They’ve camped just beyond a trail junction where Aki and I take a path leading into the woods so we don’t meet them. I stop from time to time to pick blue berries, which gives the campers time to almost catch up. The possibility of them doing this causes me to walk faster until we leave the main trail from a seldom used route that will lead to the car. The campers, who must own the other car parked by the trailhead must also know the way for I hear the man’s voice rising above forest bird song when we reach the road to home.

Arriving back at the parking lot just before the campers I am relieved to have avoided the forest equivalent of an awkward elevator moment—the one where you are in an tall building’s elevator with someone your barely know that works for your employer.  Stuck in a moving box you first wrestle with whether to initiate a conversation and then after giving in to that temptation, the effort to maintain it until the elevator debouches one of you. The conversation is always about the weather. I can only talk about rain for so long. 

Trading Solitude for Sun

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Rice, smoked salmon and ripe avocado rolled up in nori (dried seaweed)— comfort  food in our Southeast Alaska home especially when taken with dark Swedish coffee. Aki watches me eat it from her perch on the sofa arm. She doesn’t mind. She had her smoked salmon for breakfast before our passage through the Troll Woods.  

The morning sun made a surprise appearance on the moraine trail leading to the woods. We see blue sky reflected in calm lake waters and sunlight gathered on the rain soak plants growing along the trail. Wanting solitude more than sun this morning I take Aki into the Troll Woods, which is still as cold as the previous night. We move down the moss covered trail in silence and peace until Aki stops to inspect a scene of small devastation. Shattered pieces of Broomrape lay on the trail, its roots dug from the ground by a passing bear.  We find more dig sites further up the trail. Aki takes it all calmly so I know the bear isn’t near.  Our relationship is like that. She relies on me to pick the right path while I expect her to warn of danger. Each have expectations for the other and most are fulfilled.

I take out the camera while approaching the young beaver’s lake in hope of a photo of him near the shore. That plan is shattered by the splash of a large bird dog and the loud voices of it’s owners. We wait at the edge of the woods for them to move on. They do but the beaver does not reappear.

We take a seldom used side trail to the flooded beaver lands but high water cuts off the path. Aki barks a greeting to a noisy gang of dog walkers moving along a parallel path.  I want to tell her not to reveal our location to the enemy. It’s time to back track to the car.

We could secure solitude by taking the Troll Woods path but now sunshine floods the open moraine trail so I forgo silence for light. Aki should be pleases as it increases her chances of running into other dogs. One does appear — a black lab plunges into one of the beaver lakes. Aki must have heard the commotion but stays quietly at my side. Together we walk in the sun to the car.   

A Life of Adventure, Then Patience

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This boulder has no soul. I know this and know that it does not breathe, bleed or feel emotion. If it did we could admire it for courage and patience.  An advancing glacier ripped it into life from a granite bed and carried it toward the sea. When riding in the interface of land and ice the boulder cut long straight grooves in the passed over rock. Later the ice entombed it until it broke to the glacier’s surface. Then the glacier retreated back over this flat ground and dropped the boulder here where we call it an erratic.

Imprisoned by inertia, its life of adventure over, the erratic rested here with patience, as naked as the rest of the moraine left behind by the failing river of ice.  Pioneering moss moved in and softened all sharp corners with a brown and green blanket. That’s what Aki and I see today.

A troll could pass through this moss covered boulder field without making a sound or stubbing a toe. We enter it and wander in rain until we get just lost enough to inject some adventure. Aki hangs back at my heels but doesn’t break back to the trail. Without landmarks I take the easiest path through the woods. We could be miles lost. Aki breaks suddenly to the right, runs ten feet, and then turns back with an invitation to follow. I do and soon we are back on a trail lined in thick green brush and a scattering of pearl pink orchids. 

First Harvest

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In the northern rain forest you don’t measure high summer by heat but by the progress of salmon and the ripeness of berries.  We must be there because eagles and ravens line trees along salmon streams while king and dog salmon fight for space on the spawning redds.  Along this trail through the old growth woods ripe blue berries confirm the season. I harvest my first while Aki waits just down the trail.

The berry, grown on a bush fertilized by decayed leaves, tastes more bitter than sweet. I decide to leave the rest to ripen and move down the trail. After this first act of harvest I only have eyes for plants that bear fruit rather than beauty. Aki, wanting to reach the beach ranges far ahead while I stop often to check for ripeness.

The tide is well out when we reach the beach. A eagle complains loudly then flies over our heads being pursued by a single diminutive crow.   An army of other crows fill the beach side trees and range over the exposed tidelands searching for food. Knowing they will actively resent our presence I lead Aki back into the woods to further measure the progress of summer.  

July 4th Escape

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We Americans make too much noise celebrating Independence Day. In Juneau it started last night with an evening of amateur pyrotechnics that ended with a professional display at midnight. Firework rockets exploding over Gasteneau Channel appeared to set the clouds on fire while echoing canon fire off the walls of Mt. Jumbo. It sends Aki into a frightened confusion that only ends with the last bomb blasts.

This morning there was more noise made by the downtown parade — Scottish and American marching bands, honking trucks, grinding mine vehicles, and the whine of two cycle miniature car engines driven by Shriners in funny hats.  Not being a big fan of noise for noise sake, I think we would be better off celebrating the holiday reading the Declaration of Independence from England, signed July 4th, 1776.

