Category Archives: Beavers

Myths of Spring

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The calendar claims that Spring waits outside our door but snow still covers the moraine and ice the beaver ponds.  Wrapping Aki in her red fleece coat I grab the skis and head to the glacier. We find a good surface for traveling but no dogs for Aki to greet. She hides her disappointment in a search for clues left by recent visitors and, when we reach their village, the beavers.

P1100479Someone has dismantled their large dam, replacing their miniature hockey rink with a sad scene—-mud, fractured pond ice,fallen cottonwoods. We can’t find beaver tracks in the softening snow. Aki heads deeper into their village until I call her back. No sense adding to their stress.

Returning to the main trail we find tracks resembling those left by very large bare human feet but with deformed big toes.  These are deep, crisp impressions in the snow with icy sides and bottoms as if made in the heat of the day by something of great bulk. We find them where the trail bisects a grove of trees killed years ago by beaver formed floods.  I look around for someone to confirm our find but Mt. McGinnis, with sun in his eyes is the only other presence.

Do I credit it a hoax or confirmation of Big Foot? Wanting a return to firmer ground I lead Aki further into the moraine and then to Mendenhall Lake and a view of it’s glacier dropping out of the clouds. A shaft of light fights its way through the cloud cover to hit a portion of the ice fall, now a translucent light blue under the sudden illumination. This is something man can not duplicate or distort to legend—at least not yet.

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Spotlights of Spring

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Seamus, the digital display on our electronic thermometer, has dressed himself in shorts and sunglasses and promises an outside temperature of 45(f). Seamus sometimes lies but not today. From our kitchen window on Chicken Ridge I can see sunlight bouncing off the waters of Gasteneau Channel, bringing the whitest highlights out of the snow covering Douglas Island.

Aki, who has spent her morning inside contemplating the unfairness of a poodle’s life, throws all sadness aside to bounce around the living room as I collect the paraphernalia of adventure—water bottle. camera, dog leash. In a half and hour we are dropping through the old growth forest on one of her favorite trails— the one leading to a wide curving beach between False and True Outer Point.

L1190745Sun may be driving cold from beach and ridge but beneath the thick forest canopy winter holds on making me wish I had worn a wool rather than cotton hat. Shafts of light do penetrate down, mottling the forest understory like the floor of an old barn. In the beaver manufactured swamp one shaft spotlights a yellow knot of emerging skunk cabbage plants while the surrounding dark water forms a mirror for the surrounding trees.

The beach is empty of dog, man and bird when we emerge onto it. There is sun light to stand in and to bring a rich mixture of lights and darks to the snow covered Chilkat Mountains across Lynn Canal. Aki wants to keep to the beach with its sun and promise of dog encounters  but follows without protect when I return to the cool forest drama.

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The Ice Holds

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The moraine during a late winter thaw like this offers some danger but also some award. A firm crust covers the snow pack to offer easy access to places normally blocked by beaver ponds. The thinning ice covering the ponds injects the danger.  Several times today we chose between safe but cumbersome passage through softwood thickets and sliding freely over ice that may yield over very cold water.

L1190620Ice and men have a complicated relationship. If young and passing in a group near an ice covered lake in spring or fall, they will urge the bravest or weakest willed to test its strength. Aki sniffs the tracks of one who ventured alone 50 meters on thin ice then returned to shore. I, young once, recreate the experience—fear making each step lighter than the last, friends still on safe ground urging speed, the delicious mix of trill and fear that fades to just fear at the ripping sound of a crack forming under foot, radiating out brothers in sisters in every direction you could take.   Sometimes the crack opens to drop you into a lake or slough where the shock warms you enough to crawl onto firmer ice. Most times the ice supports your embarrassed, but dry retreat to shore.

