We head out North Douglas Highway to a path taken often to the sea. As I always do on this walk, I stop where a beaver pond pushes against a row of old growth spruce and look at the feeder stream curving out of sight. What lies around that corner? I plan on bringing the canoe here so I can answer that question. I think, once again, that I should have explored the creek during last winter’s cold spell when strong ice covered it. But this summer, there will be no canoe expedition into the darkest recesses of the muskeg it drains. I’ll move past it on my way to the more dramatic beach even during next winter’s cold winter. Does something in me want to preserve the mystery? If Aki is stuck in similar mental loops, she is too busy to say. She has squirrels to chase and pee messages to leave dog friends.
Category Archives: Dan Branch
Do Angels Fly Like Herons?
It is Heron Day on the Sheep Creek delta. True, there is one bald eagle perched on the number 2 navigation marker and the usual scattering of mallards, scoters, and gulls on the beach. But I am drawn to three great blue herons.
Aki finds a lumbering golden retriever to circle as I snap pictures of the herons. Two are as rigid as tide markers. A third, perhaps made uncomfortable by the playing dogs, trots into the wind with wings extended and lets itself be lifted by the breeze off the beach. Once airborne, the big bird turns sharply and glides to a stop 30 feet down the beach.
After the flying heron resettles itself, I notice that rather than extend its long neck for optimal viewing of the small fish it usually hunts, one of the other herons hunkers down. He looks like the skulking villain in a melodrama. I figure out why when I enlarge a fuzzy photo I took of him and see a pan sized fish dangling from its beak. His catch must be too large for the little snap head back and swallow technique I’ve seen herons use to eat prey.
Looking at Douglas Mountain range reflected in the channel on this rare blue sky day, I wonder if angels take flight like herons. Do they unfurl wings as wide as they are tall, curl them into a aerodynamic foil, and float off the earth?
What are We Doing Here?
What are we doing here Aki?
A stiff wind startles the little dog when she hops out of the car. The wind carries a mix of snow and rain that makes Aki blink. She turns, anyway, into the wind and follows me up the mountain meadow trail. I snap a few pictures of the meadow-side mountains, just white from the morning’s snow. But I switch to more intimate subjects on the ground to avoid having to wipe rain off the camera lens filter.
With little more than fundamental knowledge of composition, I rely on emotion to frame a shot. Today, I’m warmed by the thin sheet of new snow bending over waves of tough yellow grass. My eyes can see the energy of movement pushing against the snow like the emerging limb of an abandoned Michelangelo sculpture. The camera can ‘t capture it.
I carry home the limb of a blueberry bush. It’s leaf buds swell even though it has been severed from the bush. In our kitchen we will watch the leaves fill and, if lucky, enjoy creamy blossoms, each a tiny Japanese lantern swing from the maroon twigs of the branch.
Rodent Envy
I suppose it is silly to be jealous of a beaver. But I feel a little green each time Aki rolls on a beaver trail. It’s the ecstasy that shows on her face—eyes squeezed shut with pleasure, lips curling up in a contented smile. She is ecstatic today with beaver sign spread everywhere we walk on the glacial moraine. Since our last visit the beavers have been reduced to logging alder trees along Crystal Lake. They have dropped and stripped the bark off of most of the lakeside cottonwoods. Only ones with trunks protected by wire fences stand. My resentment changes to concern when I think of the hard times ahead for the big-toothed rodents.
Have You Ever Seen a Whale?
On wet winter days
when only pastel craftsmen homes
remind us of spring and
drenched ravens harmonize
with a barking dog
an imaginative man
finds the will
to pull on rain gear
push outdoors
ignore drizzle
soaking his sensible
if ridiculous hat.
He skips down crooked steps
like one who
might see whales in the channel
spot eagles near the moored black cod boats
just make out spring-white goats on Mt. Juneau.
He wonders on the way
what imaginatives do
in southern cities
where robins always sing
to a cloudless sky
crime and traffic
provide the drama
and no one has even seen a whale.
Fishing in the Rain
Another day of low clouds, mild temperatures and rain. Such conditions never dampens Aki’s love of the North Douglas forest trails to the beach, For me, it is a day for hearing, not seeing special things. The jackhammer .rhythm of a sapsucker provides a pace. Overhead, just above the canopy, the leader of a line of geese gives a single honk. We startle a small raft of mallards and they burst up from an opening in ice made by a stream flow into a muskeg pond. They are gone before I can see more than their characteristic wing pattern. On the beach, when we are just abeam of Shaman Island, I hear a splash like a child makes by tossing a large rock into a pond. Near the island a bald eagle, talon deep in the ocean, struggles to free itself from the water. Two other eagles cry and circle around the scene. The partially submerged eagle manages to fly off but without anything in its talons to show for it. I think of the men and women on nearby False Outer Point, who also fish in the rain for king salmon.
Monopolizing Ice
We have so many of these flat light days in the rain forest. Only the sharpest eyes can ferret out patterns in the gray sky. It’s even hard to see the border of white mountain and soft sky. While Aki bounces around the still frozen mountain meadow, I look down, finding small beauties in ice. With their interesting shapes and captured light, the thin sheets of ice monopolize the drama.
Beaver Logging
Aki and I pass some new fallen alders along the glacial moraine trail. Large wood chips, marked by beaver teeth, surround the resulting tree stubs. We never heard or seen a beaver drop a tree until today.
The snow is gone but a strip of smooth ice covers the trail. I slide down it while Aki checks the peemail. She sniffs something on one of the beaver dams near Norton Lake and then starts a wide sweep of the area. When a tree crashes onto the frozen lake, the little dog flies across the ice to investigate. I grow uncomfortable waiting for her to return, thinking about what a beaver’s teeth can do to a tree trunk. But Aki dashes onto the ice before I can head over to the beaver’s logging site.
An hour later, while we circled one last lake in the troll woods and hear another tree crash. Two years ago Aki broke through this lake’s ice when we heard several beaver tail slaps. I thought I had lost her that time. Today she runs to where the tree lays on the lake ice but is back before I can worry.
Spring and Famine
The varied thrush told me it is spring, as did the warmish temperature, sun, and a brace of eagles circling low over Chicken Ridge. The eagles warned that it is also a time of famine for the big birds by hunting cats in the neighborhood. Aki and I headed to the Fish Creek delta to check its grassy wetlands for migrating waterfowl.
The parking lot was empty when we arrived so it was no surprise to hear the complaints of unseen ducks and geese when we approached the pond. We spot hundreds of nervous birds through a screen of trees on the pond’s edge. Some sound like geese, but not our Canada residents. Even though I am hundreds of meters away, the birds explode into the air when I start taking pictures. In minutes they are gone.
As punishment for displacing the birds, I find the glacier hidden behind clouds. Maybe it is not punishment. The clouds reveal enough of the ice field mountains to create beautiful reflections in the waters of Smuggler’s Cove.
Auras
This morning Aki again exhibits her fascination with land otters. I just stopped trying to ski on a mostly bare meadow normally covered with deep snow this time of year. Now, I’m walking into the otter country. Aki is ahead, already on thinning stream ice, nose now, tail up, temporarily deaf to my command to return.
This is not a life or death situation but I am still worried. If she brakes through the ice, I can rescue her. But, what if she noses into one of their den doors? She does look lovely in the early morning sun, which highlights the edges of her fur, covering her with an aura of light. The sun does the same thing and a little more to the streamside willows and alders. They glow and sparkle.
Giving up, I turn and walk toward the big beaver house neared their ruined dam, stretching to the braking point the invisible tether that connects me to the little dog. In seconds she snaps back and walks beside me on the way to the abandoned beaver town.


















