Crazy weather little dog. We just drove through thick snow flurries to Eagle River. Now, ten minutes after leaving the trailhead, sunlight touches the ski trail through the old growth forest. The trees, freshly burdened with new, wet snow, start shedding their loads. I want to write that they sighed following the release but only silence accompanied the cascades of snow. Aki is in hog heaven—a place she defines as having snow soft enough to roll in but still able to support her weight. I’m pretty happy too on skis that move smoothly down the trail and the chance to glimpse blue sky through the forest canopy.

The trail takes us in and out of the forest and then onto a muskeg meadow spotted with haggard-looking spruce. Some of the trees are as bare a power poles. Long strands of goat’s beard lichen hang from the living ones. Snow clouds move in after we leave the meadow and whiten the little dog and I until we reach the car. Before leaving, I walk onto the Eagle River Bridge and spot of raven’s blackness soaring through a thick snow shower. Before the bird disappears into the riverside spruce, I snap two or three photos of it. But it doesn’t appear in any of the pictures that I uploaded onto my computer. That is no strange than the weather.

We are back on Mendenhall Lake skiing into a brisk breeze. Blowing snow obscures parts of the mountains above the glacier and has filled in the tracks of those who skied here earlier in the day. Aki tears ahead into the northern, In seconds she catches her other human, Minutes later, we all turn around and finish our ski session on the the nearby campground’s protected track. There we find another storm, this one of preschoolers who giggle and move in our direction. Some try to ski. Most drag their equipment toward the cars that brought them. I lift the little dog off the snow before she can dash around the kids, barking her invitation to play. She treats small people like shy puppies.

The sun rising over Gastineau Channel this morning makes Juneau look like a tropical paradise by flooding the tidal flow with orange light. Aki and I know the truth. Its early January in Alaska and the temperature is yet to rise above 12 degrees F. We head north out the road to visit a large meadow where wolves hunt, beavers sleep through the day, and otters play.

My skis barely crack the crusty snow that covers the meadow. Aki just trots on top of it. The snow won’t be a challenge for the little dog. She dashes about, checking the pee mail. I break through a screen of willows to reach the beaver’s home stream and then follow the tracks of a single wolf to their door. Aki sniffs tracks made by the beavers last night and heads further up stream.

Several nights of clear, calm, and cold weather have allowed frost feathers to build on the meadow’s alders, pines, and spruce trees. The feathers on a nearby stand of trees flash from inanimate gray to flashing prisms when struck for the first time by the early morning sun. I pull off my mittens and make many attempts to capture the richness and sparkle until my hands numb. If I my hands are cold, what about Aki’s unprotected feet. But the little dog seems fine. She doesn’t even lift a paw off the snow while she waits from me to return to the skiing.