L1190655Since Aki is nonjudgmental, we don’t test the lake ice but move to the river with plans to follow it to the glacier fronted lake.  Others have worn a deep path in the snow cover trail. It’s walls block Aki’s view of the moraine. Rather than dash about as usual she follows in my skis, which find a good balance between slide and grip on the firm surface snow. We make good time to the river but I have to take off my skis to cross where recent washouts denuded the trail.

If true winter doesn’t return, this magic door of firm snow will close. Today we hope to pass through before the frontier closes leaving these wilder parts of the moraine to the wolf and snowshoe hares.

Turning into the moraine I lead us up a snow blown creek bed until Aki finds a wolf track winding through an alder thicket.  We follow it to the edge of a beaver pond. Aki dashes onto its smooth flat surface while I look for a safe but rough passage through the tangle of willows lining the pond. L1190664

It’s above freezing and the pond ice has that milky translucence of still solid covering. I follow the little dog onto the ice and gain easy passage, no fear, no cracking, expecting no swim at the end. Then I remember that spring ice gave no warning when I fell through it in the past. Like that time on the Aniak Slough when I dropped through an invisible trap door into the mild current until only my right hand, gripping a canoe paddle remained above water. There, stretched out to full length, I didn’t feel fear or panic, just a detached appreciation for the lovely light penetrating through thinning ice and the wisdom of the elder that made me always carry a canoe paddle  on spring crossings of the slough. The canoe paddle, extending from my little circle of open water to firm ice made it possible to escape the water and reach the wood stove warmth of our cabin. Today we need no warm place to dry out. The ice holds.

Through a Glass Darkly

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Judging by the way she streaks across the crisp snow of this big meadow, Aki doesn’t mind living in the gray. The uniform overcast above provides a flat light for the meadow where a fog patch at the far end provides the only distraction for my the human eye. Stretching out I begin skiing to the now free running stream that drains the land of river otter and beaver.

It’s like cheating, moving over the meadow, each glide carrying me forward an extra six inches. When we last visited the meadow surface was covered with the tracks of predators and prey, the sad deep hoof prints of a struggling deer, it’s following wolf, the clueless snowshoe hare. The daily freeze-thaw cycle of last week softened the evidence of battle and reduced my old ski trail to a rounded wound that winds into a grove of spruce, the track of a giant’s finger across the top of a just frosted cake.

L1190329Leaving the meadow I lead Aki through a willow screen to the stream. Without a breath of wind to disturb it, the water course’s surface forms a dark glass reflecting lambs wool clouds and winter bare willows. Someone has dug a vertical two foot deep tunnel that appears to make a 90 degree turn toward to creek. I think river otter club house or escape route.

Up creek water again pours over the little beaver dam but not enough to disturb the almost perfect reflection of their house still insulated by snow.

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New England: Please Return Our Winter!

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I am tired of writing about rain, not the rain itself, just describing it. Today we decide to ignore the wet wall we walk through on the way to the moraine. This is easy for Aki as long as recent dog dropping distract her; harder for me since my handkerchief is already wet from wiping drops off the UV filter.

P1100125The place is empty of people, as if they got the memo warning of the toxic effects of today’s flood inducing deluge. We travel alone over packed snow through a screen of young alders to the Mendenhall River and a view of the glacier under storm clouds. A tall cottonwood tree leans stiffly over the river, as if righting itself after a near fall. We’ve seen eagles roost there during late summer, scanning the river for a spawned out salmon; hoping to be the first scavenger to greet its arrival on that gravel bar just down river from the tree.   In this time of famine on the moraine, the eagles hunt the tidelands.

The beavers have been busy. We find evidence of their recent logging activity along the shore of Moose Lake, a moss covered willow laid out on wet snow, its stump sculpted by the beaver teeth, the surrounding snow covered with willow chips. Why do they rise from their dens during mid-winter thaws; do they fall trees for food, dam material, or entertainment?

P1100120Near the logging operation, where a small creek keeps part of the lake ice free, a small mud flat has formed. Somethings— dog or beaver or both— have tracked clean snow with the reddish mud from the flat. Dogs, capable of extravagant silliness are the most likely culprits. If it wasn’t raining so hard I’d bend down to inspect the tracks.

