This morning the little dog and I sought a trail that wasn’t covered with mushy snow. We found it in the strip of forest that curls around the north end of Douglas Island. The trail there was bare and made for easy walking except where remnants of snow covered the path. An invisible cloud of small birds—dark-eyed juncos and chickadees—almost deafened us with their insect-like chirping. 

            Water poured over the beaver’s dam, which was still covered with decaying ice. Yellow-green shoots of skunk cabbage pushed up through the ice. It felt like winter had abandoned the forest, retreating into the still snow-covered mountains of the Douglas Island Ridge. 

            On the beach fronting the forest, eagles relaxed on the top of waterside-rocks. A scattering of mallards waddled in and out of tiny lines of surf. High tides had flushed away most of the snow from the beach. But no green leaves climbed up the dead stalks of beach grass. Is this another false spring?  

Sunshine lights up our street just as Aki and I pass out the front door. We walk onto our unploughed street and into a very confused weather situation. The sun’s appearance didn’t end a snow shower that began a couple of hours. Newly-whitened Mt. Juneau shines bright in the sunshine while snow clouds darken the skies over Gastineau Channel. A croaking raven flies over our heads, snowflakes softening its silhouette against the blue sky. Before we reach the end of the block, the gray returns. 

            We drop down the hill, passing the grounds of the Catholic church where a sparrow, nestled into a nest of snow, sings its spring song.  The lilting melody cannot end winter, or even stop the falling snow. But I take a little time to enjoy it.

            Later, while climbing up Gastineau Avenue, we hear a more seasonal bird song—the complaints of two eagles perched in a cottonwood tree. 

It froze hard last night. The skies cleared enough to expose the moon slipping in and out of cloud cover like a sneak thief. Aki and I breakfasted early and headed out to visit Sheep Creek. I made of point of checking the avalanche warning sign as we left the Juneau outskirts. It warned that the road would be closed this afternoon while a helicopter dropped explosive charges onto the Mt. Robert’s snow pack. Unless the dropper screws up, the snow he dislodges with his charges won’t reach the road. But it has happened.

            The little dog and I will be home before the first charge is dropped. But I still feel nervous driving through the two-mile-long avalanche zone. The car manages to skid to a stop in the trailhead parking lot. It’s pretty icy, little dog. Aki does a better job than I maneuvering across the slick parking lot and down a short trail to beach. Last night’s tide swept the creek delta clear of snow and ice, eliminating any chance of a nasty fall. 

A nearby eagle screams out a warning, sounding like an over vigilant homeowner warning off trespassers.  It’s the only bird sound we will hear this morning. I can’t see the eagle or the usual ravens, gulls, or ducks that make their living along Sheep Creek. The place seems scoured clean of birds by the strong morning light. I want to rush out to the ponds formed near the shore of Gastineau Channel by current and tide. If we hurry, we can enjoy the reflection of Sheep Mountain in the ponds before the wind arrives to fracture it. 

Aki hangs back at the snow edge, using her mental powers to force me to arc back so we can walk along a line of sand dunes towards the old ore house. But I can be as stubborn as the little dog. When I am halfway to the first pond, Aki breaks into a trot to join me. But, by making me turn back often to check on her, she slowed my progress. The wind is just ruffling the first pond when we reach it.  The mountain reflection in another pond is ruined by surface ice. Neither ice nor wind bothers the third pond, which holds a clear reverse image of Mt Jumbo and the Douglas Mountain Ridge. 

Aki stands on the other side of a thick strip of slick ice. She crossed it with only a minor slip, thanks to the handy nails on her claws. I was trying to figure out the best way to cross the barrier when she moved to the other side with a poodle’s nonchalance. I could call her back but I’d like to join her on the False Outer Point beach trail. All that stands between me and it is the two-meter thick ice stream.

            Hunching over like one of my Neanderthal ancestors, I crab across the ice, reaching the relative safety of the snowy trail in time to bag a pile of poop just deposited by the little dog. Fortunately, I only have to leap across an icy section of trail to reach the trash can.

            The usual raft of Barrow golden eye ducks float just off the beach. But the usual rope of severed seaweed is absent. Recent storm tides must have carried it away. In exchange, the tide dropped a driftwood log—the corpse of a hemlock that had been twisted by years exposed to the wind. One of the knotholes mimics the eye of a judgmental whale. No human abstractionist could capture the life story of the tree that is there in the tree’s grain for any passerby to see.

            I stumble on a barnacled-covered rock while rounding the point. The sound of it startles an eagle to flight. As snow pellets start to fall, the eagle catches an updraft and is soon high over Fritz Cove.  As Aki waits patiently by my side, the eagle circle over the water. In seconds its mate joins it. A minute later there are four eagles circling above the cover, then six. Together they climb until lost to use in the snow clouds.