Category Archives: Cross Country Skiing

Nervous and Mellow Swans

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Aki and I have returned to the moraine, looking for swans. A little superstitious, and more than willing to indulge in magical thinking, I intend to take the same route to the river eddy where yesterday we saw the swans.               

            Unlike yesterday, there is no sunshine to soften the snow or blue sky to act as a backdrop for the Mendenhall towers and Mt. McGinnis. The top of the towers and mountain are partially obscured by clouds. But the Mendenhall Lake is skiable. I shush along the surface with the little dog in my wake. Careful not to ski too close to open water, I reach the river where the trail snow is still icy from last night’s freeze. 

            What yesterday was a carefree trail softened by sunshine ski is now a tense transit along the running river. When we reach the eddy I look for the trumpeter swans we saw before but spot only mallards. In the patch of open water below the eddy two tundra swans paddle down river. They pivot back in our direct just before reaching the ice edge. Compared to yesterday’s trumpeters, the tundra swans seem edgy. They mutter their “oo oo oo” call and never stop paddlng.

            After watching the nervous tundra swans for a few minutes, I start back down the river. There, maybe five meters from the trail are yesterday’s three trumpeters. They stand on a high spot in the river bottom. One watches us approach as the other two sleep, beaks poked into their wing feathers.

            Do they feel safe, maybe even invulnerable thanks to their five-meter moat? Or are they just too tired from their long migration to care? 

Fast Ice and Swans

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Far out on Mendenhall Lake an exclamation point and a period move toward us. In a minute the punctuation marks transform into a skiing man and his dog. Assured that the lake ice is now firm enough, I ski onto the lake. Aki follows and the passes me. Soon she is running in large circles. 

            The glacier grows in size as I move further onto the ice. The conditions are perfect—five centimeters of sugar snow on firm, flat ice—almost too perfect. We are moving fast. Soon the little dog and I will be reduced to punctuation marks when seen from the beach. Worrying about skiing onto ice weakened by hidden currents or underwater springs, I head over toward the beach. 

            We cross a series of points and small bays to reach the Mendenhall River, which still runs dark and free. I can’t remember a winter cold enough to silence it. Something honks as we approach the place where the trail leaves the river bank and enters the woods. 

            Expecting Canada geese, I spot four large waterfowl gliding on a river eddy. The fierce morning light makes it hard to see more than the birds’ shapes. They could be Canadians but they would be larger than normal Canadians. Aki follows as I ski further down river to a get a better angle for investigating the birds. I stop when I can see that the birds are swans. They are recovering from their northern migration on the only piece of open fresh water for miles around.      

      The swans huddle against a snow-covered gravel bar where they almost vanish. After Aki and I move into the woods the swans come out of hiding. I watch them for a few minutes while screened from their view of shoreside alders.  

Broken Storm

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The weather folks have predicted eight more days of snow, except for Wednesday and Thursday, when there should be rain. But we’re enjoying partly cloudy skies. Most of the mountains along Gastineau Channel are lit up with sun. We get these little gifts during the unsettled times between Pacific storms. 

            Aki and I head out to Skater’s Cabin for a ski along the edge of Mendenhall Lake. The little dog lets me break trail over snow that seems perfect for the task. On our right, snow-burdened spruce trees poke into a brindled-blue sky. To our left the glacier and Mts. McGinnis and Stroller White glow with filtered sunlight. No else is around to share the view.

            I feel a little sorry for Aki at times like this. The snow has covered all the interesting scents. No dog is around to greet or sniff. She can’t even find a squirrel to chase. 

            I ski over to the river and then down it, passing two merganser ducks asleep in a wide eddy. They bob across the river reflection of Mt. Stroller White. We cross fresh tracks of a river otter from the woods to the water. It might have just dived into the river. I expected Aki to at least sniff the tracks but she keeps her nose up as she trots over them.    

All About the Snow

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Sometimes it’s all about the snow. Aki and I are back on the Eagle River Trail. Yes, it is still snowing. No, there are other dogs or people around. A dog and its human tracked the trail earlier this morning. Now we are alone. 

            The trail offers no views of glaciers or even mountains. One eagle does a fly over before disappearing into the clouds. Then we slip back beneath the forest canopy.  When I stop to catch my breath, I hear small song birds chirps, made maybe pine siskins. But they don’t show themselves. 

            Aki keeps station near the tails of my skis, relying on me to pack the trail for her. Irregular clumps of snow decorate all four of her legs. But I know that I will reach my physical limit well before she reaches her’s. 

Weighed Down with Snow

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Aki, you are a mess. Gumball sized clumps of snow hang from all four of her legs. A couple of more cling to her chest. We are three quarters through a looping trail through a riverine forest. If I don’t do something, she is going to carry her snowy burden for at least another half-an-hour. I could pull off the snow balls but know that she would rather bite them off herself. Besides, she would assemble a similar collect in a few minutes of trotting behind the tails of my skis. 

I could carry her the rest of the way to the car, holding my ski poles in one hand and the dog with the other. But I know from experience that she would squirm until I released her. As if to distract me, Aki buries her head in the soft snow, retrieves it, and shakes, making flakes fly in all directions. 

A mile back, we cruised along Eagle River. Falling snow softened the reflections in the water of beached logs and forested hills across the river. I searched for seals, gulls, eagles, and ravens. They all seemed swallowed by the snow. 

