Last night Aki and her other human waited for me to deplane at the Juneau Airport. When a puppy, she would have squealed and squirmed when I walked out of the TSA waiting area. Now she just lets me lift her into my arms. This morning we walk through a rain forest that would be quiet if not for the songs of thrush and wren. Hard, green berries hang from the blue berry brush and the white buds of crabapple flowers swell with rainwater. It’s good to be home.
As Aki puzzles over newly deposited scent, I sneak onto a beach that borders the forest. In close there is only a robin trying to lead us away from its nest with moves designed to give a predator false hope of an easy meal. From a spruce tree behind us an eagle screams. Otherwise the skies are as empty as the little bay. Far off shore a kayaker has come to rest on the flat-calm water. I wish we could trade places with him. Sun shines on a valley on Admiralty Island, giving me reason to hope for at least a partial suspension of the rain.
We are about to break back into the woods when three eagles drop from perches on Shaman Island and dive toward the same spot in Lynn Canal. When one looks ready to snatch some food from the water, the other two eagles dive on it. In seconds all three birds are flying at each other like fighter pilots in the Battle of Britain. The eagle that we heard earlier does a flyby at a safe distance and settles onto a spruce branch of the island to watch the show, which now has shifted from a dogfight into a loosely scripted ballet. Ravens, with their cleaver efforts to harvest man’s excesses, I understand. But eagles, I just don’t get.
It’s 55 degrees F. The recent series of dry, sunny days has dried out the meadow muskeg so Aki and I are taking a trail that would be impassible during the monsoon season. I mention the moderate temperature because Aki grabs some shade each time she rests.
In spite of the summer-like conditions, the meadow grass is still brown. Magenta-colored wild rhododendron buds are just starting to form. But there are no other signs of summer except bird song. If the muskeg were a little drier, I’d lie down next to Aki and enjoy the light breeze.
The little dog and I drop off the edge of the meadow and take a trail down to the Fish Creek bridge. The trail is lined with yellow skunk cabbage blooms and blue berry brush heavy with white blossoms. A Steller’s jay flies over our heads and lands on a spruce branch and scolds us for having the nerve to walk through its forest.
Aki begs to be picked up every time I lower her to the floor. We’ve been separated for the past three weeks. She spent most of that time hanging out with an English lab and her humans. I’ve just returned from a hike and bicycle excursion in northern Italy and the Low Countries.
After reuniting with the little dog, I drive with her out to our favorite trail where there are few signs of spring. A few skunk cabbage leaves have climbed above the surface of the beaver’s pond and thankfully, many of the forest’s blueberry plants are setting blossoms.
The beach is still exposed when we reach it, but the tide is on the flood. We walk out to the end of a spit that will soon be covered with water. Normally Aki, always cautious in eagle country, would sulk at the forest edge when an on the spit. But today she trots along beside me. An eagle flies just off shore, making nervous a large raft of scooters that swims between Shaman Island and us. It’s good to be home.
Yesterday, the clouds that pounded the little dog and me with rain decorated this mountain meadow with snow. We are here to enjoy the resulting white blanket. While Aki catches up on weeks worth of pee mail, I watch ghosts of fog climb the whitened mountain ridges. A scattering of tiny ponds reflect the scene, breaking up the mountains’ image with still-green lily pads. There are other signs that winter’s snow caught out the meadow plants.
Islands of strong, still green clumps of grass dot the snowy meadow. Many plants, like the sparse-leafed Labrador tea and blue berry bushes are still in fall color. At least they aren’t being crushed by the heavy snow like the low-growing sorrel.
A friend recently saw a hummingbird and a warbler, both summer visitors to the rain forest. Are they delaying their southern migration to avoid the current heat wave in California? It is 100 degrees in Los Angeles today and the Santa Anna winds are pushing wild fire through bird habitat. If things don’t change soon the birds will be caught between fire and ice.
This morning dense fog hides the Douglas Mountain ridge and Gastineau Channel from those of us on Chicken Ridge. I think of last night’s cloudless sky that offered the first views of stars for weeks. Aki, if a person and his little dog climb up that steep service road at the ski area, they might walk in sunshine above these clouds. Aki sighs, as if she knows that we will never reach sunshine on that road. But she trots to the front door when called.
At the ski area the motionless chairs of the lifts hang empty from their cable. Most of the chairs hide in the fog. No man or dog breaks out of the gloom to join us. The tear and rattle sound of a landslide reaches us from the flank of Mt. Troy. I feel like the first victim in a horror movie filmed in an abandoned amusement park.
It seems that Aki is always lagging behind me on the climb. But she is just reading the pee mail. I am heartened by the appearance of the sun’s glowing globe trying to break through the cloud that we walk through. I imagine Troy and Ben Stewart suddenly poking out of the ground fog as the marine layer yields to the blue sky. I think, for a moment, that I was foolish to leave my sunglasses at home. But I will never need them.
The fog has settled into gaps between the mountain spruce and pines. We will have to settle for what beauty it can provide as it.
With its gray, nondescript sky that drizzles down rain, today is one for small beauties. Evidence of such is not hard to find on this mountain meadow. On both sides of the trail muskeg meadowland spreads toward the mountains. Reddening moss and blueberry plants form patterns with yellowing deer cabbage plant on the muskeg—a Persian carpet that would be stunning on a sunny day. But today it looks like a carpet ruined by flood.
Aki follows me off the trail and through thickets of blueberry brush weighed down with accumulated rain. She stops for a minute and gives me a hard look before moving in behind me. Little dog, sometimes you just have to explore new ground when the sky is gray and the land is already going to rest for the year. She knows that her fur will soon be as soaked as my pant legs but still joins this pointless expedition through the wet.
Aki and I are back at the mountain meadow accompanied by her other two humans. Everyone but Aki has a berry-picking bucket. It’s not raining but the sky is an almost uniform shade of grade and cloud fragments race long an eastern mountain ridge.
When one of us to throws her Frisbee, Aki tears off after it, growling as if it is a robber. If the Frisbee lands in a field of tall grass, the little poodle-mix porpoises after it, returning soaked to the skin.
After picking more than a gallon of blueberries, the three humans follow Aki back to the trailhead. Minutes from the car, an adult bald eagle flies to within twenty feet of Aki, circles, and flies low over her again. I wonder what would have happened if the little dog hadn’t been standing right next to me during the eagle’s second pass. I doubt that the big predator was after our buckets of blueberries.