Category Archives: Dan Branch

How Many Springs?

P1140015Lacking commercial value, this large pine and its ancient brothers eked out a living on poorly drained soil?  They grew while human immigrants clearcut the nearby spruce forest for timber to build towns and a delivery system for water to the Treadwell mines.  A recent drop in temperature firmed up the meadow snow enough to allow my visit to the old guy. He rises out of a bowl shaped depression in the snow formed by heat that radiated from his trunk and that of a court of brush and smaller trees attracted to his eminence.

P1140003Aki doesn’t pay homage. She is too charged by access to the snow covered meadow. Most of the time she can control her enthusiasm but once she burst across the meadows’ firm surface, releasing a happy growl. P1140008

After Party at Sheep Creek

L1220440The St. Patrick’s Day partying ended when the front street bars closed at 2 p.m. Another party should be going this morning here on the Sheep Creek Delta. In Southeast Alaska, when the tide is out, the table is set. At first we only see two crows near the creek, loitering about like the trouble makers they are. In a few minutes we find the party. Two eagles, crows and gulls all feed on something tasty near the Gasteneau Channel beach. Just off shore, a tight raft of Barrow’s Golden Eye ducks feed in shallow water. Further out, a seal waits for them to move onto his hunting grounds. L1220469

Remembering

L1220414A profound silence must have settled over Treadwell after they shut down the last stamp mill.  Aki the poodle-mix, my daughter, and I have silence on today’s walk among the ruins of the old mining complex. Low clouds and fog have grounded all planes and no boats bounce down Gasteneau Channel. It’s a time for remembering.  Aki sniffs the signs left by yesterday’s dog visitors. I look over the channel for the spouts of the pod of killer whales that passed here yesterday; find a nervous L1220407harlequin duck flying through the old mine dock pilings. Inside the hard wood forest devouring Treadwell’s ruins, a strip of snow winds around roofless buildings and huge cast iron wheels that once kept the mills running. It’s a comfortable place for ghosts.

L1220416On the ninth anniversary of her death, I think of M., a child now forever 14.  My daughter skips flat stones from the beach where they both swam on warm summer afternoons.  M. would have run through the Treadwell trees and explored the ruins. I can almost see her near the fog line, running down the beach in the rain. We who miss M. must look for peace in clouds that mask mountains, comfort in the rain, and escape from sorrow in happy memories of a giggling girl. L1220427

Montana Creek in a Light Rain

P1130964Discouraged by the rain, few skiers use the Montana Creek Trail. Tucked into its steep sided canyon, the trail is holding up while others melt away. We pass two skiers on their way back to the cars and then have the stream side trail to ourselves. I enjoy the black and white peace of a late winter ski and hardly notice the shots booming up stream from the gun range. It’s a sound more fitting for the black and white news reels of war that show guns fired to free the oppressed, not for glory. P1130969

Winter’s Last Stand

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAWe drove almost 30 miles north of Juneau to find skiable snow. There is still lots of in the forests and on the meadows drained by Eagle River.  Under a light rain we started through the woods, alone. Aki found no dogs or other people to play with, no squirrel to chase. I found no tracks in the snow except for those left by dogs and their people on the weekend.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOn this northern battleground, the winter of 2014 made its last play—dumping snow during the weekend storm that hammered Juneau town with rain. Lovely but futile, like the Polish calvary charge at the start of World War II, the new snow won’t stop Spring’s blitzkrieg. Clumps of grass already push up through the meadow trail, and rain melts down the forest’s cover. Aki and I climb a low hill to watch the river freeing itself from ice, then count the puzzle pieces of ice stranded by the tide on the meadow. Two Canada geese make enough noise for a regiment when flying down meadow. Soon the river will fill with swans, geese, and other migratory waterfowl refueling on their northern migration, as spring prepares the ground for summer.

Yellow and Gray

P1130957This weekend, Spring began it’s offensive to destroy winter. It’s weapons, above freezing temperatures and heavy rain, have already broken winter’s grip on the beach side forest.  Aki still manages to find a twenty foot wide strip of deep snow between forest and high tide line. To celebrate she does a face plant, then rolls in the wet white stuff.

P1130950Even though they were safely huddled far away from the little dog, a murder of crows leaves their rich feeding spot on the tidal flats and flies over our heads, throwing out what must be nasty insults in their native tongue. They land down beach and then spread out in a picket line along the water. Are they expecting the seaward arrival of some tasty treats or just want to deny us access to the seashore?

P1130956Rather than attack the crows’ position, I lead Aki along the high tide line where we find great patches of ambulance yellow stains in the snow. When the little dog, a connoisseur of urine, ignores them, I look closer and realize that the yellow flows from severed sea weed. My initial disgust turns to wonder that we happened to be present for this bleeding into the snow.