Now I’m skiing under the canopy of an old growth forest. Little snow makes it to the trail so it is easy going for dog and man. I expect Aki to take advantage of the firm trail to dash ahead. Instead she stays in may wake, keeping pace as we use a bridge to cross a salmon spawning stream and ski across a couple pocket meadows to the car. 

Catch Basin of Calm

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Aki, tiny even when up close, diminishes to a dot as she and her other human climb away up the pioneer road. For awhile I struggled to keep up with them. But the bottoms of my old skis are sticking to the snow so I give up. Is what it is like to cross country ski in sand. 

            This is the first time we have skied on this pioneer road. In summer it is just a gravel gash through three and half miles of spruce forest. Buried in snow, like it is today, it offers a chance for silence and solitude. Walled in by forest on both sides, the road doesn’t distract, permits my mind to wander, to eventually sink into a calm catch basin. I am almost there when the wind rises to chill me and blow snow off the spruce tops. I am surprised to find myself welcoming the drama of blowing snow. 

No So Wild

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I heard their snuffling behind me before I saw them. Two golden retrievers, each wearing a cowboy-style bandana instead of a collar, surprise Aki while she is sniffing some pee mail. It makes me wonder about my little dog’s hearing. I could hear the retrievers even over the sound of my skis. 

            The campground trail, where Aki and I are traveling, is covered with firm snow. After she plays with the two goldens, the poodle-mix tears ahead. She manages to run in one of the set ski tracks. She disappears around the corner, leaving me to wonder how she manages not to trip up in the narrow track.

            This is not one of my favorite places to visit. With its groomed trails that wind through a thick spruce forest, it feels more like an athletic field than a wild place. I can glimpse the river when the trees thin out. Each time I do I want to step out of my skis and walk down the river bank where a brace of mergansers or a nervous deer might be seen. But the glide and slide rhythm of skiing is addictive. And Aki is always just ahead, drawn down the trail by lingering smells.

Ice Bound

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It feels like hands are reaching up and grabbing onto my skis. The skis had been gliding freely over the snow covering the shore of Mendenhall Lake. Then, they broke through crust covering an overflow pool. The resulting water on the skis acted like glue on the surface snow. In a few strides, inch thick blocks of icy snow were clinging to the ski bottoms. 

            Aki had enough sense to avoid the overflow. She glided over the crust. Now I have to slam each ski forward to make any progress. Using it as an excuse to stop, I turn to study the glacier. Fresh snow muffles the ultramarine color of its ice. Clouds that are about to bring us more snow block any view of the Mendenhall Towers between which the glacier flows. 

            A 100 meters away, people in spandex athletic gear fly down a groomed trail on high-end skate skis. Others, more moderately equipped, push their classic skis up grooved tracks. In a few minutes, Aki and I will struggle over way over to the groomed trail. She will chew away the ice and snow balls that have frozen to her legs and paws while I scape the impeding ice from my classic skis. Then we will find our grooves.  

Sneaking in a Ski

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Tonight, we may have 60 knot winds that could scour away snow from our favorite trails. This morning could offer our only chance for a ski until the next storm. If she could read my mind and speak, Aki might tell me to relax. The wind, if it comes, won’t reach all our ski trails. I’d give her an embarrassed smile and admit that I might be manufacturing urgency to give this morning’s cross-country ski something extra—the trill of stealing joy from a sleeping bear’s cave. 

            On the way out to the glacier we pass three cars that became stuck in snow drifts after their drivers lost control on the slick road. I keep going, sure that our car is up to challenge if I slow down. After parking at Skater’s Cabin, I ski down to the lake and slip into tracks that lead down the beach. Aki wants no part of this plan. She dashes up a trail that leads the closed campground. 

            I know the little dog will eventually join me on the beach trail even though it will mean wallowing in the fresh snow. That doesn’t seem fair so I ski up the trail she just took and find her waiting for me on the campground road. At first Aki give me her pathetic look. When I start down the road, she flies down the trailhead of me. I fall into the transcendental rhythm that makes classical cross country skiing a great tool for dealing with the darken days of our rain forest winter.   

Cross Purposes

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The Juneau Church of Powder and Shot has gathered with their weapons this morning at the gun range. They share a parking lot with users of the Montana Creek cross-country ski trails. Aki and her two humans, unbelievers all, walk away from the gun range. Each shot makes the little dog jump, as if they were aimed at one of us. She will calm down as soon as we start skiing. But I still wonder if it was mistake to bring her along. 

            We have to walk for a quarter of a kilometer on bare pavement or ice before we can ski. Just after clipping in my skis, I spot a man and woman slowly walking towards us. A makeshift sling immobilizes the woman’s left arm. She thinks that she separated her shoulder when her skis slipped and she fell.  The grimace of pain on her face confirms her prognosis. The man holds her close to prevent another fall, like he might escort a wounded soldier from the battlefield. They walk toward the sound of booms and bangs of rifle shots.

            I ski on until we reach a little hill covered with gray ice. Thinking about the woman, I take off my boards and walk to the bottom of the hill. We ski just past the three-kilometer sign and return to the car. The noisy creek obscures the gun sounds, the sun softens the snow. We can relax now that the ice has been turned into corn snow by the day’s growing warmth. But this is definitely the last time we will ski Montana Creek until next winter.