Looking for some quiet time Aki and I drive out the road to a salt chuck meadow. Seeing two not before noticed boards laid seductively across a road side ditch I park the car and lead Aki across the portal. A green field awaits beyond that sports creamy arctic cotton, purple lupine and spikes of the hooded ladies tresses orchids. There is silence here. No cruise ship horns, helicopter noise, airplane roar reaches. We wander about, crossing a barrier of spruce trees then entering another meadow dominated by an orchard of crab apple trees just now setting fruit. Nearby Aki finds a large patch of orange colored moss that has been disturbed here and there by a foraging bear. She  rolls on to her back and squirms with pleasure on the soft moss.  I’ve never seen her look happier.

Following animal trails we make our way to a gravel path that leads over a small coastal hill to a pocket beach. Large ferns crowd the trail but we have no problem making headway.  Two eagles break from the trail side spruce when we approach then we hear a series of low warning whistles from a marmot. The big cavia stands erect and as gray as the granite rock he stands upon. Rounding the corner we spot his mate looking out from the door of their tree root home. He issues one more shrill warning whistle and then both marmots go to ground. Only then does Aki decide to bark, bless her. 

Skirting the beach we take a lightly used forest path to a pocket beach with plans on continuing on to another cove. It’s just high tide, which will block further passage for another 20 minutes so we find a comfortable outcropping of rock to wait.  I doze then awake to see a seal break the surface just off shore. We watch him slowly approach our perch, rise a foot or so out of the water and then sink under the water. They are such curious critters. 

Trying to Stay Happy in the Palm of God

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Natural beauty should move people to a respectful place. Great beauty can you place you content in God’s palm. Today Aki and I are surrounded by landscape compelling enough to move anyone except the person who fired 30 bullets into this trash can and then set it on fire.

Following Aki across the pedestrian bridge over Montana Creek I let the roar of  creek waters ease me into the woods. The creek is high from snow melt and recent rainfall.  A half a mile in Aki urges me to take a small trail down to the creek side. Here years ago a large Sitka Spruce tree, uprooted by high water, fell in a perpendicular line across the creek. It’s top fell just upstream of a glacier erratic, which anchored it.

Stream floods delivered sand and gravel to fill in behind the massive trunk and now to is a three foot high dam that salmon must leap over to reach the spawning redds. I’d like to return and watch silver salmon, in their spawning colors, gather in the pool just down river from the log and then take turns launching themselves over it. We might also see a bear on the log waiting to pick off a flying silver with its jaws.

We don’t need to wait until spawning season to find beauty along this creek. Here is a crisp hoof print just left in the sand by a deer. There lies the print of a bear that I examine until Aki obscures it with her muzzle. Just the way simple rain drops gather morning light on this wild cucumber stalk now setting flowers can make forget the damage of man.  

High Summer in the Troll Woods

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It’s day two of sun. Tomorrow they forecast rain so Aki are crossing through the troll woods with plans to skirt around the flooded beaver lands while they are still in high summer.

A sad and desperate call dominates the woods when we pass beyond reach of the road noise. The simple song could be sung by a loon but it lacks the erie complexity of their music. Again and again the bird calls out as if keening his dead — a jarring contrast to warming sun on my face and the happy work songs of their other birds.

There is no one to ask about the sorrowful bird song. We are alone on this windless morning. Something crashes out of the water just as we reach the shore of one of the moraine lakes. It’s the noisy beaver we watched cruise back and forth across the lake a few weeks ago. There is a small causeway, maybe half a meter across, that we must cross to get to the main trail. It separates the lake from a small outlet stream. The beaver stops on the causeway long enough for me to realize he is small and maybe only a year old. Then he slips into the water to begin his swim back and forth across the narrow foot of the lake. Like the last time on each lap he slaps his tail and dives just before reaching the lake shore. 

After watching the beaver for a bit Aki and return to the causeway to figure out the deal. The beaver has been busy hauling mud from the lake to a small dam he has started on the outlet stream. The dam is not needed to maintain the lake level. Maybe the beaver doesn’t know that. Maybe he needs the damn to mark this as his territory.  That would explain all the overt swimming and tail slapping behavior, which could be designed to keep away other beavers looking for territory. Whatever the reason, the beaver’s dam building is a dangerous activity for this section of the trail gets heavy use by dog walkers, some accompanied by beasts big enough to do in the beaver.

Not wishing to cause the beaver more stress we move down trail to where an old beaver dam offers access to high ground surrounding Norton Lake. It’s our only option as beavers have flooded out the main trail. Here we find newly hatched dragon flies glittering in the sun. I love the electric blue ones that some call darning needles. Mine might be the last generation to know what inspired the nickname. Out of the lake ducks drift without much effort. I find an oddly passive huddle of ducks in some nearby reeds. 

At first I think the stationary ducks are someone’s decoys that ended up tangled together in the reeds. Then I noticed that they were covered with tuffs of white down, which along with the piercing gaze of one of the ducks suggests they are alive but molting. Later I checked some reference books and realized that they must be escaped decoys.

After circumnavigating the lake on the beaver’s logging trails we return to the Troll  Woods for the trip home. The wind is up now, erasing all the beautiful reflections I enjoyed on the Troll Wood lakes. We pass a little pocket lake — the one where I can only find one drake duck. We saw him this morning and I wondered if he sang the keening song we heard at the beginning of the hike.  On this return trip we find he has no cause to cry. A hen with 7 or 8 chicks swims on his lake.