Passages into Summer

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A Bald Eagle flies by the window as I write. Is it hunting neighborhood cats? We saw no eagles on this morning’s walk through old growth forest on Douglas Island. Wet, gray, warm enough to fill rivulets with snow melt and reveal treasures hidden by last weeks snow storm, the weather discourages trail use.

Yesterday I found peace in the gray but yesterday the rain held off until we finished our hike. Today’s rain tests our mettle but doesn’t seem to inhibit the deer sharing this forest with us. He tracked the trail from beach to a blueberry meadow with crisp hoof prints, punching them through soft snow to a layer of melt water below.  Something or someone spooked him at meadow’s edge where he darted from trail onto the forest’s deep snow cover, which offers safety but tough going.

P1100050Dropping toward the beach we pass a water filled hollow in the snow that shines bright green with plant life, dwarf dogwood pedals stretching out into the water like wings over other tiny forest floor growth, a magic passage to summer. Moisture from captured rain falls into the little transient pond, decorating its surface with expanding ripples.

Nearby water streams over the tops of beaver dams that flooded part of the trail before freezeup.  Fooled by snow cover, I break through thin ice, driving my right leg up to mid-calf in cold water. Aki leaps past me and reaches drier ground without a soaking. I join her on her little rise and admire how snow melt over week ice mimics the granite countertops found in trendy kitchens. Without warning a wild eyed dog bursts out of the forest to join us on the now crowded island.

P1100096I try all the control tricks learned during a decade of driving dog teams in Southwest Alaska. Nothing deters the invader as Aki cowers between my boots. Off in the woods his owner calls and blows a whistle; noise ignored by all.

Lifting my little dog out of reach I look into the eyes of our unwelcome visitor and find kind interest, not malice.  He could be a loyal friend to a person with patience and a little wisdom. Pointing with my unencumbered arm I politely ask him to go home. He does without protest.

We see this big hearted half wild dog several more times during the hike, crashing out of the woods or splashing without concern across a pond’s thin, watery ice. He doesn’t appear after we reach the beach, which he had pockmarked with paw prints. A large raft of ducks, still recovering from the dog’s visit, nervously move into deep water. In minutes they return to hunt the shallows for food.

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Tradeoffs

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Aki loves the bouquet of dog poop newly revealed by melting snow.  This is a taste we do not share, nor do I care for walking on this heavily used trail, now greasy from boot and paw tracks pounded into rain softened snow.  Making an executive decision I veer us off the main track and onto a back way into the beaver village.

The light boned dog trots over the top of the three feet of snow covering the trail, ducking under willows dent double by winter storms, making good time. I plod along, driving booted legs up to the knee in soft snow, still savoring the clean solitude, willing to pay the price charged for manageable pain like a masochist handing a charge card to his hired tormentor.

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When discomfort drains off the fun I cut back to the main trail, enjoying solid tread, avoiding piles of dog poo pockmarking the dense snow all the way to the beaver’s dam complex. There Aki checks out the slide they have fashioned for access to the lake over dam number one. The beavers recently dined on a downed cottonwood tree, ripping off dark brown rippled bark, leaving us a view of shinning light colored wood beneath, scattering the snow beneath with their woody crumbs like messy toddlers left alone with a box of Cherrios.

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Deer Sign

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Purity of air brings many benefits — crisp views of mountain peaks, ease of breathing, confidence that the fresh snow decorating this spruce branch will melt safely in my mouth. It carries the pitchy flavor of spruce and the freshness of mountain water.  I worked up a thirst skiing with Aki on a large meadow broken up by islands of spruce trees.

