Today the first freezing weather arrived on Chicken Ridge. The sun appeared and the wind did not. But it is mid November, a month and change from the shortest day of the year so the sun only brushes the tops of the North facing valley wall at noon. In the gloom beneath the bright white mountain top, naked cottonwoods, each 100 feet tall, each as thick at the bell as middle-aged spruce trees, form arthritic silhouettes. They dropped their pretense at growing when they dropped the last of their inverted teardrop leaves. Now they stand like supplicants to the sun, as if ready to sacrifice one of their own to bring back the rich spring light. Maybe they have. A felled cottonwood lies near the trail.

I’ve taken many pictures of the bull pines and mountain hemlocks on this meadow. None have captured the life force that drives their struggle on poorly drained soil. Their ability to root in soil too marginal to support the tall spruce gains them an open place in the sun. It also slows their growth and leaves them to face harsh winter winds alone. The old ones have the twisted limbs of an arthritic. They could have stood here when Joe Juneau and Richard Harris stumbled up Gold Creek and later when gangs of Chinese laborers dug out the nearby Treadwell Ditch. They have managed to survive long enough to watch Aki pee on one of their brothers. But, given the number of dying trees on the meadow, I wonder how many more winters they have left.

Today Aki and I take a route I usually travel by car. We walk from the town of Douglas, cross the channel bridge and climb up to Chicken Ridge. This is new ground for Aki to read so we stop often so she can sniff and pee. A stream of cars rushing by at 45 mph gives our walk an urban feel. I have a camera but find little use for it in the day’s flat light. There is a fence, bare of paint, aged by lichen that has somehow managed to stay upright. A few maple leaves cling to otherwise empty trees. On the bridge, one crow preens while perched on the Gastineau Channel sign after covering ground with crow poop and empty mussels shattered after he dropped them from height.

The sun breaks out as we reach home. A shaft from it illuminates a bowl of ripe persimmons, the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all day.