Walking to Our Icy Disneyland

P1130879I swore that I wouldn’t come here— this crowded ice cave that pierces the side of Mendenhall Glacier.  But— our long stretch of clear cold weather is about to end. When it returns, a warm, wet storm could soften the lake ice that now provides an easy walkway to the glacier’s face.  Even if we took the alternative route, with its scree scrambles, in overcast we wouldn’t see this strong winter sun shining through crevasses that have opened in the cave’s roof. If I didn’t go today, I might never see the glow. So this morning we joined the stream of dogs, toddlers, ancients, the over weight, the stooped, the fit, the ill prepared— all walking over groaning lake ice to our Disneyland. To eyes use to seeing vacant trails, the pilgrims appeared as thick as cars on a motorway. In reality, I never counted more than thirty or forty at one time.

P1130867A 100 meters from shore, we began to hear the submarine booms of settling ice. It didn’t stop until we reach the glacier. I wondered if a guy pushing his child in a high tech pram could hear the booms over the babble. When we passed those returning from the cave, they showed us blank faces. I turned to ask one if he had been transfixed by the experience and was almost blinded by the sun.  They wore not the look of the transformed but of those that forgot to wear dark glasses.

P1130916We climbed onto glacier ice and followed a boot pounded trail to the cave, listening to the squeal of grade schoolers rising from a communicating crevasse. The cave spreads out from a narrow tail recessed in glacier ice to a wide, almost oval opening like a cornucopia. Sunlight pours through broken crevasses in the roof like water will during the thaw. The cave’s multifaceted aquamarine walls glow dimly as if we are inside a gem stone. In spite of the excited children, barking dogs, and camera flashes, it feels like a holy place—one that inspires awe in the cynical and in the unwashed. P1130875

Scruffy Time Traveler

P1130842Nothing is as expected this morning.  A well defined trail stomped into the snow by a small horde of humans ends for no apparent reason in a meadow clearing much like five others passed through to get to the spot. The wind that hammered Chicken Ridge all night decided not to join us. Surrounding mountain ridges look fuzzy, not crisp in the cold morning light. I find beauty in small things —dunes of drifted snow, tree remnants, my shadow looking like it belongs to Pippi Longstockings.  My beaver hat is to blame. Made for me by a Yup’ik grandmother thirty-five years ago, the hat takes years off my shadow. It’s the one that accompanied me on dog rides over tundra trails and on walks across Bethel to visit the love of my life.  A scruffy time traveler, like me.  P1130836

Skiing at First Light

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERANo one but Aki and I can hear the bass gurgle of settling lake ice. The sun is only a sliver of irritating light; it’s main body held beneath the Thunder Mountain Ridge by a deep blue sky. The sun quickly replace dusk with day on Mendenhall Lake as I slip into the skiing rhythm.  Wondering whether Aki is disappointed by the absence of other dogs and their people, I ask, “Are you bored with me, little dog?” She ignores the question.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAWe ski several kilometers toward the glacier.  As is true of movie stars, the river of ice looks best when viewed from a distance when the early morning light can not reveal its pitted, dirty surface. It slowly creeps behind a low peninsula of rock on our approach.  Aki breaks from the trail when we are within 50 meters of the peninsula. She did the same when at this place on our last circumnavigation of the lake. This time I follow her even though my movement sends deep linear cracks radiating through the ice. While the little dog samples the smell that drew her, I look at a willow, reaching into a blue sky with branches covered in snow white catkins.  Should this blooming pussy willow raise my spirits with its promise of spring or serve as a warning of deteriorating ice conditions?  The Juneau temperature will climb into the high 30’s today as it did yesterday.  Only the nightly drop into the teens keeps the lake skiable. If a Pacific low pushes our high pressure back to the Yukon, rain bearing clouds will turn it into a soupy mess. Then, the willow will leaf out in privacy, while Aki and I look for other signs of spring in the old growth. OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Skiing through Sunlight, Shadow, and the Sound of Guns

L1220376This morning Aki and I ski along Montana Creek through shadows pierced by random shafts of sunlight; silence shattered by rifle shots. At the start, the little dog handles the patterned blasts better than I, her attention distracted by a group of young women skiing with a oversized Labrador.  Aki has alway foundL1220337 solace in the arms of my daughter’s friends. Thinking it is the kind thing to do, I push past the ladies to put some distance between us and the outdoor range that shares a cul-de-sac with the trail head. She hangs back, waiting for her new girl gang to catch up. They manage it two kilos up the trail, while I try to capture the now silent river on a media card.

L1220333 Skiing along the bottom of a steep sided valley means skiing in shadow occasionally brightened by sunlit snow on bare branches and the now frozen over river.  When the tall stream side trees allow it, mountain peaks appear in full sun like a Puritan’s city on the hill. My old digital won’t give fair play to the darks and lights of this mottled scene. It either washes our the lights or reduces the shadows to black spaces. Aki tires of my snapping routine—stop, ogle, plant the poles, slip off the mittens, pull the camera from under my jacket, point, focus, click, and repeat in reverse. She dreams of running with the women and their big happy dog, hoping that their spirited chatter will block the sound of gun fire.  L1220337