L1190100One section of the meadow, drained by a small stream, houses a gang of river otters. Aki found their slide first, charging down the deep “U” shaped trail, stopping just before gravity would have thrown her into the tannic stained water of the stream bed. The little dog ignores all the otter tracks leading from the slide into some small tree woods  Agreeing to leave them at peace I follow Aki up stream to the beavers’ dam and their house now covered with snow except for a small shaft apparently providing air to the resting inhabitants below.

We find many small animal tracks while transiting the meadow—weasel, snowshoe hare, troops of mice, those of a struggling deer. Last week the temperature climbed well above freezing while heavy rain softened the meadow snow. Only yesterday did snow replace rain and heavy frost firmed up the snow enough for us to move freely over it. Before that a large deer wound his way across the meadow, hooves sometimes plunging 2 feet into the soft, wet snow.  I look for fresher tracks of deer, made after the temperature drop facilitated travel, relieved to find them in a small thicket of trees and brush at the meadow’s edge.

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Snowing Within but not Without the Forest

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Hoping to spot the river otters that hunt the Fish Creek Pond I lead Aki onto the downstream path rather than head directly into the old growth forest that starts just above the North Douglas Highway bridge. Many feet and animal paws have stomped the snow on the path into a thin slick surface.  Only the track of a traveling beaver scout marks the snow covered creek—a narrow trough that could have been made by a tiny man pulling a tiny toboggan sled. He explored each small section of open water before making a purposed march upstream.

P1090908Not seeing otter or otter sign we backtrack to the trailhead and move onto the upstream trail. Recent snow still flocks the stream side willows some of which block the trail.  We soon find deer tracks and follow them past the urban style graffiti covering the bridge pillars and into the old growth.

Here ice replaces snow on the trail so I pull on boot cleats while Aki dashes up and down the trail to read the sign. The deer stopped here recently, digging about in the softer snow before continuing up the trail. To our right Fish Creek runs under diminishing ice, ever widening the patches of open water.

Snow high in the canopy loosens as the temperature rises then falls like a new storm when a breeze rises. It falls with beauty but still soaks Aki’s fur and darkens my rain gear. In minutes we hear a collection of chickadees chirping out their winter work song and I wonder if they are hunting insects recently hidden under the snow.

The trail moves us away from the creek and deeper into the forest where only the sound of plopping wet snow breaks the silence. Preferring the rushing of a moving stream I take a shortcut back to the creek and find a Water Ousel bobbing up and down on a small rock above open water. The bird can walk under water on stream beds but flies away today when it spots us.

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The beaver scout must have turned around before Ousel rock because the snow covering this part of the creek remains unblemished except for the tracks of a river otter that recently emerged from a open water pool and climbed to the high spot on a drift before returning to the stream. We have to figure out a way to move with some silence through the woods.

Disturbing Raven’s Meal

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Gray sky, gray light, gray ice, gray dog breaking the monochrome monopoly with her bright red jacket. I’m carrying a fishing rod and hope to try for trout or maybe one of the young king salmon Fish and Game released into the moraine pocket lakes.

I’d be meaning to try the lakes since mid-summer but left it too late. Today translucent ice covers the lakes. Water moving into the lake from the inlet stream and that outbound over the beaver dams keeps two small lake sections ice free that I fish without success.

This morning’s low clouds block views of the glacier and its mountain companions until Thunder Mountain manages to break out of the grey, showing off its new snow white coat. Turning into the Troll Woods we immerse ourselves in its world of glowing yellow-green moss. The stuff wraps every tree and branch, covers upright sticks as if it’s cotton candy, blankets the ground to the depth of five inches. Aki bounces over the mossy forest floor, ears flapping, after a scent only she can smell.

Near forest edge we hear a raven fly overhead, each wing beat producing a drumming sound. I see the big black bird often after that until we come upon a grizzly scene. A headless male mallard duck lays on its back, chest feathers scattered behind it along a faint forest trail. The messy eaters who produced this still life sulk above us in a tree. What, I wonder, would Raven do if I carried off his half eaten treasure? Best not tempt fate or the birds.