The smell of fresh-sawn spruce was the first clue. Saw dust on the trail and a nearby jumble of tree rounds confirmed that the wind blew down another tree while we were in Idaho. The wind that dropped this one, snapped off the trunk of another nearby mature spruce. 

When nature takes beautiful trees like these, I try to accept it like I try to accept that death is a necessary part of life. But first I allow myself a little moment to mourn. 

             Aki would prefer to keep moving. But she stands without complaint, shivering as rain soaks into her curls. I look from the downed spruce to other, older wind-fallen tress. Electric green moss softens their lines. Hundreds of spruce and hemlock seedlings have sunk their roots into the rotting nursery logs. Nature wastes nothing when left alone by man. 

Having pushed Aki to the point of impatience, I start down the trail before the little dog starts to whine. 

I can’t find Aki. While I stood and stared at plops of snow hitting the surface of Mendenhall River, she disappeared. We are in too thick a brush for an eagle ambush. So I look into the woods, rather up at sky when searching for the little dog. The bears are in their winter dens but wolves and coyotes still hunt the moraine for rabbits, which are grey and about her size. I whistle our summoning tune. When she doesn’t appear, I wonder if I will ever see Aki again. 

            Is the little dog punishing me? She was put out by the new vacuuming robot that this morning made her retreat under the bed. She is an elder dog, 84 in dog years. But does she have the depth to plan revenge? 

     I could trudge back up the snow covered trail to search for her. But I don’t know if she is already waiting for me at the car. I head slowing toward the trailhead. In a minute she is trotting by my side, looking a little smug. 

Aki and I head out to the Sheep Creek delta, hoping to sneak in a walk before the wind rises and the sun is swallowed by clouds. One look at the Gastineau Channel tells me that we are too late. Wind pouring off the ice field has already raised a mist where the channel meets Taku Inlet. Froth-covered waves march up the channel toward Juneau town. Aki wants to stay in the splash zone grass where the wind can’t touch her. 

            I want to follow the sun out onto the exposed gravel. Aki hangs back until the distance between us becomes too great for her to stand. Then she walks just downwind of me, hoping to find some protection from the thirty-knot gusts whipping up channel. But I offer poor protection from the wind. She dashes ahead, as if trying to out run the wind. But it is there, waiting for her when she next stops. 

            Knowing that the little dog wants to turn back, I lead her towards the grass-covered sand dune that protects the site of the old ore house. Only one of us minds it when the sun disappears for the day in a wall of clouds.